“It says here this woman, Martha Deeter, who was the receptionist at RGC, was shot to death last night. Says they found her in the parking lot of her apartment building.” Grandma slid the paper over to me. “Got a picture of her and everything.”
I stared goggle-?eyed at the picture. It was Martha, all right. With the way she was going at it with her office mate, I'd expected she might have fingerprint marks on her neck. A bullet in the brain never occurred to me.
“Says she's being laid out at Stiva's tomorrow night,” Grandma said. “We should go on account of it was our garbage company.”
The Catholic church held bingo parties only twice a week, so Grandma and her friends enlarged their social life by attending viewings.
“No suspects,” I said, reading the article. “The police think it was robbery. Her purse was missing.”
THE BROWN DODGE was still parked down the street when I left my parents' house. Bunchy was asleep behind the wheel, his head back, mouth open. I rapped on the window, and he jumped awake.
“Shit,” he said, “what time is it?”
“Were you here all night?”
“Sure looks like it.”
Looked like it to me, too. He looked even worse than usual. He had dark circles under his eyes, he needed a shave, and his hair looked like it had been styled by a stun gun.
“So, you didn't kill anybody last night?”
Bunchy blinked at me. “Not that I remember. Who bought the farm?”
“Martha Deeter. She worked at RGC Waste Haulers.”
“Why would I want to kill her?”
“I don't know. I saw it in the paper this morning and just thought I'd ask.”
“Never hurts to ask,” Bunchy said.
I LET MYSELF into my apartment and saw the light flashing on my phone machine.
“Hey, Babe,” Ranger said, “got a job for you.”
The second message was from Benito Ramirez. “Hello, Stephanie,” he said. Quiet-?voiced. Articulate, as always. “I've been away for a little while . . . as you know.” There was a pause and in my mind I could see his eyes. Small for his face and terrifyingly insane. “I came by to see you, but you weren't at home. That's okay. I'll try some other time.” He gave a small, girlish giggle and disconnected.
I erased Ranger's message and saved Ramirez's. Probably I should have a restraining order issued. Ordinarily I didn't hold much stock in restraining orders, but in this case, if Ramirez continued to harass me I might be able to get his parole revoked.
I connected with Ranger on his car phone. “What's the job?” I asked.
“Chauffeur. I have a young sheik flying in to Newark at five.”
“He carrying drugs? Delivering guns?”
“Negative. He's visiting relatives in Bucks County. Long weekend. Probably he won't even blow himself up.”
“What's the catch?”
“No catch. You wear a black suit and white shirt. You meet him at the gate and escort him safely to his destination.”
“I guess that sounds okay.”
“You'll be driving a Town Car. You can pick it up at the garage on Third and Marshall. Be there at three o'clock and talk to Eddie.”
“Anything else?”
“Make sure you're dressed.”