Hard Eight (Stephanie Plum 8)

Another opportunity to use the bitch look.

I DIDN'T SLEEP well . . . which I'm sure is normal after you've been attacked by killer geese and mutant spiders. At six o'clock I finally hauled myself out of bed, took a shower, and got dressed. I decided I needed a treat after the crappy night, so I packed myself off in the CR-V and drove into town to Barry's Coffees. There was always a line at Barry's but it was worth it because he had forty-two different kinds of coffee, plus all the exotic espresso drinks.

I ordered a double skinny caramel mochaccino and took my drink to the window bar. I squeezed in next to an old lady with chopped-off, spikey hair dyed flame red. She was short and round, with apple cheeks and an apple shape. She was wearing large turquoise and sil

ver earrings, elaborate rings on every gnarled finger, a white polyester warm-up suit, and platform Skechers. Her eyes were heavily gunked with mascara. Her dark red lipstick had been transferred to her cappuccino cup.

“Hey, honey,” she said in a two-pack-a-day voice. “Is that a caramel mochaccino? I used to drink them but they gave me the shakes. Too much sugar. You keep drinking them you're gonna get diabetes. My brother has diabetes and they had to cut his foot off. It was real ugly. First his toes turned black, and then the whole foot, and then his skin started falling off in big clumps. It was like a shark had got hold of him and ripped off chunks of meat.”

I looked around for another place to stand while I drank my coffee, but the place was packed.

“He's in a nursing home now on account of he can't get around so good,” she said. “I visit him when I can, but I got things to do. You get to be my age and you don't want to sit around wasting time. I could wake up any morning and be dead. Of course I keep myself in real good shape. How old do you think I am?”

“Eighty?”

“Seventy-four. I look better some days than others,” she said. “What's your name, honey?”

“Stephanie.”

“My name's Laura. Laura Minello.”

“Laura Minello. That sounds familiar. Are you from the Burg?”

“Nope. I've lived all my life in North Trenton. Cherry Street. I used to work at the Social Security office. Worked there for twenty-three years, but you wouldn't remember me from there. You're too young.”

Laura Minello. I knew her from somewhere, but I couldn't place it.

Laura Minello gestured at a red Corvette parked in front of Barry's. “See that fancy red car? That's my car. Pretty slick, hunh?”

I looked at the car. And then I looked at Laura Minello. Then I looked at the car again. Holy cow. I dug around in my shoulder bag, searching for the papers Connie had given me.

“Have you had the car long?” I asked Laura.

“Couple days.”

I pulled the papers out of my bag and scanned the top page. Laura Minello, accused of grand theft auto, age seventy-four. Residence on Cherry Street.

God works in mysterious ways.

“You stole that Corvette, didn't you?” I asked Minello.

“I borrowed it. Old people are allowed to do things like that so they can go for the gusto before they croak.”

Oh boy. I should have looked at the bond agreement before I accepted the file from Connie. Never take on old people. It's always a disaster. Old people think conveniently. And you look like a jerk when you apprehend them.

“This is a strange coincidence,” I said. “I work for Vincent Plum, your bail bondsman. You missed a court date, and you need to reschedule.”

“Okay, but not today. I'm going to Atlantic City. Just pencil something in for me next week.”

“It doesn't work that way.”

A blue-and-white cruised by Barry's. It stopped just beyond the red Vette and two cops got out.

“Uh-oh,” Laura said. “This don't look good.”

One of the cops was Eddie Gazarra. Gazarra was married to my cousin, Shirley the Whiner. Gazarra checked the plate on the Vette, and then he walked around the car. He went back to the blue-and-white and made a call.

“Damn cops,” Laura said. “Haven't got anything better to do than to go around and bust senior citizens. There should be a law against it.”