Two for the Dough (Stephanie Plum 2)

“I want to see.”

“Listen,” Spiro said. “She's probably gone off with some other old broad. She's probably at some diner, driving some poor waitress nuts.”

“Let me into the cellar, and I swear I won't bother you anymore.”

“That's a cheery thought.”

An old man clapped a hand on Spiro's shoulder. “How's Con doing? He outta the hospital yet?”

“Yeah,” Spiro said, brushing past. “He's out of the hospital. He'll be back to work next week. Monday.”

“Bet you'll be happy to see him come back.”

“Yeah, I'm jumping for joy just thinking about it.”

Spiro crossed to the other side of the lobby, slithering between knots of people, ignoring some, toadying up to others. I followed him to the cellar door and waited impatiently while he fumbled with keys. My heart was skittering in my chest, fearful of what I might find at the foot of the stairs.

I wanted Spiro to be right. I wanted Grandma to be at a diner somewhere with one of her croonies, but I didn't think it was likely.

If she'd been forcibly removed from the house, Morelli or Roche would have acted. Unless she'd been taken out the back door. The back door was their blind spot. Still, they'd compensated for that by planting a bug. And if the bugs were working, Morelli and Roche would have heard me looking for Grandma and would be doing their thing . . . whatever that was.

I flipped the stairwell light switch and called out. “Grandma?”

The furnace roared in some far-off place, and there was the murmur of voices in the rooms behind me. A small circle of light brightened the cellar floor at the bottom of the stairs. I squinted to see beyond the light, strained to hear whatever small sound the cellar might offer up.

My stomach clenched at the silence. Someone was down there. I could feel it, just as surely as I could feel Spiro's breath on my neck.

The truth is, I'm not the heroic type. I'm afraid of spiders and extraterrestrials and sometimes feel the need to check under my bed for drooly guys with claws. If I ever found one I'd run screaming out of my apartment and never come back.

“The meter's running,” Spiro said. “You going down there, or what?”

I rummaged through my pocketbook for my .38 and descended the stairs with gun drawn. Stephanie Plum, chickenshit bounty hunter, takes stairs one at a time, practically blinded because her heart is beating in her throat so hard it's knocking her head back and forth, blurring her vision.

I steadied myself on the last step, reached left, and flipped the light switch. Nothing happened.

“Hey, Spiro,” I called. “The lights won't go on.”

He hunkered down at the top of the stairs. “Must be the circuit breaker.”

“Where's the box?”

“To your right, behind the furnace.”

Damn. Everything was black to my right. I reached for my flashlight, and before I could withdraw my hand from my pocketbook, Kenny sprang out of the shadows. He hit me from the side, and we both crashed to the floor, the impact knocking me breathless, the jolt sending my .38 skittering off into the dark, beyond my grasp. I scrambled to my feet and was slammed flat onto my chest. A knee jammed between my shoulderblades, and there was the prick of something very sharp pressed against the side of my neck.

“Don't fucking move,” Kenny said. “You move an inch, and I'll shove this knife into your throat.”

I heard the door close at the top of the stairs, heard Spiro hurry down. “Kenny? What the hell are you doing down here? How'd you get in?”

“I got in through the cellar door. I used the key you gave me. How the hell else would I get in.”

“I didn't know you were coming back. I thought you got all the stuff stashed last night.”

“Came back to check on things. Wanted to make sure everything was still here.”

“What the hell's that supposed to mean?”

“It means you make me nervous,” Kenny said.