“Tough luck with the car,” Mitchell said.
“I'm getting used to it. It happens to me a lot.”
“We've been watching from a distance, and we figure you need a ride.”
“Actually, I just called a friend, and he's going to come pick me up.”
“That's a big fat lie,” Mitchell said. “You been standing here for an hour and you haven't called anyone. I bet your mother wouldn't like it if she knew you were telling lies.”
“Better than me getting into this car with you,” I said. “That'd give her a heart attack.”
Mitchell nodded. “You got a point.” The tinted window slid shut, and the Lincoln rolled out of the lot. I found my phone and called Lula at the office.
“BOY, IF I had a nickel for every car you destroyed I'd be able to retire,” Lula said when she picked me up.
“It wasn't my fault.”
“Hell, it's never your fault. It's one of them karma things. You're a number ten on the Bad-Shit-O-Meter when it comes to cars.”
“I don't suppose you've got any news on Ranger?”
“Only that Vinnie gave the file to Joyce.”
“Was she happy?”
“Had an orgasm right there in the office. Connie and me had to excuse ourselves so we could go throw up.”
Joyce Barnhardt is a fungus. When we were in kindergarten together she used to spit in my milk carton. When we were in high school she started rumors and took secret photos in the girls' locker room. And before the ink had even dried on my marriage certificate I found her bare-assed with my husband (now my ex-husband) on my brand-new dining room table.
Anthrax was too good for Joyce Barnhardt.
“Then a funny thing happened to Joyce's car,” Lula said. “While she was in the office talking to Vinnie, someone drove a screwdriver into her tire.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Was an act of God,” Lula said, putting her red Firebird in gear and punching on the sound system, which could shake the fillings out of your teeth.
She took North Clinton to Lincoln and then Chambers. When she dropped me in my lot, there was no sign of Mitchell and Habib.
“You looking for someone?” she wanted to know.
“Two guys in a black Lincoln were following me earlier today, hoping I'd find Ranger for them. I don't see them now.”
“Lot of people looking for Ranger.”
“Do you think he killed Homer Ramos?”
“I could see him killing Ramos, but I can't see him burning down a building. And I can't see him being stupid.”
“Like getting caught on a security camera.”
“Ranger had to know there were security cameras. That building's owned by Alexander Ramos. And Ramos just don't go around leaving the lid off the cookie jar. He had offices in that building. I know on account of I did a house call there once while I was working at my former profession.”
Lula's former profession was being a ho', so I didn't ask for details on the house call.
I left Lula and swung through the double glass doors that led to the small lobby of my apartment building. I live on the second floor, and I had a choice of stairs or elevator. I chose the elevator today, having exhausted myself watching my car burn.
I let myself into my apartment, hung up my shoulder bag and jacket, and peeked in on my hamster, Rex. He was running on his wheel in his glass aquarium, his little feet a pink blur against the red plastic.
“Hey, Rex,” I said. “How's things?”
He paused for a moment, whiskers twitching, eyes bright, waiting for food to drop from the sky. I gave him a raisin from the box in the refrigerator and told him about the car. He stuffed the raisin into his cheek and returned to his running. If it was me I'd have eaten the raisin right off and opted for a nap. I don't understand this running-for-fun stuff. The only way I could really get into running would be if I was being chased by a serial mutilator.
I checked my message machine. One message. No words. Just breathing. I hoped it was Ranger's breathing. I listened to it again. The breathing sounded normal. Not pervert breathing. Not head-cold breathing. Could have been telephone-solicitor breathing.
I had a couple hours before the chicken arrived, so I went across the hall and knocked on my neighbor's door.
“What?” Mr. Wolesky yelled, above the roar of his TV.
“I was wondering if I could borrow your paper. I had an unfortunate mishap with my car, and I thought I'd check out the used-car section of the classifieds.”
“Again?”
“It wasn't my fault.”
He handed me the paper. “If I was you, I'd be looking at army surplus. You should be driving a tank.”
I took the paper back to my apartment and read the car ads and the funnies. I was pondering my horoscope when the phone rang.
“Is your grandmother there?” my mother wanted to know.
“No.”
“She had some words with your father, and she went stomping up to her room. And then next thing I know she's outside getting into a cab!”
“She probably went to visit one of her friends.”
“I tried Betty Szajak and Emma Getz but they haven't seen her.”
My doorbell rang and my heart went dead in my chest. I looked out my peephole. It was Grandma Mazur.
“She's here!” I whispered to my mother.
“Thank goodness,” my mother said.
“No. Not thank goodness. She has a suitcase!”
