Hot Six, Page 8

  Zing. The unmistakable sound of a bullet being fired through a silencer.

  I don't ordinarily think of myself as fast, but I moved down that path at the speed of light. I went straight to the car, jumped inside, and roared off.

  I checked the mirror several times to make sure I wasn't being followed. Closer to my apartment I drove down Makefield, turned at the corner, cut my lights, and waited. No car in sight. I popped the lights back on and noticed my hands had almost stopped shaking. I decided that was a good sign and headed for home.

  When I turned into my parking lot, I caught Morelli in my lights. He was lounging against his 4X4, arms crossed over his chest, feet crossed at the ankles. I locked the Buick and walked over to him. His expression changed from bored calm to grim curiosity.

  “Back to driving the Buick?” he asked.

  “For a while.”

  He looked me over head to toe and picked a pine sprig out of my hair. “I'm afraid to ask,” he said.

  “Surveillance.”

  “You're all sticky.”

  “Sap. I was in a pine tree.”

  He grinned. “I hear they're hiring at the button factory.”

  “What do you know about Hannibal Ramos?”

  “Oh, man, don't tell me you're spying on Ramos. He's a real bad guy.”

  “He doesn't look bad. He looks ordinary.” He had, until he pointed the gun at me.

  “Don't underestimate him. He runs the Ramos empire.”

  “I thought his father did that.”

  “Hannibal manages the day-to-day business. Rumor has it the old man is sick. He's always been volatile, but a source tells me his behavior is increasingly erratic, and the family has hired baby-sitters to make sure he doesn't just wander away, never to be seen again.”

  “Alzheimer's?”

  Morelli shrugged. “Don't know.”

  I glanced down and realized my knee was scraped and bleeding.

  “You could become an accessory to something ugly by helping Ranger,” Morelli said.

  “Who, me?”

  “Did you tell him to get in touch with me?”

  “I didn't get a chance. Besides, if you're leaving messages on his pager, he's getting them. He just doesn't want to answer.”Morelli pulled me flat against him. “You smell like a pine forest.”

  “Must be the sap.”

  He put his hands to my waist and kissed me at the base of my neck. “Very sexy.”

  Morelli thought everything was sexy.

  “Why don't you come back to the house with me?” he said. “I'll kiss your skinned knee and make it all better.”

  Tempting. “What about Grandma?”

  “She'll never notice. She's probably sound asleep.”

  A second-story window opened in the apartment building. My window. And Grandma stuck her head out. “Is that you, Stephanie? And who's that with you? Is that Joe Morelli?”

  Joe waved at her. “Hello, Mrs. Mazur.”

  “What are you standing out there for?” Grandma wanted to know. “Why don't you come in and have some dessert? We stopped at the supermarket on the way home from the viewing, and I bought a layer cake.”

  “Thanks,” Joe said, “but I have to be getting home. I have an early shift tomorrow.”

  “Wow,” I said, “passing up layer cake!”

  “I'm not hungry for cake.”

  My pelvic muscles contracted.

  “Well, I'm cutting a piece for myself,” Grandma said. “I'm starved. Viewings always make me hungry.” The window closed, and Grandma disappeared.

  “You're not coming home with me, are you?” Morelli said.

  “Do you have cake?”

  “I've got something better.”

  This was true. I knew it for a fact.

  The window opened again, and Grandma stuck her head out. “Stephanie, you've got a phone call. Do you want me to tell him to call back later?”

  Morelli raised his eyebrows. “Him?”

  Both of us thinking, Ranger.

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  “Some guy named Brian.”

  “Must be Brian Simon,” I said to Morelli. “I had to whine at him to get a deal for Carol Zabo.”

  “This is about Carol Zabo?”

  “God, I hope so.” That, or Brian Simon was calling in his marker. “I'll be right there,” I yelled to Grandma. “Get his number, and tell him I'll call him back.”

  “You're breaking my heart,” Morelli said.

  “Grandma will only be here for a couple more days, and then we can celebrate.”

  “In a couple days I'll be gnawing my arm off.”

  “That's pretty serious.”

  “Don't ever doubt it,” Morelli said. He kissed me, and I didn't doubt anything. He had his hand under my shirt, and his tongue deep in my mouth . . . and I heard someone give a wolf whistle.

  Mrs. Fine and Mr. Morgenstern were hanging out their windows, whistling, drawn to the shouting between Grandma and me. They both started clapping and making hooting sounds.

  Mrs. Benson opened her window. “What's going on?” she wanted to know.

  “Sex in the parking lot,” Mr. Morgenstern said.

  Morelli looked at me speculatively. “It's possible.”

  I turned and ran for the door and sprinted up the stairs. I cut myself a piece of cake, and then I called Simon.

