Hot Six

by Janet Evanovich

  “Later,” Ranger said. And he hung up.

  Fine. If that's the way he wants it, then that's just peachy fine.

  I huffed off to the kitchen, got my gun out of the cookie jar, grabbed my shoulder bag, and stomped down the hall, down the stairs, through the lobby to the Buick. Joyce was parked in the lot, in the car with the crumpled bumper. She saw me come out of the building and gave me the finger. I gave it back to her and took off for Morelli's house. Joyce was following one car length behind. Okay by me. She could follow me all she wanted today. As far as I was concerned Ranger was on his own. I was taking myself out of the picture.

  MORELLI AND BOB were sitting side by side on the couch, watching ESPN, when I came in. There was an empty Pino's Pizza box on the coffee table, an empty container of ice cream and a couple crushed beer cans.

  “Lunch?” I asked.

  “Bob was hungry. And don't worry, he didn't get any beer.” Morelli patted the seat next to him. “There's room for you, here.”

  When Morelli was being a cop, his brown eyes were hard and assessing, his face was lean and angular, and the scar that sliced through his right eyebrow gave the correct impression that Morelli had never lived a cautious life. When he was feeling sexy, his brown eyes were molten chocolate, his mouth softened, and the scar gave the mistaken impression that he might need a teensy bit of mothering.

  And right now, Morelli was feeling very sexy. And I was feeling very unsexy. In fact, I was feeling absolutely grumpy. I plopped myself down on the couch and scowled at the empty pizza box, remembering my lunch of olives.

  Morelli slid his arm around my shoulders and nuzzled my neck. “Alone at last,” he said.

  “I have something to tell you.”

  Morelli went still.

  “I sort of happened on a dead guy today.”

  He slouched back on the couch. “I have a girlfriend who finds dead guys. Why me?”

  “You sound like my mother.”

  “I feel like your mother.”

  “Well, don't,” I snapped. “I don't even like when my mother feels like my mother.”

  “I suppose you want to tell me about this.”

  “Hey, if you don't want to hear it, that's no problem. I can just call it in to the station.”

  He sat up straighter. “You haven't called it in? Oh shit, let me guess: you broke into someone's house and stumbled onto a homicide.”

  “Hannibal's house.”

  Morelli was on his feet. “Hannibal's house?”

  “But I didn't break in. His back door was open.”

  “What the hell were you doing walking into Hannibal's house?” he yelled. “What were you thinking?”

  I was on my feet, too, and I was yelling back. “I was doing my job.”

  “Breaking and entering isn't your job.”

  “I told you, it wasn't breaking. It was only entering.”

  “Well, that makes all the difference. Who did you find dead?”

  “I don't know. Some guy got whacked in the garage.”

  Morelli went into the kitchen and dialed dispatch. “I have an anonymous tip here,” he said. “Why don't you send someone over to Hannibal Ramos's town house on Fenwood and take a look in the garage. The back door should be open.” Morelli hung the phone up and turned to me. “Okay, that's taken care of,” he said. “Let's go upstairs.”

  “Sex, sex, sex,” I said. “That's all you ever think about.” Although, now that I was rested and had the dead guy off my chest, an orgasm didn't sound like such a bad idea.

  Morelli backed me against the wall and leaned into me. “I think about other things besides sex . . . just not lately.” He kissed me and put some tongue into it, and the orgasm was sounding better and better.

  “Just a quick question about the dead guy,” I said. “How long do you think it'll be before they find him?”

  “If there's a car in the area, it'll only take five or ten minutes.”

  Chances were pretty good they'd call Morelli when they took a gander at the guy in the garage. And on my best day, I need more than five minutes. But then probably it would take more than five minutes to get a car to the house, then for the cops to walk to the back and go through to the garage. So, if I didn't waste time taking all my clothes off, and we got right to it, I might be able to do the whole program.

  “Why don't we do it here?” I said to Morelli, popping the top snap on his Levi's. “Kitchens are so sexy.”

  “Hold on,” he said. “I'll pull the blinds.”

  I kicked my shoes off and shucked my jeans. “No time for that.”

  Morelli gave me a long look. “I'm not complaining, but I can't help feeling this is too good to be true.”

  “You've heard of fast food? This is fast sex.”

  I wrapped my hand around him, and he sucked in a quick breath. “How fast do you want this to be?” he asked.

  The phone rang.

  Damn!

  Morelli had one hand on the phone and the other on my wrist. After a moment on the phone he cut his eyes to me. “It's Costanza. He was in the neighborhood, so he took the call to check on the Ramos house. He says I've got to come over to see for myself. Something about a guy having a bad hair day, waiting for a bus. At least that's what it sounded like, over the laughter.”

  I gave him a big shrug and a palms-up. Like, well, gosh, I don't know what he's talking about. Just looked like an ordinary of dead guy to me.

