Hard Eight (Stephanie Plum 8)

“Benito Ramirez didn't only feed off fear,” Lula said. “That was just the first part. That was foreplay. Ramirez liked to hurt people. And he'd hurt you until you were dead . . . or wished you were dead.”

I thought about that for the forty minutes it took me to get to the track. The awful part is that I knew it to be true. I knew firsthand. I was the one who discovered Lula after Ramirez was done with her. Finding Steven Soder was a walk in the park compared to finding Lula.

“This is my idea of work,” Lula said when I pulled into the lot. “Not everybody's got a good job like us. Sure, we get shot at once in a while, but look here, we're not stuck in some crummy office building today.”

“Today is Saturday,” I said. “Most people aren't working at all.”

“Well, yeah,” Lula said. “But we could do this on a Wednesday if we wanted.”

My cell phone chirped.

“Put ten dollars to win on Roger Dodger in the fifth,” Ranger said. And he disconnected.

“Well?” Lula asked.

“Ranger. He wants me to bet ten dollars on Roger Dodger in the fifth.”

“Did you tell him we were going to the track?”

“No.”

“How's he do that?” Lula asked. “How's he know where we are? I'm telling you, he's not human. He's from space or something.”

We looked around to see if we were being followed. I hadn't thought to look for a tail on the way down. “Probably he has the car monitored,” I said. “Like OnStar, but his system reports to the Bat Cave.”

We followed a tidal wave of people through the gate, into the belly of the grandstand. The first race had just been run and the smell of nervous sweat was already permeating the ticket area. The air was thick with collective angst and hope and the frenzied energy that boils at a track.

Lula's eyes were rolling in her head, not sure where to go first, hearing the conflicting call of nachos, beer, and the five-dollar window.

“We need a racing sheet,” she said. “How much time do we got? I don't want to miss this race. There's a horse named Decision Maker. That's a sign from God. First my horoscope and then this. I was meant to come here today and bet on this hor

se. Outta my way. You're getting in my way.”

I stood in the middle of the floor and waited for Lula to place her bet. All around me people were talking horses and jockeys, living in the moment, enjoying the diversion. I, on the other hand, wasn't allowed the diversion. I couldn't get my mind off Abruzzi. I was being stalked. My emotions were being manipulated. My security was threatened. And I was angry. I was up to here with it. Lula was absolutely right about Benito Ramirez and his sadistic cruelty. And she was probably right that talking to Abruzzi was a bad idea. But I was going to do it anyway. I couldn't help myself. Of course, I had to find him first. And that wasn't going to be as easy as I originally thought. I'd forgotten how big the area was at the rail, how many people congregated there.

The bell sounded to close the windows, and Lula rushed over to me. “I got it. I just got it in time. We got to hurry up and get seats. I don't want to miss this. I just know this horse is going to win. He's a long shot, too. We're going out to dinner tonight. I'm treating.”

We found seats in the grandstand and watched the horses come in. If I'd had my own CR-V there would have been minibinoculars in the glove compartment. Unfortunately, the minibinoculars were now a melted glob of glass and slag, probably compressed to the thickness of a dime.

I systematically worked my way through the crowd at the rail, trying to find Abruzzi. The horses took off, and the crowd surged forward, shouting, waving programs. It was impossible to see anything other than a blur of color. Lula was screaming and jumping up and down next to me.

“Go, you motherfucker,” she was yelling. “Go, go, go, you dumb sonovabitch!”

I wasn't sure what to wish for. I wanted her to win, but I was afraid if she won, she'd be impossible with the horoscope stuff.

The horses streaked across the finish line, and Lula was still jumping. “Yes,” she was screaming. “Yes, yes, yes!”

I looked over at her. “You won, right?”

“You bet your ass I won. I won big. Twenty to one. I must have been the only genius in this whole freaking place who bet on that four-legged wonder. I'm going to get my money. Are you coming with me?”

“No. I'm going to wait here. I want to look for Abruzzi now that the crowd is thinning.”

Stephanie Plum 8 - Hard Eight

13

PART OF THE problem was that I was seeing everyone at the rail from the back. Difficult enough to recognize someone you know intimately this way. Almost impossible to recognize someone you've only seen briefly on two occasions.