Finger Lickin' Fifteen (Stephanie Plum 15)

“Don’t that beat all,” Grandma said.

Morelli’s cell phone buzzed. He walked away to talk, and when he returned he was smiling.

“They caught Marco,” he said. “He was trying to get to the airport in Philly. He’s being brought back to Trenton.”

“Do we get the reward?” Lula wanted to know. “We gave information that got him captured.”

“I don’t know,” Morelli said. “That’s up to the company offering the reward.”

“The barbecue sauce company,” Lula said. “The one with the picture of Chipotle on the jar. Fire in the Hole sauce.”

“Yep.”

“What about the other moron?” Lula said. “What about the guy who was always shooting at me?”

“Marco fingered him the minute he was caught. Zito Dudley. Marco said as far as he knew, Dudley was still on the cook-off grounds.”

“We gotta find Dudley before anyone else,” Lula said. “Or we might have to split the reward, bein’ that there were two killers and only one million dollars. We should spread out, and if you see him, shoot him.”

“I wouldn’t mind shooting him, but I don’t know what he looks like,” Grandma said.

“He looks sort of like the Maniac,” Lula said. “Only shorter.”

“Dudley sounds familiar,” Connie said. “I just saw that name somewhere. Zito Dudley. Zito Dudley.”

The fire-extinguisher guy was basting the ribs on his grill. He looked over when Connie said Zito Dudley.

“Zito Dudley is presenting the check to the winner of the cook-off,” he said. “He’s associated with Chipotle’s barbecue sauce.”

Lula’s eyes went wide. “Get out. That wiener is part of Chipotle’s company?”

“It’s not actually Chipotle’s company,” the guy said. “Chipotle got money for putting his name on the jar. The company is owned by someone else.”

He reached behind him to his prep table, grabbed the cook-off program, and handed it to Lula. “His picture is in here. It’s on the last page. He’s standing with the cook-off committee.”

We all looked at the picture of Dudley.

“That’s him, all right,” Lula said. “Nasty little bastard.”

Morelli was on his phone talking to his partner, feeding him the information, asking for more men.

Something was causing a disturbance on the opposite side of the field. We all craned our necks and stood tall to see what the noise and movement was about. People were parting in front of us, and suddenly a man burst out of the crowd. He was running for all he was worth, and Joyce was chasing him in her high-heeled boots.

“It’s him,” Lula said. “It’s Dudley!”

They got even with our booth, and Joyce launched herself into the air and tackled Zito Dudley. Lula rushed in, pulled Joyce off Dudley, and grabbed his foot.

“He’s mine,” Lula said.

Joyce kicked Lula in the leg and wrestled Dudley away from her. Lula put a neck lock on Joyce, and they went down to the ground, kicking and clawing and cussing, taking Dudley with them. There was a gunshot, and Joyce yelped and flopped onto the ground, blood oozing from her red leather bustier.

Morelli had his gun drawn, but Dudley was on his feet, holding a gun to Lula’s head.

“Drop your gun,” Dudley said.

Connie, Grandma, Morelli, the guys next to us, and several passersby all dropped their guns.

“You won’t get anywhere,” Morelli said to Dudley. “There are police all over this park.”