“What’s the plan?” I asked Ranger.

“I’ll take the neighborhood. You talk to Singh’s employer, TriBro Tech. TriBro should be cooperative. They put the money up for the visa bond.”

I snapped him a salute. “Okeydokey,” I said. “Don’t forget about the dog.”

The almost smile returned to Ranger’s mouth. “No stone unturned,” he said.

“Hey,” I said, “dogs are people, too.”

The truth was, I didn’t give a hoot about Samuel Singh. I know that’s not a great attitude, but I was stuck with it. And I certainly didn’t care about Mrs. Apusenja. Mrs. Apusenja was a bridge troll. Nonnie and the dog seemed like they needed help. And the dog pushed a button on me that triggered a rush of protective feelings. Go figure that. I really wanted to find the dog.

Ranger took off and I headed for home to degrease before questioning Singh’s boss. I live in a three-story brick apartment building that houses the newly wed and the nearly dead . . . and me. The building lacks a lot of amenities, but the price is right and I can get pizza delivered. I parked in the lot, took the stairs to the second floor, and was surprised to find my apartment door unlocked. I stuck my head in and yelled, “Anybody home?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” Morelli yelled back from the bedroom. “I’m missing a set of keys. I thought maybe I left them here last night.”

“I put them in the cookie jar for safekeeping.”

Morelli walked into the kitchen, lifted the lid on the cookie jar, and removed his keys. Morelli looked like a real badass . . . lean and hard in a black T-shirt, washed-out jeans that fit him great across the butt, and new running shoes. He wore his gun at his hip, out of sight under a lightweight jacket. His hair was dark and his eyes were dark and he looked like he frequently traveled through places where men’s hearts were dark.

“I’m not surprised to find the thirty-eight in here,” he said. “But what’s with the box of condoms?”

“They’re for an emergency. Like the gun.”

He pocketed the keys and looked me over. “You get into a fight with the guy who owns the lube gun at Midas?”

“Punky Balog. He thought if he was greased up and naked I wouldn’t take him in.”

“Hah,” Morelli said. “Greased up and naked is your specialty. Are you done for the day?”

“No. I came home to get cleaned. Did you see the article about Vinnie and the visa bond?”

“Yeah.”

“Samuel Singh, the bondee, is missing.”

Morelli grinned. “That’s fun.”

No one wanted to see Vinnie selling used cars in Scottsdale, but we all enjoyed watching him sweat. Vinnie sat on a rotting branch of my family tree. Only a couple roaches from my Aunt Tootie’s kitchen sat lower than Vinnie. He was a pervert, a con man, and a paranoid grouch. And in spite of all that (or maybe because of it) he was liked. He was Jersey. How can you not like Jersey?