Eleven on Top (Stephanie Plum 11)

Bob stood and hunched. “Gak,” Bob said. And he hacked up a sock and a lot of

Bob slime. He looked down at the sock. And then he looked up at me. And then he got happy. He jumped around, doing his goofy dance. I gave him a hug and he wandered off, tail wagging, into the house.

“Guess we can go in now,” Morelli said. He got to his feet, slid his arm around my shoulders, and hugged me to him for a friendly kiss. He broke from the kiss and his eyes strayed to my car. “I don't suppose you'd want to tell me about the body damage?”

“Sledgehammer.” Of course.

“You're pretty calm about all this,” I said to him.

“I'm a calm kind of guy.”

“No, you're not. You go nuts over this stuff. You always yell when people go after me with a sledgehammer.”

“Yeah, but in the past you haven't liked that. I'm thinking if I start yelling it might screw up my chances of getting you naked. And I'm desperate. I really need to get you naked. Besides, you quit the bonds office, right? Maybe your life will settle down now. How'd the interview go?”

“I got the job. I start tomorrow.”

I was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. Morelli grinned down at me and slid his hands under my T-shirt. “We should celebrate.”

His hands felt nice against my skin, but I was starving and I didn't want to encourage any further celebrating until I got my pizza. He pulled me close and kissed his way up my neck. His lips moved to my ear and my temple and by the time he got to my mouth I was thinking the pizza could wait.

And then we heard it... the pizza delivery car coming down the street, stopping at the curb.

Morelli cut his eyes to the kid getting out of the car. “Maybe if we ignore him he'll go away.”

The steaming extra-large, extra cheese, green peppers, pepperoni pizza smell oozed from the box the kid was carrying. The smell rushed over the porch and

into the house. Bob's toenails clattered on the polished wood hall floor as he took off from the kitchen and galloped for all he was worth at the kid.

Morelli stepped back from me and snagged Bob by the collar just as he was about to catapult himself off the porch.

“Ulk,” Bob said, stopping abruptly, tongue out, eyes bugged, feet off the ground.

“Minor setback with the celebration plan,” Morelli said.

“No rush,” I told him. “We have all night.”

Morelli's eyes got soft and dark and dreamy. Sort of the way Bob's eyes got when he ate Tastykake Butterscotch Krimpets and then someone rubbed his belly.

“All right,” Morelli said. “I like the way that sounds.”

Two minutes later, we were on the couch in Morelli's living room, watching the pregame show, eating pizza,

and drinking beer.

“I heard you were working on the Barroni case,” I said to Morelli. “Having any luck with it?”

Morelli took a second piece of pizza. “I have a lot out on it. So far nothings come in.”

Michael Barroni mysteriously disappeared eight days ago. He was sixty-two years old and in good health when he vanished. He owned a nice house in the

heart of the Burg on Roebling and a hardware store on the corner of Rudd and

Liberty Street. He left behind a wife, two dogs, and three adult sons. One of the Barroni boys graduated with me, and one graduated two years earlier with Morelli.

There aren't a lot of secrets in the Burg and according to Burg gossip Michael Barroni didn't have a girlfriend, didn't play the numbers, and didn't have mob ties. His hardware store was running in the black. He didn't suffer from depression. He didn't do a lot of drinking, and he wasn't hooked on Levitra.

Barroni was last seen closing and locking the back door to the hardware store at the end of the day. He got into his car, drove away . . . and poof.