“Maybe she needs a vacation from your father.”
“She's not living here!”
“Well, of course not . . . but maybe she could just visit with you for a day or two until things calm down.”
“No! No, no, no.”
The doorbell rang again.
“She's ringing my doorbell,” I said to my mother. “What should I do?”
“For goodness' sakes, let her in.”
“If I let her in, I'm doomed. It's like inviting a vampire into your house. Once you invite them in, that's it, you're as good as dead!”
“This isn't a vampire. This is your grandmother.”
Grandma pounded on the door. “Hello?” she called.
I hung up and opened the door.
“Surprise,” Grandma said. “I've come to live with you while I look for an apartment.”
“But you live with Mom.”
“Not anymore. Your father's a horse's patoot.” She dragged her suitcase in and hung her coat on a wall hook. “I'm getting my own place. I'm tired of watching your father's TV shows. So I'm staying here until I find something. I knew you wouldn't mind if I moved in for a while.”
“I only have one bedroom.”
“I can sleep on the couch. I'm not fussy when it comes to sleeping. I could sleep standing up in a closet if I had to.”
“But what about Mom? She'll be lonely. She's used to having you around.” Translation: What about me? I'm used to not having anybody around.
“I suppose that's true,” Grandma said. “But she's just gonna have to make her own life. I can't keep livening that house up. It's too much of a strain. Don't get me wrong, I love your mother, but she can be a real wet blanket. And I haven't got a lot of time to waste. I've probably only got about thirty more years before I start to slow down.”
Thirty years would put Grandma well over a hundred—and me at sixty, if I didn't die on the job.
Someone gave a light rap on my door. Morelli was here early. I opened the door, and he got halfway through the foyer before spotting Grandma.
“Grandma Mazur,” he said.
“Yep,” she answered. “I'm living here now. Just moved in.”
The corners of Morelli's mouth twitched up ever so slightly. Jerk.
“Was this a surprise move?” Morelli asked.
I took the bucket of chicken from him. “Grandma got into it with my father.”
“Is that chicken?” Grandma asked. “I can smell it all the way over here.”
“Plenty for ev
eryone,” Morelli told her. “I always get extra.”
Grandma pushed past us, into the kitchen. “I'm starved. All this moving gave me an appetite.” She looked into the bag. “Are those biscuits, too? And coleslaw?” She grabbed some plates from the cabinet and ran them out to the dining room table. “Boy, this is gonna be fun. I hope you've got beer. I feel like having a beer.”
Morelli was still grinning.
For some time now, Morelli and I had been engaged in an off-again-on-again romance. Which is a nice way of saying we occasionally shared a bed. And Morelli wasn't going to think this was so funny when the occasional overnighter turned to no overnighters at all.
“This is going to put a crimp in our plans for the evening,” I whispered to Morelli.
“We just need to change the address,” he said. “We can go to my house after dinner.”
“Forget your house. What would I tell Grandma? 'Sorry, I'm not sleeping here tonight, because I have to go do the deed with Joe'?”
“Something wrong with that?”
“I can't say that. It would make me feel icky.”
“Icky?”
“My stomach would get squishy.”
“That's silly. Your grandma Mazur wouldn't mind.”
“Yes, but she'd know.”
Morelh looked pained. “This is one of those woman things, isn't it?”
Grandma was back in the kitchen, getting glasses. “Where are your napkins?” she asked.
“I don't have any,” I told her.
She stared at me blank-faced for a moment, unable to comprehend a house with no napkins.
“There are napkins in the bag with the biscuits,” Morelli said.
Grandma peeked into the bag and beamed. “Isn't he something,” she said. “He even brings the napkins.”
Morelli rocked back on his heels and gave me a look that told me I was a lucky duck. “Always prepared,” Morelli said.
I rolled my eyes.
“That's a cop for you,” Grandma said. “Always prepared.”
I sat across from her and grabbed a piece of chicken. “It's the Boy Scouts who are always prepared,” I said. “Cops are always hungry.”
“Now that I'm going off on my own I've been thinking I should get a job,” Grandma said. “And I've been thinking maybe I'd get a job as a cop. What do you think?” she asked Morelli. “You think I'd make a good cop?”
“I think you'd make a great cop, but the department has an age limit.”
Grandma pressed her lips together. “Don't that tear it. I hate those darn age limits. Well, I guess that just leaves being a bounty hunter.”
I looked to Morelli for help, but he was keeping his eyes glued to his plate.
“You need to be able to drive to be a bounty hunter,” I said to Grandma. “You don't have a driver's license.”
