Finger Lickin' Fifteen (Stephanie Plum 15)

“Hey!” I yelled to the fire truck. “You’re blocking me in. I have to go to work. We don’t need you.”

“Of course we need them,” Lula said. “Do you see that big beautiful man drivin’ that fire truck? I think I saw him on one of them Fire Truck Hunks calendars.” Lula stood on tiptoes in her spike heels and waved to him. “Yoohoo, sweetie! Here I am. I been shot at,” she called. “I might be faint. I might need some of that mouth-to-mouth.”

Ten minutes later, I was still waiting for the fire truck to take off, and Morelli strolled over.

“Now what?” he said.

“A guy in a black Mercedes shot at Lula. She said it was one of the Chipotle killers.”

Morelli cut his eyes to Lula. “Guess they didn’t tag her.”

“No, but they got Connie’s computer.”

“Anyone see the license plate?”

“Nope.”

“I like this red shirt you’re wearing,” Morelli said, tracing along the neckline with his fingertip. “Did you get fired from your new job already?”

“No. I ran out of black clothes.”

“What happens if you don’t dress in black? Do you have to go to detention? Do you get fined?”

I did an eye roll.

“I’m serious,” Morelli said, laugh l

ines crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Are all the towels in the building black? Is there black toilet paper?”

I did a five-count of deep breathing as an alternative to kicking him in the knee.

“If you could get that fire truck to move, I could go to work,” I finally said.

Morelli was still smiling. “You would owe me.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“A night of wild gorilla sex.”

“Good grief.”

“How bad do you want to go to work?” he asked.

“Wild gorilla sex isn’t going to happen. I’m not interested. I’m done with men.”

“Too bad,” he said. “I learned some new moves.”

“We are no longer a couple,” I told him. “And you better not have learned those moves from Joyce Barnhardt.”

Morelli and I went to school with Joyce Barnhardt, and she’d always had a thing for Morelli. For as long as I can remember, Joyce Barnhardt has been like a needle in my eye. I severely disliked Joyce Barnhardt.

IT WAS CLOSE to two o’clock when I walked through the fifth-floor control room and settled myself in my cubicle.

My intercom buzzed and Ranger came on. “My office,” he said.

I walked the short distance to his office and looked in at him. “What?”

“Come in and close the door.”