  “What's up?” I said.

  “I need a favor.”

  “I don't do phone sex,” I said.

  “It's not phone sex. Cripes, what made you think that?”

  “I don't know. It just popped out.”

  “It's about my dog. I have to go out of town for a couple days, and I don't have anybody to take care of my dog. So since you owe me a favor . . .”

  “I live in an apartment! I can't have a dog.”

  “It's only for a couple days. And he's a real good dog.”

  “What about a kennel?”

  “He hates kennels. He won't eat. He gets all depressed.”

  “What kind of dog is it?”

  “It's a little dog.”

  Damn. “It's only for a couple days?”

  “I'll drop him off tomorrow first thing in the morning and pick him up on Sunday.”

  “I don't know. This isn't a good time. My grandmother is staying with me.”

  “He loves old ladies. I swear to God. Your grandma will love him.”

  I looked over at Rex. I'd hate to see him all depressed and not eating, so I guess I could understand how Simon felt about his dog. “Okay,” I said. “What time tomorrow?”

  “Around eight?”

  I OPENED MY eyes and wondered about the time. I was on the couch, it was pitch black out, and I smelled coffee. There was a moment of panicky disorientation. My eyes settled on the chair across from the couch, and I realized someone was sitting in it. A man. Hard to see in the dark. My breathing stopped altogether.

  “How'd it go tonight?” he said. “Learn anything worthwhile?”

  Ranger. No point asking how he'd gotten in when the windows and doors were closed and locked. Ranger had ways. “What time is it?”

  “Three.”

  “Has it occurred to you that some people sleep at this time of night?”

  “It smells like a pine forest in here,” Ranger said.

  “It's me. I was in the pine tree behind Hannibal's house, and I can't get the sap off. It's all stuck in my hair.”

  I saw Ranger smile in the darkness. Heard him laugh softly.

  I sat up. “Hannibal has a lady friend. She drove up at ten o'clock in a black BMW. She was with Hannibal for about ten minutes, gave him a letter, and left.”

  “What's she look like?”

  “Short blond hair. Slim. Nicely dressed.”

  “Did you get the license plate?”

  “Yeah. I wrote it down. Didn't get a chance to check it out yet.”

  He sipped his coffee. “Anything else?”

  “He sort of saw me.”

  “So
rt of?”

  “I fell out of the tree into his backyard.”

  The smile disappeared. “And?”

  “And I told him I was looking for my cat, but I'm not sure he bought it.”

  “If he knew you better . . .” Ranger said.

  “Then the second time he caught me in the tree, he pulled a gun, so I jumped down and ran away.”

  “Quick thinking.”

  “Hey,” I said, tapping my finger to my head, “no grass growing here.”

  Ranger was smiling again.

  Stephanie Plum 6 - Hot Six

  5

  “I THOUGHT YOU didn't drink coffee,” I said to Ranger. “What about your body being a temple?”

  He sipped at the coffee. “It's my disguise. It goes with the haircut.”

  “Will you let your hair grow back?”

  “Probably.”

  “And then will you stop drinking coffee?”

  “You ask a lot of questions,” Ranger said.

  “Just trying to figure this out.”

  He was slouched in the chair, one long leg extended, his arms on the arms of the chair, his eyes on me. He set his cup on the coffee table, rose from the chair, and stood over the couch. He bent and kissed me lightly on the lips. “Some things are better left a mystery,” he said. And then he moved to the door.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” I said. “Am I supposed to keep watching Hannibal?”

  “Can you watch him without getting shot?”

  I gave him a pissy look in the dark.

  “I see that,” he said.

  “Morelli wants to talk to you.”

  “I'll call him tomorrow, maybe.”

  The front door opened and clicked shut. Ranger was gone. I padded to the door and looked out the peephole. No Ranger anywhere. I slid the security chain in place and went back to the couch. I fluffed up my pillow and crawled under the quilt.

  And I thought about the kiss. What was I supposed to make of the kiss? Friendly, I told myself. It had been friendly. No tongue. No groping hands. No gnashing of teeth in uncontrollable passion. A friendly kiss. Only it hadn't felt friendly. It had felt . . . sexy.

  Damn!

  “WHAT WOULD YOU like for breakfast?” Grandma asked. “How about some nice warm oatmeal?”

  Left to my own devices, I'd have eaten the cake. “Sure,” I said, “oatmeal would be okay.”

  I poured a cup of coffee, and there was a knock on the door. I opened the door, and a big orange thing rushed in.

  “Holy cow!” I said. “What is it?”

  “Golden retriever,” Simon said. “Mostly.”

  “Isn't he big for a golden retriever?”

  Simon dragged a fifty-pound bag of dog food into the foyer. “I got him at the pound, and that's what they told me. Golden retriever.”

