It was a terrific day for sandals, but I was wearing sneakers because it’s hard to run fast in sandals. And I thought there was a good possibility that I might have to run fast today. I wasn’t sure if I would be running from the webmaster or running after the webmaster. No matter which, I was prepared.

Ranger wore the eye of the tiger. He was always in the zone. I felt like I was in the zone today. Of course, there was the possibility that I was just delusional after the phenomenal sex, but what the hell, whatever the reason, I felt okay. And I was hardly thinking about the lock of hair. Well, all right, maybe I was thinking about it a little.

THE TRENTON COP shop is located on Perry Street and will never be mistaken for Beverly Hills PD. No potted palms or stylish mauve carpet. Mauve carpet doesn’t hold up under pepper spray–induced snot.

Morelli brought me into a small room with a table and two chairs. He plugged in a tape recorder and punched the on button. I looked around and was ready to confess to anything. Just being in the grim little room, under the flickering fluorescent lights, made me feel guilty.

I walked my way through the conversation with Steven Klein, giving as much detail as I could recall. When we got to the part where I was zapped unconscious, Morelli shut the machine off and called Ranger. “She’s all yours,” Morelli said to Ranger. Morelli disconnected and looked over at me. “That was a figure of speech.”

RANGER WAS DRIVING a black Porsche Carrera. He was wearing black cargo pants, a black T-shirt that looked like it was painted onto his biceps, black Bates boots, and a Glock in full view on his hip. Ranger was in bodyguard mode.

“Couldn’t coerce any of your men into baby-sitting me?” I asked him.

He cut his eyes to me and he didn’t exactly smile, but he didn’t look unhappy, either. “You’re all mine today, babe.”

It sounded different when Ranger said it.

“I don’t know what your plans are for the day,” I said to Ranger, “but my plan is to go to the mall and beg for hair help. I’m finding it hard to maintain the eye of the tiger when my hair is lopsided.”

On the way to the mall, I filled Ranger in on the game. “It has to be Bart Cone,” I said. “Someone sent Steven Klein to Vegas to eliminate Singh. And there were only a couple people who knew Singh was in Vegas. Cone was one of them.”

“It could also be someone Cone’s talking to,” Ranger said. “There are three brothers and they all have friends and associates. I’m sure the police have cast a wide net around them, but it wouldn’t hurt for you to talk to the Cones. Sometimes a man will share information with a woman that he wouldn’t think to give to a cop.”