Tricky Twenty-Two (Stephanie Plum 22)

Ranger was wearing a perfectly tailored black suit, black cross-trainers, a black Glock, and a dressy black T-shirt. He handed me his suit jacket, ran a couple steps at the building, went up the side like Spider-Man, and did an effortless, silent pull-up onto the slanted roof that covered the wraparound porch. He moved from one window to the next, and disappeared around the side of the house. Minutes later he returned and quietly swung down from the roof.

“I saw a woman who matched your description of Julie Ruley,” he said. “I didn’t see a man in the apartment. And I didn’t see anything that would lead me to believe a man was living there.”

“No underwear on the floor, dirty dishes stacked up in the sink, porno magazines lying around?”

“Only hers.”

We walked back to his car and sat there for a while. Nothing happened.

“This is boring,” I said.

Ranger looked over at me. “I could fix that.”

“Tempting, but no.”

“Do you have any other leads on him?”

“He’s a big deal in his fraternity. I’m not sure he would chance going there. He’s a biology major, but I can’t see him hiding out in the bio lab. Supposedly he’s been seen on campus late at night.”

“Family?”

“Not local.”

“Friends?”

“Tons.”

“You look young enough to be a college student. Maybe you should go undercover and get cozy with the fraternity brothers.”

“Too late. They’ve already seen me.”

“So what’s your plan?”

“I thought I’d sit here until I needed a bathroom.”

“Is that going to happen anytime soon?”

“Hard to say.”

This wasn’t the first time I’d been on a stakeout with Ranger. Ranger has infinite patience. He goes into a zone, his heart rate slows, and you have to hold a mirror under his nose to see if he’s breathing. He can sit like this for hours, stalking his prey. On the other hand, I have no patience. I’m not the queen of the stakeout. After I’ve checked my email on my phone I have nothing.

Ranger tugged at my ponytail. “How about a burger and fries? Are you hungry?”

“Yes!”

We went to a small dark bar four blocks away and settled into a corner booth. It was far enough from Kiltman that it wasn’t frequented by college kids. There were some people at the bar who looked like regulars, and there was another couple in a booth on the other side of the room.

We ordered burgers, French fries, and onion rings. Ranger is former Special Forces, and he’s maintained his Special Forces level of fitness. He works out. He has only an occasional glass of beer or wine. He eats healthy. When our food was set on the table he removed the bun from his burger and took a single French fry for a test drive. I removed the lettuce and tomato from my burger, saturated the fries with ketchup, and ate all the onion rings.

A guy at the bar stood and walked toward us on his way to the men’s room. My heart skipped a beat when he got close. I was almost positive it was Gobbles.

“Ken?” I asked him. “Ken Globovic?”

He looked at me, and he looked at Ranger, and he looked at me again. His first reaction was confusion, and then panic.

“Um, no,” he said.

Ranger reached out for him, and Globovic jumped away and took off. Ranger and I were out of the booth and on our feet, but Gobbles had a head start. He ran into the narrow galley kitchen, knocked over a cart filled with glasses, and ran out the back door. By the time we maneuvered around the cart, Gobbles was gone, disappeared into the night.