Hard Eight (Stephanie Plum 8)

I peeked out Evelyn's bedroom window. It was a black Lincoln Towncar. Two guys got out and started walking toward Evelyn's front door. I grabbed Kloughn's hand and pulled him down the stairs after me. Don't panic, I thought. The door's locked. And they can't see in. I made a sign for everyone to be quiet, and we all stood still as statues, barely breathing, while one of the men rapped on the door.

“Nobody home,” he said.

I carefully exhaled. They'd leave now, right? Wrong. There was the sound of a key being inserted in the lock. The lock clicked, and the door swung open.

Lula and Kloughn lined up behind me. The two men stood their ground on the front porch.

“Yes?” I asked, trying to look like I belonged to the house.

The men were late forties, early fifties. Medium height. Built solid. Dressed in business suits. Both Caucasian. Didn't look especially happy to see the Three Stooges in Evelyn's house.

“We're looking for Evelyn,” one of the men said.

“Not here,” I told him. “And you would be?”

“Eddie Abruzzi. And this is my associate, Melvin Darrow.”

Stephanie Plum 8 - Hard Eight

3

OH BOY. EDDIE Abruzzi. Talk about a day going into the toilet.

“It's been brought to my attention that Evelyn moved out,” Abruzzi said. “You wouldn't happen to know where she is, would you?”

“No,” I said. “But as you can see, she hasn't moved out.”

Abruzzi looked around. “Her furniture's here. That doesn't mean she hasn't moved out.”

“Well, technically . . .” Kloughn said.

Abruzzi squinted at Kloughn. “Who are you?”

“I'm Albert Kloughn. I'm Evelyn's lawyer.”

This got a smile out of Abruzzi. “Evelyn hired a clown for a lawyer. Perfect.”

“K-1-o-u-g-h-n,” Albert Kloughn said.

“And I'm Stephanie Plum,” I said.

“I know who you are,” Abruzzi said. His voice was eerily quiet, and his pupils were shrunk to the size of pinpricks. “You killed Benito Ramirez.”

Benito Ramirez was a heavyweight boxer who tried to kill me on several occasions and finally was shot on my fire escape, poised to break through my window. He was criminally insane and flat-out evil, taking pleasure and finding strength through other people's pain.

“I owned Ramirez,” Abruzzi said. “I had a lot of time and money invested in him. And I understood him. We enjoyed many of the same pursuits.”

“I didn't kill him,” I said. “You know that, don't you?”

“You didn't pull the trigger . . . but you killed him all the same.” He turned his attention to Lula. “I know who you are, too. You're one of Benito's whores. How did it feel to spend time with Benito? Did you enjoy it? Did you feel privileged? Did you learn anything?”

“I don't feel so good,” Lula said. And she fainted dead away, crashing into Kloughn, taking him down with her.

Lula had been brutalized by Ramirez. He'd tortured her and left her for dead. But Lula hadn't died. Turns out, it's not so easy to kill Lula.

Unlike Kloughn, who looked like he might be ready to cash in his chips any minute. Kloughn was squashed under Lula with only his feet showing, doing a good imitation of the Wicked Witch of the East when Dorothy's house fell on her. He made a sound that was half squeak, half death rattle. “Help,” he whispered. “I can't breathe.”

Darrow grabbed one of Lula's legs and I grabbed an arm, and we rolled Lula off Kloughn.