Fortune and Glory (Stephanie Plum 27)

I knew the cop in the second car. He gave me a short wave, and I tried not to cringe when I returned the wave. This was going to get back to Morelli.

The Rangeman number buzzed on my cell phone.

“Babe,” Ranger said. “Your car is in a red zone.”

“The Margo sort of got blown up, but I’m okay,” I said.

“Good to know,” Ranger said. And he disconnected.

“That was a hideous experience,” Lula said. “And I think I might have a knife stuck in my hair.”

I pulled the knife out and handed it over to her.

“Am I bleeding?” she asked.

“Not that I can see,” I said.

Lula felt her hair. “I got a lot of product in my hair today. I was going for a certain look.”

A big chunk of Lula’s hair fell off her head and floated down to the ground.

“Damn,” Lula said. “I hate when that happens.”

CHAPTER TEN

Connie looked up when we walked in. “Oh boy,” she said, eyeing Lula’s hair.

“We had an incident,” Lula said. “Are there any of those donuts left? I lost mine.”

Connie moved the donut box to the edge of her desk. “Help yourself.”

“If you don’t mind, I’m gonna take the box and go home,” Lula said. “I’ve had an upsetting day.”

Lula left and I slouched in the chair in front of Connie’s desk. “This was bad,” I said. “We blew up the Margo. I guess technically Lou Salgusta blew it up.”

“When you say you blew it up… exactly what does that mean?”

“Explosion. Smoke. Fire. Big crater where the Margo used to be.”

“Wow. And Salgusta?”

“Don’t know. I’m hoping for the worst.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“No. Not seriously. A bunch of people got a contact high from the weed burning and one of the customers slipped going down the stairs and cracked his head.”

Connie’s attention shifted to the door. “Uh oh,” she said. “Morelli’s here, and he doesn’t look happy.”

I’d been dreading this. The Margo fiasco wasn’t going to help smooth things over with us. If anything, it was going to reinforce his position that I was a nut case. Morelli started out as a wild kid and turned into a more or less sane adult. I started out as a more or less normal kid and lately I’ve become a walking disaster.

I gave up a sigh and turned in my seat. “Hey,” I said to Morelli.

He crooked his finger at me. “I’d like to see you outside.”

I did an eye-roll at Connie and joined Morelli on the sidewalk. If you dressed Morelli up in a suit, he looked like a gangster. If he was undercover and required to wear khakis, he looked ridiculous. Today he was wearing his usual outfit of black running shoes, dark jeans, a blue button-down shirt, and a black blazer. Today he was hot cop. He was lean and muscled, with black wavy hair, a constant five o’clock shadow, and testosterone to spare. His father was an abusive, womanizing drunk. His grandmother is batshit crazy. Morelli is none of those things. Morelli is a good cop, and until recently he’d been a good boyfriend.

“I just came from what’s left of the Margo,” Morelli said. “I was told I missed you by a couple minutes.”