“I've been planning on getting one of them anyway,” she said. “First thing tomorrow I'm signing up for driving school. I've even got a car. Your uncle Sandor left me that Buick and since you aren't using it anymore I guess I'll give it a try. It's a pretty good-looking car.”
Shamu with wheels.
When the chicken bucket was empty Grandma pushed back from the table. “Let's get things cleaned up,” she said, “and then we can watch a movie. I stopped off at the video store on my way over.”
Grandma fell asleep halfway through The Terminator, sitting on the couch ramrod straight, head dropped to her chest.
“Probably I should leave,” Morelli said. “Let you two girls get things straightened out.”
I walked him to the door. “Is there any word on Ranger?”
“Nothing. Not even a rumor.”
Sometimes no news was good news. At least he hadn't floated in with the tide.
Morelli pulled me to him and kissed me, and I felt the usual tingle in the usual places. “You know my number,” he said. “And I don't give a rat's ass what anyone thinks.”
I WOKE UP on my couch with a stiff neck and feeling cranky. Someone was clanking around in my kitchen. Didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out who.
“Isn't this a terrific morning?” Grandma said. “I got pancakes started. And I got the coffee on.”
Okay, maybe it wasn't so bad having Grandma here.
She stirred the pancake batter. “I thought we could get going early today, and then maybe you could take me out for a driving lesson.”
Thank God my car had burned to a cinder. “I don't have a car right now,” I said. “There was an accident.”
“Again? What happened this time. Torched? Bombed? Flattened?”
I poured myself a cup of coffee. “Torched. But it wasn't my fault.”
“You've got a pip of a life,” Grandma said. “Never a dull moment. Fast cars, fast men, fast food. I wouldn't mind having a life like that.”
She was right about the fast food.
“You didn't get a paper this morning,” Grandma said. “I went and looked in the hall and all your neighbors got papers but you didn't get one.”
“I don't have paper delivery,” I told her. “If I want a paper I buy one.” Or borrow one.
“Breakfast isn't gonna seem right without a paper to read,” Grandma said. “I gotta read the funnies and the obits, and this morning I wanted to look for an apartment.”
“I'll get you a paper,” I said, not wanting to slow down the apartment search.
I was wearing a green plaid flannel nightshirt, which went well with my bloodshot blue eyes. I covered it with a short denim Levi's jacket, stuffed myself into gray sweatpants, shoved my feet into boots, which I left unlaced, clapped a Navy SEALs ball cap onto my rat's nest of shoulder-length curly brown hair, and grabbed my car keys.
“I'll be back in a minute,” I yelled from the hall. “I'll just run out to the 7-Eleven.”
I punched the button for the elevator. The elevator doors opened and my mind went blank. Ranger was lounging against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes dark and assessing, the corners of his mouth hinting at a smile.
“Get in,” he said.
He'd abandoned his usual outfit of black rap clothes or GI Joe cammies. He was wearing a brown leather jacket, a cream-colored Henley, faded jeans, and work boots. His hair, which had always been slicked back in a ponytail, was cut short. He had a two-day beard, making his teeth seem whiter and his Latino complexion seem darker. A wolf in Gap clothing.
“Jeez,” I said, feeling a flutter of something I'd rather not admit to in the pit of my stomach. “You look different.”
“Just your average guy.”
Yeah, right.
He reached forward, grabbed the front of my jacket, and pulled me into the elevator. He pushed the button to close the doors and then hit Stop. “We need to talk.”
Stephanie Plum 6 - Hot Six
3
RANGER HAD BEEN Special Forces, and he still had the build and the carriage. He was standing close, forcing me to tip my head back ever so slightly to look into his eyes.
“Just get out of bed?” he asked.
I glanced down. “You mean the nightshirt?”
“The nightshirt, the hair . . . the stupor.”
“You're the reason for the stupor.”
“Yeah,” Ranger said. “I get that a lot. I cause stupor in women.”
“What happened?”
“I had a meeting with Homer Ramos, and someone killed him when I left.”
“The fire?”
“Not me.”
“Do you know who killed Ramos?”
Ranger stared at me for a moment. “I have some ideas.”
“The police think you did it. They have you on video.”
“The police hope I did it. Hard to believe they'd actually think I did it. I don't have a reputation for being stupid.”
“No, but you do have a reputation for . . . um, killing people.”
Ranger grinned down at me. “Street talk.” He looked at the keys in my hand. “Going somewhere?”
�
�Grandma's moved in with me for a couple days. She wanted a paper, so I was going to run out to the 7-Eleven.”
Hot Six Page 4