  “Anything you want to tell me about this?” Morelli asked.

  “Not without a lawyer present.”

  We put our clothes back on, gathered our things, and went to the front door. Bob was still sitting on the couch, watching ESPN.

  “It's kind of weird,” Morelli said, “but I swear it's like he's following the game.”

  “Maybe we should just let him keep watching.”

  Morelli locked the door behind us. “Listen, cupcake, you tell anybody I let that dog watch ESPN, and I'll get even.” His eyes drifted to my car, and then to the car parked behind me. “Is that Joyce?”

  “She's following me.”

  “Want me to give her a ticket for something?”

  I gave Morelli a fast kiss and drove off to the food store with Joyce close on my bumper. I didn't have a lot of money and my Visa was maxed, so I just got the essentials: peanut butter, potato chips, bread, beer, Oreos, milk, and two scratch-off lottery tickets.

  Next stop was Home Depot, where I got a bolt for the front door to replace the broken security chain. The plan was to trade a beer for the bolt-installing expertise of my building super and good buddy Dillan Rudick.

  After Home Depot I headed back to my apartment. I parked in the lot, locked Big Blue, and waved bye-bye to Joyce. Joyce inserted her thumbnail behind her two front teeth and gave me a genuine Italian gesture.

  I stopped off at Dillan's basement apartment and explained my needs. Dillan grabbed his toolbox and we trooped upstairs. He was my age and lived in the bowels of the building, like a mole. He was a really cool guy, but he didn't do much, and as far as I know he didn't have a girlfriend . . . so, as you might expect, he drank a lot of beer. And since he didn't make a lot of money, free beer was always welcome.

  I checked my answering machine while Dillan installed my bolt. Five calls for Grandma Mazur, none for me.

  Dillan and I were relaxing in front of the television when Grandma came in.

  “Boy, did I have a day,” Grandma said. “I drove all over, and I almost got the stopping thing figured out.” She squinted at Dillan. “And who's this nice young man?”

  I introduced Dillan, and then since it was dinnertime I made all of us peanut-butter-and-potato-chip sandwiches. We ate them in front of the television and between Grandma and Dillan, somehow, the six-pack disappeared. Grandma and Dillan were feeling pretty happy, but I was starting to worry about Bob. I was imagining him alone in Morelli's house with nothing to eat but the cardboard pizza box. And the couch. And the bed. And the curtains and rug and Morelli's favorite
chair. Then I imagined Morelli shooting Bob, and that wasn't a good picture.

  I called Morelli but there was no answer. Rats. I should never have left Bob alone in the house. I had my keys in my hand and was putting my jacket on when Morelli arrived with Bob in tow.

  “Going somewhere?” Morelli asked, taking in the keys and jacket.

  “I was worried about Bob. I was going to drive over to your house and see if everything was okay.”

  “I thought maybe you were leaving the country.”

  I gave him a big fake smile.

  Morelli unhooked Bob's leash, said hello to Grandma and Dillan, and dragged me into the kitchen. “I need to talk to you.”

  I heard a yelp from Dillan and figured Bob was getting acquainted.

  “I'm armed,” I said to Morelli, “so you better be careful. I have a gun in my purse.”

  Morelli took the purse and threw it across the room.

  Uh-oh.

  “That was Junior Macaroni in Hannibal's garage,” Morelli said. “He works for Stolle. Very weird to find him in Hannibal's garage. And it gets even weirder.”

  I did a mental grimace.

  “Macaroni was sitting in a lawn chair.”

  “It was Lula's idea,” I said. “Well, okay, so it was mine too, but he looked so uncomfortable lying on the cement floor.”

  Morelli cracked a grin. “I should arrest you for tampering with a crime scene, but he was such a vicious bastard, and he looked so fucking stupid.”

  “How do you know I wasn't the killer?”

  “Because you carry a thirty-eight and he was shot with a twenty-two. And more than that, you couldn't hit a barn at five paces. The only time you ever shot anyone, there was divine intervention.”

  True.

  “How many people know I sat him in the lawn chair?”

  “Nobody knows, but about a hundred have guessed. No one will tell.” Morelli looked at his watch. “I have to go. I have a meeting set up for tonight.”

  “This isn't a meeting with Ranger, is it?”

  “No.”

  “Liar.”

  Morelli pulled a pair of bracelets out of his jacket pocket, and before I realized what was happening I was cuffed to the refrigerator.

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “You were going to follow me. I'll leave the key in your mailbox downstairs.”

  Is this a relationship, or what?

  “I'M READY TO go,” Grandma said.

  She was dressed in her purple warm-up suit and white tennies. Her hair was neatly curled, and she was wearing pink lipstick. She had her big black leather purse tucked into the crook of her arm. My fear was that she was packing the long-barrel, and might threaten the DMV guy if he didn't give her a license.

