Eleven on Top (Stephanie Plum 11)

“Yes.”

“And last but not least, your mother called and said she was having meatballs and wedding cake for dinner.”

“I'll pick you up at six.”

“It's amazing what you'll do for a piece of cake,” Morelli said.

I gave the phone back to Ranger. “He could have killed me, but he didn't.”

“Morelli?”

“The bomber. The bomb was detonated manually, like the bomb that killed Mama Macaroni.”

“So this guy is still taking risks to play with you.”

“I guess I can sort of understand his motivation. If he thinks I ruined his life, his face, maybe he wants to torment me.”

“The notes felt real. The sniping felt real. The first car bomb made sense to me. They were all consistent with increasing harassment and intimidation. After the Mama Macaroni bombing he loses me.”

“What's your theory?”

“I don't have a theory. I just think it feels off.”

“Do you think there's a copy cat?”

“Possible, but you'd think the crime lab would have noticed differences in the bomb construction.” Ranger slid the files into my file cabinet. “Let's roll. If we're going to break into Anthony's house we want to do it before the store closes and he comes home.”

I grabbed my jean jacket and got halfway out of my cubby when I was yanked back by my ponytail.

“What did you forget?” Ranger asked.

“My orange?”

“Your gun.”

I blew out a sigh, took the gun out of my desk drawer, and then didn't know what to do with it. If I carry a gun, I almost always carry it in my purse, but guess what, no purse. My purse was a cinder in what was left of Morelli's SUV.

Ranger took the gun, pulled me flat against him, and slid the gun under the waistband of my jeans, so that it was nestled at the small of my back.

“This is uncomfortable,” I said. “It's going to give me a bruise.”

Ranger reached around and removed the gun. And before I realized what he was doing, he had the gun tucked into the front of my jeans at my hipbone. “Is this better?”

“No, but I can't imagine where you'll put it next, so let's just leave it where it is and forget about it.”

We rode the elevator to the garage, and Ranger confiscated one of the black Explorers normally set aside for his crew. “Less memorable than a Porsche,” he said. “In case we set off an alarm.”

We got into the Explorer, and I couldn't sit with the gun rammed into my pants. “I can't do this,” I said to Ranger. “This dumb gun is too big. It's poking me.”

Ranger closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the wheel. “I can't believe I hired you.”

“Hey, it's not my fault. You picked out a bad gun.”

“Okay,” he said, swiveling to face me. “Where's it poking you?”

“It's poking me in my . . . you know.”

“No. I don't know.”