“Be still my beating heart,” Lula said. “Does my hair look okay? Am I starting to drool?”

I wasn’t nearly so excited. I suspected he was waiting for me. And I worried that it wasn’t going to be a good conversation.

I followed Lula into the office. Connie was at her desk, head down, furiously shuffling papers. Vinnie’s door was closed. Ranger was slouched in a chair, elbows on the arms, fingers steepled in front of him, his eyes dark and intense, watching us.

I smiled at Ranger. “Yo,” I said.

He smiled back but he didn’t yo.

“We’re just checking in,” I said to Connie, leaning on the front of her desk. “Do you have anything for me?”

“I have skips piling up on my desk,” Connie said, “but Vinnie doesn’t want anyone even looking at them until Singh is found.”

“No calls? No messages?”

Ranger unfolded himself and crossed the room, standing close behind me, sucking me into his force field. “We need to talk.”

A flash of heat rippled through my stomach. Ranger always evoked a mixture of emotion. Usually that mixture was attraction followed by a mental eye roll.

“Sure,” I said.

“Now. Outside.”

Lula scurried behind the file cabinets and Connie bent into the nonsense paper shuffling. No one wanted to get caught in the line of fire when Ranger was in a mood. I followed Ranger out the door to the sidewalk and stood blinking in the sun.

“Get into the truck,” Ranger said. “I feel like driving.”

“I don’t think so.”

The line of his mouth tightened.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Do you want a full itinerary?”

“I don’t want to get locked up in a safe house.”

“I’d love to lock you up in a safe house, babe, but that wasn’t my plan for the day.”

“Promise? Cross your heart and hope to die?”

There was a slight narrowing of his eyes. Ranger wasn’t feeling playful. “I guess you have to decide if it’s more dangerous to be in the truck with me or to stand out here as a potential target for the sniper.”

I stared at Ranger for a beat.

“Well?” he asked.

“I’m thinking.”

“Christ,” Ranger said, “get in the damn truck.”

I climbed into the truck and Ranger drove two blocks down Hamilton and turned into the Burg. He wound through the Burg and parked on Roebling in front of Marsilio’s restaurant.

“I thought you wanted to drive,” I said.

“That was the original plan, but you smell like rotisserie chicken and it’s making me hungry.”

“It’s from Lula. She’s on this diet where she eats meat all day.”

Bobby V. met us at the door and gave us a table in the back room. The Burg is famous for its restaurants. They’re stuck all over the place in the neighborhood, between houses, next to Betty’s bridal shop and Rosalie’s beauty parlor. Most are small. All are family affairs. And the food is always great. I’m not sure where Bobby V. fits in the scheme of things at Marsilio’s, but he’s always on hand to direct traffic and shmooze. He’s a snappy dresser, he’s got a handful of rings and a full head of wavy silver hair, and he looks like he wouldn’t have much trouble breaking someone’s nose. If you’re in bad with Bobby V. don’t even bother showing up, because you won’t get a table.