Janet Evanovich - Finger Lickin’ Fifteen

I pulled two men out of the group for a closer look. One of them was Sybo Diaz, the evening monitor for the code computer. He was with Special Forces in Afghanistan and took a job as a rent-a-cop in a mall when he got out. His wife divorced him two months later. His wife’s maiden name was Marion Manoso. She was Ranger’s cousin. I didn’t know the details of the divorce, but I thought there was the potential for some bad feelings. The other file I pulled was Vince Gomez. Vince wasn’t one of the men with code computer access, but he caught my attention. He was a slim little guy with the flexibility of a Romanian acrobat. The inside joke was that he could crawl through a keyhole. He did system installation and troubleshooting for Ranger. I flagged him because he lived beyond his means. I’d seen him around, and I knew he drove an expensive car, and when he wasn’t working he wore expensive jewelry and designer clothes. And he liked the ladies, a lot.

I left the paperwork in Ranger’s office and returned to my desk. I worked at my computer for a half hour and wandered out to the kitchen. No one there, so I stopped in at the monitoring station and smiled at Chester Deuce.

“I’ve always wondered what you guys did out here,” I said to him.

“There are always three of us on duty,” he said. “Someone monitors the cars and responds to the men off-site. Someone watches the in-house video and is responsible for maintaining building integrity. And I watch the remote locations and respond to emergency calls and alarms.”

“So if an alarm went off, what would you do?”

“I’d call the client and ask if they were okay, and then I’d ask for their password.”

“How do you know if they give you the right password?”

“I have the information in an off-line computer.”

I looked at the computer sitting to his right. “I guess it has to be off-line for security purposes.”

He shrugged. “More that there’s no reason for it to be on-line.”

I returned to my desk and packed up. I had seven messages on my phone. All were from Lula, starting at three this afternoon. All the messages were pretty much the same.

“You gotta be on time for supper at your mama’s house tonight,” Lula said. “Your granny and me got a big surprise.”

Thoughts of the big surprise had me rolling my eyes and grimacing.

Ranger appeared in my doorway. “Babe, you look like you want to jump off a bridge.”

“I’m expected for dinner at my parents’ house again. Grandma and Lula are taking another crack at barbecue.”

“Has Lula had any more contact with the Chipotle hitmen?”

“I don’t think so. She didn’t mention anything in her messages.”

“Keep your eyes open when you’re with her.”

MY FATHER WAS slouched in his chair in front of the television when I walked in.

“Hey,” I said. “How’s it going?”

He cut his eyes to me, murmured something that sounded like just shoot me now, and refocused on the screen.

My mother was alone in the kitchen, alternately pacing and chopping. Everywhere I looked there were pots of chopped-up green beans, carrots, celery, potatoes, turnips, yellow squash, and tomatoes. Usually when my mother was stressed, she ironed. Today she seemed to be chopping.

“Run out of ironing?” I asked her.

“I ironed everything yesterday. I have nothing left.”

“Where’s Lula and Grandma?”

“They’re out back.”

“What are they doing?”

“I don’t know,” my mother said. “I’m afraid to look.”

I pushed through the back door and almost stepped on a tray of chicken parts.

“Hey, girlfriend,” Lula said. “Look at us. Are we chefs, or what?”

Grandma and Lula were dressed in white chef’s jackets. Grandma was wearing a black cap that made her look like a little old Chinese man, and Lula was wearing a puffy white chef’s hat like the Pillsbury Doughboy. They were standing in front of a propane grill.

“Where’d you get the grill?” I asked.

“I borrowed it from Bobby Booker. He brought it over in his truck on the promise he was gonna get some of our award-winning barbecue chicken someday. Now that we got this here grill, my barbecue is gonna turn out perfect. Only thing is, I can’t get it to work. He said there was lots of propane in the tank. And my understanding is, all I have to do is turn the knob.”

“I got some matches,” Grandma said. “Maybe it’s got one of them pilot lights that went out.”

Lula took the matches, bent over the grill, and Phunnf! Flames shot four feet into the air and set her chef’s hat on fire.

“That did it,” Lula said, stepping back, hat blazing. “It’s cookin’ now.”

Grandma and I had a split second of paralysis, mouths open, eyes bugged out, staring at the flaming hat.

“What?” Lula said.

“Your hat’s on fire,” Grandma told her. “You look like one of them cookout marshmallows.”

Lula rolled her eyes upward and shrieked. “Yow! My hat’s on fire! My hat’s on fire!”

I tried to knock the hat off her head, but Lula was running around in a panic.

“Hold still!” I yelled. “Get the hat off your head!”

“Somebody do something!” she shouted, wild-eyed, arms waving. “Call the fire department!”

“Take the damn hat off,” I said to her, lunging for her and missing.

“I’m on fire! I’m on fire!” Lula yelled, running into the grill, knocking it over. Her hat fell off her head onto the ground and ribbons of fire ran raced in all directions across my parents’ yard.

Growing grass was never a priority for my father. His contention was if you grew the grass, you had to cut the grass. And what was the point to that? The result was that most of our backyard was dirt, with the occasional sad sprinkling of crab grass. In seconds, the fire burned up the crabgrass and played itself out, with the exception of a half-dead maple tree at the back of the yard. The tree went up like Vesuvius.

I could hear fire trucks whining in the distance. A car pulled into the driveway, a car door opened and closed, and Morelli strolled into the yard. Lula’s hat was a lump of black ash on the ground. The tree was a torch in the dusky sky.

“I saw the fire on my way home from work,” Morelli said. “I stopped by to help, but it looks like you have everything under control.”

“Yep,” I said. “We’re just waiting for the tree to burn itself out.”

He looked at the grill and the chicken. “Barbecuing tonight?”

A pack of dogs rounded the corner of the house, ran yapping up to the chicken, and carried it off.

“Not anymore,” I said. “Want to go for pizza?”

“Sure,” he said.

We each took our own cars, sneaking out between the fire trucks that were angling into the curb. I followed Morelli to Pino’s, parked next to his SUV in Pino’s lot, and we pushed through the restaurant’s scarred oak front door into the heat and noise of dinner hour. At this time of day, the majority of tables were filled with families. At ten in the evening, Pino’s would be crammed with nurses and cops unwinding off the second shift. We were able to snag a small table in the corner. We didn’t have to read the menu. We knew it by heart. Pino’s menu never changes.

Morelli ordered beer and a meatball sub. I got the same.

“Looks like you’re working for Rangeman,” Morelli said, taking in my black T-shirt and sweatshirt with the Rangeman logo on the left front. “What’s that about?”

“It’s temporary. He needed someone to fill in on the search desk, and I needed the money.”

Back when we were a couple, Morelli hated when I associated with Ranger. He thought Ranger was a dangerous guy from multiple points of view, and of course Morelli was right. From the set of his jaw, I suspected he still hated that I was associating with Ranger.