“Evidence against him has been flimsy in the past. I’m not sure what they’ve got on him this time. And if he went to a jury trial I doubt there’s anyone in Trenton who would convict him. He’s like a folk legend.”
• • •
It was a little after nine when I parked in Rangeman’s underground garage and took the elevator to Ranger’s apartment. I stood in the dimly lit hallway for a moment and let the cool air wash over me. I took a few calming breaths, listened to the silence, and felt my heart rate drop to a Zen level. His apartment had a sense of order that mine lacked. It was a good match with the man. They were both locked down in a way that gave the appearance o
f inner peace. I knew inner peace was an illusion for Ranger, but I also knew he believed if you practiced something long enough it became yours.
I went to the kitchen and said hello to Rex. He was on his wheel. Running, running, running. He paused, twitched his nose at me, and continued to run. I took my duffel bag into the bedroom and set it on a leather bench in Ranger’s large walk-in closet. I had enough clothes for a couple days. Just the essentials. I knew from previous visits that Ranger was generous with his possessions. I could use his toiletries, raid his closet, eat his food, and drink his wine. And his housekeeper, Ella, was genius at providing forgotten essentials.
His bathroom was very masculine and spa-like. Carrara marble countertops. Pristine white tile on the floor and in the shower. Smoky gray paint on the walls. Endless steaming hot water. Bulgari Green shower gel that gave me a rush strong enough to buckle my knees when I soaped up because it smelled like Ranger.
I toweled dry and borrowed a black Rangeman T-shirt to use as a sleep shirt. I climbed into Ranger’s bed and took a moment to enjoy the luxury. His sheets were soft and smooth, ironed by Ella. His pillow was perfect and lump free. His comforter was just right. If Ranger had been in the bed next to me I wouldn’t have noticed any of these things. When you’re in bed with Ranger, there’s only Ranger.
TWENTY-FIVE
I WOKE UP at seven. It was dark in Ranger’s bedroom, but light was streaming into the rest of his apartment. I padded barefoot into the kitchen and pressed the button on the coffee maker. Rex was burrowed deep in his soup can, sleeping off a hard night on the wheel. When Ranger is in residence Ella brings his breakfast at six A.M. House-smoked salmon from Tasmania, whole-grain toast, fresh fruit, yogurt. Sometimes he’ll go nutty and put strawberry jam on his toast.
Ella knows that I sleep later and usually prefer to forage for my own breakfast. This morning I chose granola with fresh blueberries and strawberries.
I was at the kitchen counter, brewing a second cup of coffee, when I heard the apartment door open. A beat later, I heard keys get placed in the silver tray Ella kept on the hall table. Ranger was home.
He walked into the kitchen and kissed me. “Babe.”
“I thought you weren’t supposed to come home until later in the week.”
“The job wrapped up early, and I was able to get a plane out this morning.”
Ranger was dressed in black Rangeman fatigues. He was wearing a sidearm and a sheathed knife. All standard for men on duty. He almost always flew private, eliminating the hassle of airport security.
“Would you like me to call Ella for breakfast?” I asked him.
“I ate on the plane.” The corners of his mouth tipped into a smile. “I like the way you look in my shirt.”
I tugged at the hem. “It’s a little short.”
“I’d like it shorter.”
My turn to smile. “It’s nice of you to let me stay here. Rex and I appreciate it.”
“Fill me in on the situation.”
“You know about the zombies?”
“Yes.”
“One or more seems to be stalking me,” I said. “I thought it was a good idea to put myself in a safe place. And I didn’t want to endanger anyone else . . . like the people in my building or my family.”
“Tell me about the stalking.”
I showed him the photos I’d taken of my door and Morelli’s door.
“I think it might be Slick,” I said. “There was discarded supermarket packaging left on Morelli’s sidewalk along with a plastic fork. The label said ‘calf brains,’ and it had been doused with Tabasco. I know Slick is a Tabasco fan.”
“I’ve been briefed on the drug the police believe is producing the zombie-like creatures. The chemistry of the drug alters brain function. Probably permanently. And it’s highly addictive. A component of human brain is needed to produce the drug, so addicted users might be sent out to harvest brain. But from what I’ve read, there’s no indication that a user would want to actually eat brain.”
“So?”
“So, it’s unlikely that your stalker would be a brain eater. I think it feels staged.”