Two for the Dough (Stephanie Plum 2)

“Of course I am,” Morelli said. “I went out of my way to help you tonight. The least you can do is give me some spice cake.”

“You don't really want spice cake, anyway. You just want to come up to my apartment so you can find out about Perry Sandeman.”

“That's not the only reason.”

“Sandeman wasn't in a talky mood.”

Morelli stopped for a light. “Learn anything at all?”

“He hates cops. He hates me. I hate him. He lives in a walkup on Morton Street, and he's a mean drunk.”

“How do you know about him being a mean drunk?”

“Went to his home address and talked to one of his neighbors.”

Morelli slid a glance at me. “That was pretty ballsy.”

“It was nothing,” I said, making the most of the lie. “All in a day's work.”

“I hope you had the sense not to give out your name. Sandeman won't be happy to find you snooping around his crib.”

“I think I might have left my card.” No need to tell him about getting caught on the fire escape. Wouldn't want to weigh him down with unnecessary details.

Morelli gave me a boy, are you stupid or what look. “I understand they have positions available for makeover ladies at Macy's.”

“Don't start with that makeover stuff again. So I made a mistake.”

“Cookie, you're making a career out of making mistakes.”

“It's my style. And don't call me Cookie.”

Some people learn from books, some listen to the advice of others, some learn from mistakes. I fit into the last category. So sue me. At least I rarely made the same mistake twice . . . with the possible exception of Morelli. Morelli had this habit of periodically screwing up my life. And I had a habit of letting him do it.

“Have any luck on the funeral circuit?”

“None.”

He cut the engine and leaned close to me. “You smell like carnations.”

“Watch it. You'll crush the cake.”

He looked down at the bag. “That's a lot of cake.”

“Un-huh.”

“You eat all that cake, and it'll go straight to your hips.”

I heaved a sigh. “Okay, you can have some of the cake. Just don't try anything funny.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You know what that means!”

Morelli grinned.

I thought about looking haughty, but decided it was too late, and I probably couldn't pull it off anyway, so I settled for a grunt of exasperation and levered myself out of the pickup. I stalked off with Morelli following close on my heels. We rode the elevator in silence, exited at the second floor, and stopped short at the sight of my door slightly ajar. There were gouge marks where a tool had been inserted between jamb and door and used to pry the door open.

I heard Morelli unholster his gun, and I slid a glance in his direction. He motioned for me to step aside, his eyes locked on the door.