Takedown Twenty (Stephanie Plum 20)

“You might want to cut back on those pills,” I told him.

He wiped up with his napkin. “Just in case you intend to spend the rest of your life with me, this is probably what I’m going to look like when I’m ninety.”

“Is that a proposal?”

“No. I’m just saying.” He stopped wiping and looked at me. “What if it was a proposal? Would you say yes?”

“Only one way to find out.”

He smiled again. “I’m saving up for the ring.”

That would have been a terrifying statement if I’d thought for a moment it was true. Morelli is just as unwilling to commit as I am.

“Something to look forward to,” I said.

His smile widened.

We finished our lunch, Morelli got the check, and we slid out of the booth.

“Who’s the unlucky person in your crosshairs today?” he asked.

“Uncle Sunny.”

“You’re kidding.”

“He’s in violation of his bond.”

“Walk away from it. Let Vinnie give it to Ranger.”

“Ranger doesn’t do bond enforcement anymore.”

Morelli wrapped his arm around me and ushered me out the door, into the sunshine. “No one is going to help you catch Sunny. And a lot of people are going to stand in your way. Some of them are vicious and crazy.”

“Are you talking about your grandmother?”

“Yes. She’s at the top of the list of vicious, crazy people.”

I gave Morelli a sisterly kiss, got into my Taurus, and drove to my parents’ house. It’s not a fancy house, but it’s home, and I feel safe and comfortable there.

FOUR

MY PARENTS’ HOUSE is narrow, with three small bedrooms and a bath upstairs. Living room, dining room, and kitchen downstairs. The living room is filled to bursting with overstuffed furniture, end tables, ottomans, lamps, candy dishes, fake flower arrangements, and plastic bins filled with toys for my sister’s kids. The sofa and all the chairs face the television. The rectangular dining room table is always set with a lace cloth and two candlesticks. The table seats eight but has been known to manage nine and a high chair. This leaves just enough space in the room for my niece to gallop around the table, pretending to be a horse. The kitchen is where all important decisions are made: what’s for dinner, where should I go to college, should I have my gallbladder removed, should I go to Andy Melnik’s viewing tonight or watch the Miss America pageant?

Grandma Mazur was at the door when I parked. Grandma moved in with my parents when my grandfather relocated his clogged arteries to a heavenly address. Her hair is steel gray and permed in a style that was fashionable in 1959. She st

ands straight as a broomstick. She likes a nip of whiskey before going to bed. And lately she’s taken to wearing Pilates pants and tank tops that show the horrifying effects of gravity on slack skin. She’s also a treasure trove of gossip, and she’s my go-to source for underground information. She’d know things about Uncle Sunny that weren’t on Connie’s fact sheet.

“What a nice surprise,” Grandma said. “I was hoping something interesting would come down the street. The cable is out and there’s no television.”

I followed Grandma to the kitchen, where my mother was making minestrone. My mother is the middle child caught between my grandmother and me. She wears her brown hair in a soft bob. Her wardrobe is conservative, heavy on slacks and cotton blouses. Her Catholic faith is strong.

“Have you eaten?” my mother asked. “We have lunch meat from Giovichinni.”

“I’m good,” I told her. “I had lunch with Morelli.”

I set my messenger bag on the floor and pulled a chair up to the small kitchen table. Grandma brought the cookie jar over and sat opposite me. I lifted the lid and took out a Toll House cookie.

“Did you catch any bad guys today?” Grandma asked me. “Were you in any shootouts?”