  “You don't have your gun in there, do you?” I asked.

  “Of course not.”

  I didn't believe her for a second.

  When we got downstairs to the lot, Grandma went to the Buick. “I figure I stand a better chance of getting my license if I'm driving the Buick,” she said. “I heard they worry about young chicks in sports cars.”

  Habib and Mitchell pulled into the lot. They were back in the Lincoln.

  “Looks good as new,” I said.

  Mitchell beamed. “Yeah, they did a great job on it. We just got it this morning. We had to wait for the paint to dry.” He looked at Grandma, sitting behind the wheel of the Buick. “What's up for today?”

  “I'm taking my grandmother to get her driver's license.”

  “That's real nice of you,” Mitchell said. “You're a good granddaughter, but isn't she kind of old?”

  Grandma clamped down on her dentures. “Old?” she yelled. “I'll show you old.” I heard her purse click open, and Grandma reached down and came up with the long-barrel. “I'm not too old to shoot you in the eye,” she said, leveling the gun.

  Mitchell and Habib ducked flat on the seat, out of sight.

  I glared at Grandma. “I thought you said you didn't have the gun with you.”

  “Guess I was wrong.”

  “Put it away. And you better not threaten anyone at the DMV either, or they'll arrest you.”

  “Crazy old broad,” Mitchell said from low in the Lincoln.

  “That's better,” Grandma said. “I like being a broad.”

  Stephanie Plum 6 - Hot Six

  12

  I HAD MIXED feelings about Grandma getting her license. On the one hand, I thought it was great that she'd be more independent. On the other hand, I didn't want to be on the road with her. She'd run a red light on the way over, snapped me against my seat belt every time she stopped, and parked in a handicapped spot at the DMV, insisting it went along with joining the AARP.

  When Grandma stomped into the waiting room after taking her road test, I immediately knew the streets were safe for a little while longer.

  “If that don't tear it,” she said. “He didn't pass me on hardly anything.”

  “You can take the test again,” I said.

  “Darn right, I can. I'm gonna keep taking it until I pass. I got a God-given right to drive a car.” She pressed her lips tight together. “Guess I should have gone to church yesterday.”

  “Wouldn't have hurt,” I said.

  “Well, I'm pulling out all the stops next time. I'm lighting a candle. I'm doing the works.”

  Mitchell and Habib were still following us, but they were about a quarter-mile back. They'd almost plowed into us several times on the way over when Grandma had stopped short, and they weren't taking any chances on the way home.

  “Are you still moving out?” I asked Grandma.

  “Yep. I already told your mother. And Louise Greeber is coming over this afternoon to help me. So you don't need to worry about a thing. It was nice of you to let me stay. I appreciate it, but I need my shut-eye. I don't know how you get by on so little sleep.”

  “Well, okay,” I said. “I guess your mind is made up.” Maybe I'd light a candle, too.

  Bob was waiting for us when we walked in.

  “Think Bob needs to do you-know-what,” Grandma said.

  So Bob and I trooped back down to the parking lot. Habib and Mitchell were sitting there, patiently waiting for me to lead them to Ranger, and now Joyce was there, too. I turned around, went back into the building, and exited the front door. Bob and I walked up the street a block and then cut over, back to a residential neighborhood of small single-family houses. Bob did you-know-what about forty or fifty times in the space of five minutes, and we headed home.

  A black Mercedes turned the corner two blocks in front of me, and my heart tripped. The Mercedes drew closer, and my heartbeat stayed erratic. There were only two possibilities: drug dealer and Ranger. The car stopped beside me, and Ranger made a slight head movement that meant, 'Get in.'

  I loaded Bob into the backseat and slid in next to Ranger. “There are three people parked in my lot, hoping to get a shot at you,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  “I want to talk to you.”

  It was one thing to have the skill to break into an apartment; it was something else to be able to divine what I was doing at any given moment in the day. “How did you know I was out with Bob? What are you, psychic?”

  “Nothing that exotic. I called, and your grandma told me you were walking the dog.”

  “Gee, that's disappointing. Next thing you'll be telling me you aren't Superman.”

  Ranger smiled. “You want me to be Superman? Spend the night with me.”

  “I think I'm flustered,” I told him.

  “Cute,” Ranger said.

  “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “I'm terminating your employment.”

  The fluster disappeared and was replaced with the seed of an ill-defined emotion that settled in the pit of my stomach. “You and Morelli made a deal, didn't you?”

  “We have an understanding.”

  I was being cut out of the program, shoved aside like unnecessary baggage. Or worse
, like a liability. I went from hurt disbelief to total fury in three seconds.

  “Was this Morelli's idea?”

  “It's my idea. Hannibal has seen you. Alexander has seen you. And now half the police in Trenton know you broke into Hannibal's house and found Junior Macaroni in the garage.”