Hard Eight (Stephanie Plum 8)

I saw Morelli angle in behind a fire truck. He got out of his truck and walked over.

“Christ,” he said, looking at what was fast becoming a charred hunk of scrap metal.

“It was Steph's car,” Lula told him. “It was firebombed by a big rabbit.”

Morelli set his mouth to grim and glanced over at me. “Is that true?”

“Lula saw it.”

“I don't suppose you'd reconsider taking a vacation,” Morelli said to me. “Maybe go to Florida for a month or two.”

“I'll think about it,” I said to Morelli. “As soon as I bring Andy Bender in.”

Morelli was still tuned to grim.

“I could bring him in easier if I had a pair of cuffs,” I said.

Morelli reached under his sweater and pulled out a pair of cuffs. He handed them to me wordlessly, his expression unchanged.

“Kiss those cuffs good-bye,” Lula mumbled behind me.

GENERALLY SPEAKING, A red Trans Am is not a good choice for a surveillance car. Fortunately, with Lula's newly bleached canary yellow hair and my extra-heavy-on-the-mascara eyes we looked like businesswomen who belonged in a red Trans Am, on the street in front of Bender's house.

“Now what?” Lula asked. “You have any ideas?”

I had binoculars trained on Bender's front window. “I think someone's in there, but I can't see enough to identify anyone.”

“We could call to see who answers,” Lula said. “Except I ran out of money for a cell phone so I haven't got one no more, and your phone burned up in your car.”

“I guess we could go knock on the door.”

“Yeah, I like that idea. Maybe he'll shoot at us again. I was hoping someone would shoot at me today. That was the first thing I said when I got up: Boy, I hope I get shot at today.”

“He only shot at me that one time.”

“That makes me feel a lot better,” Lula said.

“Well, what's your idea?”

“My idea is we go home. I'm telling you, God don't want us to get this guy. He even sent a rabbit to bomb your car.”

“God didn't send a rabbit to bomb my car.”

“What's your explanation? You think it's every day you see a rabbit driving down the street?”

I shoved the door open and got out of the Trans Am. I had the cuffs in one hand and pepper spray in the other. “I'm in a bad mood,” I told Lula. “I'm up to here with snakes and spiders and dead guys. And now I don't even have a car. I'm going in, and I'm dragging Bender out. And after I drop his sorry ass off at the police station I'm going to Chevy's, and I'm going to get one of those margaritas they make in the gallon-size glass.”

“Hunh,” Lula said. “I guess you want me to go with you.”

I was already halfway across the yard. “Whatever,” I said. “Do whatever the hell you want.”

I could hear Lula huffing along behind me. “Don't you pull no attitude with me,” she was saying. “Don't you tell me to do whatever the hell I want. I already told you what I want. Did it count for anything? Hell, no.”

I got to Bender's front door, and I tried the knob. The door was locked. I knocked loud, three times. There was no answer, so I banged three times with my fist.

“Open the door,” I shouted. “Bond enforcement.”

The door opened, and Bender's wife looked out at me. “This isn't a good time,” she said.