Lean Mean Thirteen (Stephanie Plum 13)

“I met Petiak at a financial-planning conference. We got to be friends, and he introduced me to Smullen and Gorvich. I'd just been passed over for partnership, and I could see the handwriting on the wall. Office politics weren't in my favor. So I was looking at options. Petiak had money and clients but no ability to litigate if the need should arise. He suggested we go into business together, and I agreed. I knew his client list was questionable, but I thought I could live with it.”

“Smullen and Gorvich?”

“We needed more money to buy the building, and Petiak knew Smullen and Gorvich from a previous life, and he knew they were looking for a place to practice. It was all a con, of course. They were always the unholy triad. At some level, I suspected this, but I had no idea how unholy they actually were. I was desperate to be a partner somewhere and get my own business established, so I didn't look at anything too closely.”

Dickie shook the cereal box and turned it upside down. Empty. “I'm hungry,” he said. “This was the last of the cereal. And I want coffee.”

“Help yourself to the coffee,” Morelli said.

“I need cream. I can't drink black coffee.”

Morelli looked like he was going to throw him against the wall again.

“I'll go to the store,” I said.

Not so much as a favor to Dickie. More because I needed cream for my coffee too.

“I want to go with you,” Dickie said. “I'm tired of being cooped up in this house.”

“I can't take a chance on having you recognized,” Morelli said. “If Petiak or one of his idiots spots you in my car, we'll blow our cover.”

“I can wear a hat,” Dickie said.

“Put him in a hooded sweatshirt,” I told Morelli. “He can put the hood up and slouch down. I need food.”

Morelli got a hooded sweatshirt off the living room floor and tossed it to Dickie. “I'm going with you,” Morelli said. “Give me a minute to find clothes.”

My socks had dried, but my shoes were still wet. I grabbed a jacket from Morelli's hall closet and put a ball cap on my head.

We all skulked out to the SUV parked in the back of the house. Dickie rode shotgun, and I got in behind him. Morelli walked Bob down the alley until Bob did everything he had to do, and then Morelli ran Bob back and put him in the cargo area.

and then Morelli ran Bob back and put him in the cargo area.

Eleven. I took everyone's order, Morelli gave me a wad of cash, and I went shopping. I was on my way out with a bag of food when I spotted Diggery at the other end of the mall, doing taxes out of the back of a beat-up Pontiac Bonneville. He had the trunk lid up, and he had a little folding table and two stools set out. There were seven people in line. I handed the bag over to Morelli and walked down to Diggery.

“Oh jeez,” he said when he saw me.

“You're up early,” I said to him, checking out his fingernails for signs of fresh dirt.

“This here's convenience taxes,” Diggery said. “You can pull your pickup in and get your fresh coffee and then come get your taxes done and go off to work.”

“I was next,” a woman said to me. “You gotta get to the rear of the line.”

“Chill,” I told her. “I'm wanted for murder, and I'm not in a good mood.”

“Here's the thing,” Diggery said to me. “I know it's not a big deal to go get bonded out again, but it's gonna cost me more money, and I don't have it. I had to buy winter coats for the kids and rats for the snake. If you let me finish my tax business, I'll come with you. I'll have money from the taxes. Tell you what, you cut me some slack here, and I'll do your taxes. No charge.”

“How much longer do you need?”

“Two weeks.”

“I really could use some help with my taxes.”

“Just put your pertinent information in a shoe box and bring it all to me. I'll be able to fit you in next Monday. I'll be at Cluck-in-a-Bucket on Hamilton Avenue between ten and twelve at night.”

“What was that about?” Morelli asked when I got back to the SUV.

“Simon Diggery doing taxes. He said he needed the money to buy rats for the snake, so I let him go.”