Hardcore Twenty-Four (Stephanie Plum 24)

“Hell, yeah.”

I parked in the Cluck-in-a-Bucket lot, unlocked LeRoy’s cuffs, and distributed the food. By the time I reached the police station on the other side of town, Lula and LeRoy were working on their pie.

“I’ll call you when I get out of jail,” LeRoy said to Lula. “I don’t think I want to pass out on my cake anymore, but we could go bowling or something.”

“I’m up for that,” Lula said. “I’m all about throwing big balls around.”

I walked LeRoy into the station and turned him over to the cop at the desk.

“Sorry it’s too late to bond you out today,” I said to LeRoy, “but Connie will do it as soon as you see the judge tomorrow.”

“Thanks for the chicken,” he said. “I’m not so depressed anymore. And I like your friend Lula.”

I got my body receipt and hustled across the street to Big Blue. I crawled along in rush-hour traffic, finally reached the office, and dropped Lula off at her car. I looked at my watch for the tenth time in fifteen minutes. I was late for Morelli. I circled a couple blocks, found a space, and attempted to parallel park the Buick. Impossible. I finally parked in the hospital garage and power-walked to the restaurant. Morelli was already seated.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said to Morelli. “One of those days.”

“Cupcake, all your days are ‘one of those days.’” He stood and gave me a hello sort of kiss. “That’s why I love you.”

“You love me?”

“Yeah. You didn’t know that?”

“It’s nice to hear. I love you too.”

Morelli grinned. “How much do you love me?”

“A medium amount.”

“Really? Medium? Not a lot?”

“‘A lot’ might indicate impending marriage plans.”

“We haven’t got any of those.”

“No.”

He looked me over. “Weren’t you wearing those clothes yesterday?”

I glanced down at myself. “I didn’t get a chance to change. I was worried about zombies in the morning, and then things got congested in the afternoon.”

“We could skip dinner and go straight to a shower and clean clothes. Or even better . . . no clothes.”

“Tempting, but no. I’m starving.”

“I ordered a pitcher of beer,” Morelli said. “Hope that’s okay.”

“It’s perfect. I need it now.”

Morelli whistled through his teeth, and everyone jumped in the restaurant. He raised his hand and mouthed “Beer” to the waitress.

“Gee, that’s smooth,” I said to Morelli.

“I’m a Jersey Italian, and my girl needs a drink.”

Both of these things were true.

The waitress brought our pitcher, we ordered off the menu, and I chugged my first glass.