Morelli gave me a chuck under the chin. “Happens to me sometimes, too.”
I slid the chain home after Morelli left and jury-rigged an alarm system for myself by stacking glasses in front of the door. If the door opened, it'd knock the pyramid over, and the glasses smashing on the linoleum floor would wake me up. There was the added advantage that if the intruder was barefoot, he'd cut himself on the broken glass. Of course, this was unlikely since it was November and forty degrees.
I brushed my teeth, got into my jammies, put my gun on the table beside my bed, and crawled into bed, trying not to be disturbed by the writing on my wall. First thing in the morning I'd call the super to get my door fixed, and while I was at it, I'd mooch some paint.
I lay awake for a long time, unable to sleep. My muscles were twitchy with nerves and my brain was uneasy. I hadn't shared my opinion with Morelli, but I was pretty sure Sandeman hadn't vandalized my apartment. One of the messages on my wall had mentioned conspiracy, and a silver letter K had been pasted below the message. Probably I should have shown Morelli the K, and probably I should have shown him the silver-lettered note suggesting I take a vacation. I wasn't sure why I'd held back. I suspected the reason was childish. Sort of like . . . you won't tell me your secret, then I won't tell you mine. Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah.
My mind wandered in the dark. I wondered why Moogey was killed, and why I couldn't find Kenny, and if I had any cavities.
I awoke with a start, finding myself sitting bolt upright in bed. The sun was streaming in through the crack in my bedroom curtains, and my heart was pounding. There was a scraping sound from far away. My mind cleared, and I realized it had been the glasses crashing to the floor that had jolted me awake.
Stephanie Plum 2 - Two For The Dough
6
I was on my feet with my gun in my hand, but I couldn't make a decision on direction. I could call the cops, jump out my window, or rush out and attempt to shoot the son of a bitch at my door. Fortunately, I didn't have to choose because I recognized the voice cussing in the hall. Morelli's.
I looked at the bedside clock. Eight. I'd overslept. Happens when you don't close your eyes until daybreak. I slipped my feet into my Doc Martens and shuffled to the foyer, where glass shards were scattered over a four-foot area. Morelli had managed to work the chain off the latch and was standing in the open doorway, surveying the mess.
He raised his eyes and gave me the once-over. “You sleep in those shoes?”
I sent him a nasty look and went to the kitchen for a broom and dustpan. I handed him the broom, dropped the dustpan on the floor, and crunched my way over glass, back to the bedroom. I exchanged my flannel nightgown for sweatpants arid sweatshirt and almost screamed out loud when I caught sight of myself in the oval mirror above my dresser. No makeup, bags under my eyes, hair out to here. I wasn't sure brushing would make much of a difference, so I
slapped on my Rangers hat.
When I got back to the foyer the glass was gone, and Morelli was in the kitchen making coffee.
“You ever think of knocking?” I asked him.
“I did knock. You didn't answer.”
“You should have knocked louder.”
“And disturb Mr. Wolesky?”
I stuck my head in the refrigerator and pulled out the remains of the leftover cake, then divided it up. Half for me. Half for Morelli. We stood at the kitchen counter and ate our cake while we waited on the coffee.
“You're not doing too good here, babe,” Morelli said. “You've had your car stolen, your apartment vandalized, and someone tried to snuff your hamster. Maybe you should drop back and punt.”
“You're worried about me.”
“Yeah.”
We both shuffled our feet some at this.
“Awkward,” I said.
“Tell me about it.”
“Hear anything about my Jeep?”
“No.” He pulled some folded papers from his inside jacket pocket. “This is the report of theft. Look it over and sign it.”
I did a fast read-through, added my name to the bottom, and returned it to Morelli. “Thanks. I appreciate the help.”
Morelli stuffed the papers in his pocket. “I need to get back downtown. Do you have a plan for the day?”
“Fix my door.”