I felt color flooding into my cheeks. What could I say? The truth was worse than embarrassing. It was counter-productive. Admitting to Morelli that I'd been more afraid of my gun than I'd been of Ramirez wasn't going to do much to further my credibility as an apprehension agent.

It didn't take Morelli long to put it together. He made a disgusted sound, pushed the barrel aside and took the gun from me. "If you aren't willing to use it, you shouldn't be carrying it. You have a permit to carry a concealed weapon?"

"Yes." And I was at least ten percent convinced it was legal.

"Where'd you get your permit?"

"Ranger got it for me."

"Ranger Mañoso? Christ, he probably made it in his cellar." He shook out the bullets and gave the gun back to me. "Find a new job. And stay away from Ramirez. He's nuts. He's been charged with rape on three separate occasions and been acquitted each time because the victim always disappears."

"I didn't know . . ."

"There's a lot you don't know."

His attitude was beginning to piss me off. I was only too well aware that I had a lot to learn about apprehension. I didn't need Morelli's sarcastic superiority. "So what's your point."

"Get off my case. You want a career in law enforcement? Fine. Go for it. Just don't learn on me. I have enough problems without worrying about saving your ass."

"No one asked you to save my ass. I would have saved my own ass if you hadn't interfered."

"Honey, you couldn't find your ass with both hands."

My palms were skinned and burned like the devil. My scalp was sore. My knees throbbed. I wanted to go back to my apartment and stand in a hot shower for five or six hours until I felt clean and strong. I wanted to get away from Morelli and regroup. "I'm going home."

"Good idea," he said. "Where's your car?"

"Stark Street and Tyler."

He flattened himself at the side of the door and took a quick look out. "It's okay."

My knees had stiffened up, and the blood had dried and caked on what was left of my pantyhose. Limping seemed like an indulgent weakness not to be witnessed by the likes of Morelli, so I forged ahead, thinking ouch, ouch, ouch but not saying a word. When we got to the corner I realized he was walking me all the way to Stark. "I don't need an escort," I said. "I'll be fine."

He had his hand at my elbow, steering me forward. "Don't flatter yourself. I'm not nearly so concerned about your welfare as I am about getting you the hell out of my life. I want to make sure you leave. I want to see your tailpipe fading off into the sunset."

Good luck, I thought. My tailpipe was somewhere on Route 1, along with my muffler.

We reached Stark, and I faltered at the sight of my car. It had been parked on the street for less than an hour, and in that time it had been spray-painted from one end to the other. Mostly Day-Glo pink and green, and the predominant word on both sides was "pussy." I checked the plate and looked in the back seat for the box of Fig Newtons. Yep, this was my car.