Hard Eight (Stephanie Plum 8)

More Ranger humor. At least, I was pretty sure it was humor.

RANGER REACHED HAMILTON Avenue and glanced over at me. “Where are you staying tonight?”

“My parents' house.”

He turned into the Burg. “I'll have Tank drop a car off for you. You can use it until you replace the CR-V. Or until you destroy it.”

“Where do you get all these cars from?”

“You don't actually want to know, do you?”

I took a beat to think about it. “No,” I said. “I don't suppose I do. If I knew, you'd have to kill me, right?”

“Something like that.”

He stopped in front of my parents' house, and we both looked to the door. My mother and my grandmother were standing there, watching us.

“I'm not sure I feel comfortable about the way your grandma looks at me,” Ranger said.

“She wants to see you naked.”

“I wish you hadn't told me that, babe.”

“Everyone I know wants to see you naked.”

“And you?”

“Never crossed my mind.” I held my breath when I said it, and I hoped God didn't strike me down dead for lying. I hopped out of the car and ran inside.

Grandma Mazur was waiting for me in the foyer. “The darnedest thing happened this afternoon,” she said. “I was walking home from the bakery, and a car pulled up alongside me. And there was a rabbit in it. He was driving. And he handed me one of them post office mailing envelopes, and he said I should give the envelope to you. It all happened so fast. And as soon as he drove away I remembered that it was a rabbit that set fire to your car. Do you think it could be the same rabbit?”

Ordinarily I would have asked questions. What kind of car and did you get the plate? In this case the questions were useless. The cars were always different. And they were always stolen.

I took the sealed envelope from her, carefully opened it, and looked inside. Photos. Snapshots of me, sleeping on my parents' couch. They were taken last night. Someone had let themselves into the house and stood there, watching me sleep. And then photographed me. All without my knowledge. Whoever it was had picked a good night. I'd slept like the dead thanks to the giant margarita and the sleepless night before.

“What's in the envelope?” Grandma wanted to know. “Looks like photographs.”

“Nothing ver

y interesting,” I said. “I think it was a prank rabbit.”

My mother looked like she knew better, but she didn't say anything. By the end of the night we'll have a fresh batch of cookies, and she'll have done all the ironing. That's my mother's form of stress management.

I borrowed the Buick, and I drove to Morelli's house. He lived just outside the Burg, in a neighborhood closely resembling the Burg, less than a quarter mile from my parents'. He'd inherited the house from his aunt, and it turned out to be a good fit. Life is surprising. Joe Morelli, the scourge of Trenton High, biker, babe magnet, barroom brawler, now a semirespectable property owner. Somehow, over the years, Morelli had grown up. No small feat for a male member of that family.

Bob rushed at me when he saw me at the door. His eyes were happy, and he pranced around and wagged his tail. Morelli was more contained.

“What's up?” Morelli said, checking out my T-shirt.

“Something very creepy just happened to me.”

“Boy, that's a surprise.”

“Creepier than normal.”

“Do I need a drink before you tell me this?”

I handed him the photos.