Finger Lickin' Fifteen (Stephanie Plum 15)

“Connie called and told her there was only one open file, and she told Connie you had breast implants and one of them diseases that you get from the toilet seat. I forget what it was.”

Terrific. “It looks like you’re doing okay.”

“Yeah, I’m not dead. Nobody’s even shot at me today. I think this is my lucky day. I bet we’re gonna win that cook-off tomorrow and catch the Chipotle killers and be on easy street. I even stopped by the travel agency and got a brochure for my Panama Canal cruise. It’s one of them boats that had a virus epidemic and everyone got sick and now their rates are real low. I have a chance to get a good deal. Not that I need it anymore.”

“So you’re still planning on entering the cook-off.”

“Damn skippy, I’m gonna enter. We gotta go to the Gooser Park and sign in this afternoon. And I gotta get my car, too. I was hoping you could give me a ride to your parking lot as soon as Connie gets back.”

AN HOUR LATER, I was back in my parking lot with Lula.

“There’s my baby,” Lula said. “Good thing I parked way at the end of the lot where nobody else parks. It didn’t hardly get any soot on it. And it was out of the water spray. I’m gonna take it to get detailed this afternoon, so it looks fine when I win the contest and capture the bad guys. I’ll probably be on television.”

I pulled up next to the Firebird, Lula got out, unlocked her car, and slid behind the wheel. I waited for the engine to catch, and then I put the Cayenne in gear and drove out of the lot. I realized Lula was still sitting there, so I returned to the lot, parked next to her, and got out.

“Something wrong?”

“It’s making a funny sound. You hear it?”

“Are any of the warning lights on?”

“No. I’m gonna take a look under the hood.”

“Do you know anything about cars?”

“Sure I know about cars. I know there’s an engine up there. And lots of other shit, too.”

Lula popped the hood, and we took a look.

“What are we supposed to be looking for?” I asked her.

“I don’t know. Something unusual. Like I once had a neighbor who found a cat in his car. At least, he thought it used to be a cat. It was something with fur. It might have been a raccoon or a big rat or a small beaver. It was hard to tell.”

“What’s that package wrapped in cellophane with the wires?” I asked her.

“I don’t know,” Lula said, leaning closer. “I think that might be the problem, though, on account of it’s ticking.”

“Ticking?”

“Oh shit!” Lula said.

We jumped back and ran for all we were worth and hid behind the Dumpster. Nothing happened.

Lula stuck her head out. “Maybe that was the carburetor, and it was supposed to tick,” she said. “Do carburetors tick?”

BABOOOM! Lula’s car jumped five feet in the air. The doors and hood flew off into space, and the car burs

t into flames. There was a second explosion, the Firebird rolled over onto Ranger’s Cayenne, and the Cayenne caught. In a matter of minutes, there was nothing left of either car but smoking, twisted, charred metal.

Lula’s mouth opened, but no words came out. Her eyes got huge, rolled back into her head, and she keeled over in a dead faint. By the time the fire trucks arrived, the fire had played itself out. Lula was sitting propped against the Dumpster, still not making sense.

“It . . . and . . . my . . . how?” she asked.

I was numb. These idiots were still trying to kill Lula, and I’d just destroyed another Cayenne. I’d been involved in so many fires in the past week, I’d lost count. I had no place to live. I had no idea what I wanted to do about my personal relationships. And I still couldn’t get all the red paint out of my hair. I was a disaster magnet.

I suddenly felt warm, and all the little hairs stood up on my arms. I turned and bumped into Ranger.

“This has to be a record,” he said. “I’ve had that car for twenty-four hours.”