  “You said you had a small dog.”

  “I lied. So sue me.”

  The dog ran into the kitchen, stuck his nose in Grandma's crotch, and snuffled.

  “Dang,” Grandma said. “Guess my new perfume really works. I'm gonna have to try it out at the seniors meeting.”

  Simon pulled Bob away from Grandma and handed me a brown grocery bag. “Here's his stuff. Two dog bowls, some dog treats, a chew toy, a hairbrush and his pooper-scooper.”

  “Pooper-scooper? Hey, wait a minute—”

  “I gotta run,” Simon said. “I got a plane to catch.”

  “What's his name?” I yelled down the hall.

  “Bob.”

  “Isn't this something,” Grandma said. “A dog named Bob.”

  I filled Bob's water bowl and set it on the floor in the kitchen. “He's only staying for a couple days,” I said. “Simon will be back for him on Sunday.”

  Grandma eyeballed the dog food bag. “Awful big bag of food for a couple days.”

  “Maybe he eats a lot.”

  “He eats all that in two days and you're not gonna need a pooper-scooper,” Grandma said. “You're gonna need a shovel.”

  I unhooked Bob's leash and hung it on a hall peg. “Well, Bob,” I said, “this won't be so bad. I always wanted a golden retriever.”

  Bob wagged his tail and looked from Grandma to me.

  Grandma ladled out oatmeal for the three of us. She and I took our bowls into the dining area, and Bob ate his in the kitchen. When Grandma and I went back to the kitchen, Bob's bowl was empty. The cardboard box that used to hold the cake was also empty.

  “Guess Bob's got a sweet tooth,” Grandma said.

  I shook my finger at him. “That was rude. And besides, you'll get fat.”

  Bob wagged his tail.

  “He might not be too smart,” Grandma said.

  Smart enough to eat the cake.

  Grandma had a driving lesson scheduled for nine o'clock. “I'm probably gonna be gone all day,” she said. “So don't worry if you don't see me. After my driving lesson I'm going to the mall with Louise Greeber. And then we're gonna look at some more apartments. If you want, I can stop and get some ground beef this afternoon. I thought a meatloaf might be nice for supper.”

  Major guilt trip coming on. Grandma was doing all the cooking. “My turn,” I told her. “I'll make the meatloaf.”

  “I didn't know you could cook meatloaf.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I can cook lots of stuff.” A big lie. I can cook nothing.

  I gave Bob a dog treat, and Grandma and I left together. Halfway down the hall, Grandma stopped. “What's that sound?” she asked.

  We both listened. Bob was howling on the other side of my door.

  My next-door neighbor, Mrs. Karwatt, stuck her head out. “What's that sound?”

  “It's Bob,” Grandma said. “He don't like being at home alone.”

  Ten minutes later I was on the road with Bob riding shotgun, head out the window, ears flapping in the wind.

  “Uh-oh,” Lula said when we walked in the office. “Who's this?”

  “His name's Bob. I'm dog-sitting him.”

  “Oh yeah? What kind of dog is he?”

  “Golden retriever.”

  “He looks like he been under the blow-dryer too long.”

  I smoothed some of his hair down. “He had his head out the window.”

  “That'll do it,” Lula said.

  I let Bob off the leash and he ran over to Lula and did the crotch thing again.

  “Hey,” Lula said, “back off, you're getting nose prints all over my new pants.” She gave Bob a pat on the head. “He keep this up, and we're gonna have to pimp him out.”

  I used Connie's phone to call my friend Marilyn Truro at the DMV. “I need to run a plate through,” I said. “Do you have time?”

  “Are you kidding me? There are forty people standing in line. They see me talking on the phone, and they'll go postal.” She spoke more softly. “Is this for a case? Is this for a murderer or something?”

  “It might tie in to the Ramos murder.”

  “Are you shitting me? That is so cool.”

  I gave her the number.

  “Hold on,” she said. There was some clicking of computer keys, and Marilyn came back on. “The plate belongs to Terry Gilman. Isn't she working for Vito Grizolli?”

  I was momentarily speechless. Next to Joyce Barnhardt, I disliked Terry Gilman most. For lack of a better term, she'd dated Joe in high school, and I had a feeling she wouldn't mind resuming the relationship. Terry worked for her Uncle Vito Grizolli now, which put a crimp in her Joe designs, since Joe was in the business of stamping out crime, and Vito was in the business of producing it.

  “Uh-oh,” Lula said. “Did I hear you right? Are you sticking your big fat nose in the Ramos case?”

  “Well, I happened to run across—”

  Lula's eyes widened. “You're working for Ranger!”

  Vinnie popped out of his inner office. “Is that true? Are you working for Ranger?”