Fortune and Glory (Stephanie Plum 27)

“Okay, let me put it another way. You’re making things more difficult for me. I’m at my desk in the middle of paperwork and I get a call from dispatch that the Margo blew up and you were seen jumping out of a window.”

“It was more of a short drop,” I said. “Still it’s nice to know you were worried about me.”

“Worried doesn’t cover it,” Morelli said. “Mostly, I was really pissed off that I was so freaking worried.”

His phone buzzed and he went into cop mode. “I have to go. Gang shooting in the projects. This is going to be a long day.”

“Do you want me to walk Bob?”

“No.” He took a moment to stare down at his shoe. “Yes,” he said. “Thanks. I won’t get home anytime soon. And besides, he misses you.”

“I miss him, too,” I said.

Morelli looked like he was going in for a kiss. He stopped himself midway and gave his head a shake like he thought he was an idiot. I understood this completely because I thought we were both idiots.

I watched him drive away and I returned to the office.

“I sent you a picture of the white Kia parked by the Margo,” I said to Connie. “The manager said he hadn’t seen Shine, but it would be easy for Shine to walk through the lobby to the cellar door and not be noticed.”

“And the tunnel entrance would be in the cellar,” Connie said.

“Probably in the area where Salgusta was working. Unfortunately, that lead is now a dead end. Were you able to run the Kia plate?”

“It’s a rental. Rented to Lester March. Bogus address and driver’s license with Shine’s picture on it.”

“I don’t suppose you have anything else for me?”

“No, but I’ll keep digging,” Connie said.

I left the office and drove past Rodney Trotter’s house. His van wasn’t parked at the curb, so I kept going. He was undoubtedly trolling neighborhoods, looking for women who wanted bigger butts, keeping an eye out for roadkill he could take home and stuff.

I gave up on Trotter and went to Morelli’s house. It was within minutes of my parents’ house, in a very similar neighborhood. The layout of the house was almost identical to my parents’ house. He’d inherited the house from his Aunt Ruth, and he was gradually making it his own, modernizing the kitchen and swapping out Ruth’s dining room furniture with a billiards table.

I opened the front door and Bob galloped the length of the house and slammed into me. He was a big, shaggy, orange-haired beast with soft brown eyes that were a half-shade lighter than Morelli’s. I gave him a hug and told him he was a good boy.

“So here I am, back again,” I said to him. “Right now, it’s just to take you for a walk, but then we’ll see how it goes.”

I checked out the living room. It was way too neat. No pizza boxes or empty soda cans on the coffee table. No shoes that had obviously been kicked off under the coffee table.

“What’s with this neat house thing?” I asked Bob. “And look at you. Have you been to a groomer? You’re all fluffy and you don’t smell like a dog.”

I marched into the kitchen. No dirty dishes in the sink. No coffee cup rings on the counter. Not that Morelli was a complete slob, but he wasn’t Felix from The Odd Couple, either. I looked in his fridge. No fresh lasagna from his mom, so she hadn’t stopped in to clean his house. And then I saw it. A bottle of Chardonnay. There was only one explanation. The son of a bitch had a new girlfriend. And she was a Chardonnay drinker. Ick! Gross.

“And he’s got you all spiffed up for her,” I said to Bob. “That’s so disgusting.”

I was being indignant in front of Bob, but the truth is my stomach was in a knot and I had an ache in my chest. Morelli and I split up and I knew there was no reason why he shouldn’t see other women. That didn’t make it any less painful. Especially when I’d just gotten all gooey over his smile.

I hooked Bob up to his leash and walked him up and down a bunch of streets. I brought him back to Morelli’s house, gave him some dog kibble and fresh water, and left. Good deed well done.

I drove home on autopilot, surprised when I ended up in my parking lot. I took the elevator to the second floor, the doors opened, and I saw George Potts, aka the Pooper, sitting on the floor in front of my apartment. I closed my eyes for a moment and wondered if life could get any worse. Of course, it could get worse, I told myself. You could get run over by a truck, or catch the plague, or get head lice.

Potts jumped up when he saw me in the hall. “Surprise,” he said. “Are you surprised? I saw your picture on social. The one with you jumping out of the window of the burning hotel. It went viral. You’re famous. Anyway, I got worried about you, so I thought I’d come be like, you know, a bodyguard.”

“I didn’t jump. I dropped,” I said. “And it’s nice that you were worried about me, but I’m really in no danger.”

“That’s not what social is saying.” He leaned forward and sniffed. “You smell smoky… like weed.”

I unlocked my door and stepped inside. “Thanks for stopping by,” I said. “Don’t forget you have a court date coming up.”