Two for the Dough (Stephanie Plum 2)

Morelli looked beyond me. “I suppose that's Ranger in the black Bronco.”

I cut my eyes to the alley. Ranger was still there, doubled over the steering wheel, shaking with laughter.

“You want me to file an accident report?” I asked Morelli.

“I wouldn't dignify this with an accident report.”

“Did you get a look at the guy in the van? Do you think it was Kenny?”

“Same height as Kenny, but he seemed slimmer.”

“Kenny could have lost weight.”

“I don't know,” Morelli said. “It didn't feel like Kenny to me.”

Ranger's lights flashed on, and the Bronco eased around the back of the Buick.

“Guess I'll be leaving now,” Ranger said. “I know how three's a crowd.”

I helped Morelli load his bumper into his backseat and kick the rest of the debris to the side of the road. Around the corner, I could hear the police packing up.

“I have to go back to the station,” Morelli said. “I want to be there when they talk to these guys.”

“And you're going to run the plates on the van.”

“The van was probably stolen.”

I returned to the Buick and backed down the alley to avoid the broken glass in the road. I took the first driveway to Jackson and headed for home. After several blocks I swung around and drove to the police station. I parked deep in shadow, a car length back from the corner, across from the bar with the RC Cola sign. I'd been there for less than five minutes when two blue-and-whites rolled into the station parking lot, followed by Morelli in his bumperless Fairlane, followed by one of the big blue-and-white Suburbans. The Fairlane fit right in with the blue-and-whites. Trenton doesn't waste money on cosmetic surgery. If a cop car gets a dent, it's there for life. There wasn't a car in the lot that didn't look like it'd been used for demolition derby.

At this time of night the side lot was relatively empty. Morelli parked the Fairlane next to his truck and walked into the building. The blue-and-whites lined up at the cage to unload prisoners. I put the Buick into drive, slid into the lot, and parked next to Morelli's truck.

After an hour the chill had begun to creep into the Buick, so I ran the heater until everything was toasty. I ate half the KitKat and stretched out on the bench seat. A second hour passed, and I repeated the procedure. I'd just finished the last morsel of chocolate when the side door to the station opened and the silhouette of a man appeared backlit through the door frame. Even in silhouette I knew it was Morelli. The door closed behind him, and Morelli headed for his truck. Halfway across the lot he spotted me in the Buick. I saw his lips move, and it didn't take a genius to figure out the single word.

I got out of the car so it'd be more difficult to ignore me. “Well,” I said, all little Miss Cheerful. “How'd it go?”

“The stuff was from Braddock. That's about it.” He took a step closer and sniffed. “I smell chocolate.”

“I had half a KitKat.”

“I don't suppose you still have the other half?”

“I ate it earlier.”

“Too bad. I might have been able to remember some crucial piece of information if I had a KitKat.”

“Are you telling me I'm going to have to feed you?”

“You have anything else in your pocketbook?”

“No.”

“Any more apple pie at home?”

“I have popcorn and candy. I was going to watch a movie tonight.”

“Is it buttered popcorn?”

“Yeah.”