Twisted Twenty-Six (Stephanie Plum 26)

“Ernie and Slick are with us today,” Grandma said. “Slick’s real name is Eugene, but he likes to be called Slick. He doesn’t usually ride on patrol, but Ranger was short.”

“How do you know all this?” Lula asked.

“I go out to talk to them sometimes. They gotta sit in the car all day doing nothing but stare at our house, so I bring them cookies and sodas. Slick is Ranger’s electronics guy. He sets up the security systems. He was a safecracker before he got a job with Ranger.”

Parking was tight on E Street. Lula squeezed into a space two houses down from Strunk’s, but the Rangeman SUV was out of luck. I got a text message that t

hey would be circling the block until something opened up.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been on a stakeout,” Grandma said. “How’s this gonna go down?”

“When we see Strunk walk up to his door—”

“Hold on,” Lula said. “Where’s he going to park? We just took the last parking spot.”

“These streets all have alleys in the back,” Grandma said. “There’s usually parking there.”

I checked my watch. “The shift is getting out now. You two stay here, and I’ll run around to the back. Call me if you see him. He’s driving a white Taurus.”

I jogged around the block and walked the alley until I came to Strunk’s house. There were no garages back here, but there were small yards where people parked. I didn’t see a white Taurus. I took a position behind a pickup truck next door to Strunk’s place.

A woman stuck her head out of a second-floor window and yelled at me. “This is private property. What are you doing by my truck?”

I took a couple steps away from the truck. “I’m waiting for a friend.”

“That’s a load of bull crap. You think I’m stupid? The only friend you’re waiting for is the one who’s gonna help you steal my truck. I’m calling the police.”

There wasn’t a lot of cover in the alley. There were a couple cars way at the end, but that was too far from Strunk’s back door. There was a weathered privacy fence that ran for about fifteen feet between Strunk’s house and the crazy truck lady’s house. An overgrown, undernourished azalea bush clung to life at the end of the fence. I moved to the azalea bush and watched for the white Taurus. If I saw the car, I’d duck down into the bush and hope for the best.

After five minutes there was no Taurus and no messages from Grandma or Lula. I heard a door close behind me in the crazy truck lady’s yard. I turned to see what was going on and was hit with a blast of water from her garden hose.

“You think I couldn’t see you sneaking around in the azalea bush?” she said. “I see everything. Nothing gets past me. I got a gun too. I’m counting to three, and then I’m going to start shooting.”

This is when it all came back to me. The dissatisfaction with my life. The desire to be somewhere else doing something else. Anything else.

“I’m waiting for Barry Strunk,” I said, turning my back against the water, trying to shield myself with the bush and the broken-down fence.

“Strunk is a loser. Barry the Loser, that’s what I call him. I should have known you were with Strunk when I saw the blue hair. You’re all nutcases and losers.”

This is just great. The crazy lady thinks I’m a loser. My worst fear is confirmed by a woman wearing fluffy pink slippers, soaking me with her garden hose.

“I’m leaving,” I said, hands in the air. “I give up. I’m done. Fuck it. Fuck it all.”

I sloshed down the alley, back to Lula and Grandma.

“What the heck?” Lula said.

“Don’t ask,” I told her. “I don’t want to talk about it. I want to go home. Take me home.”

“Hold on, you can’t get into my car like that,” Lula said. “You’re all wet. You’ll ruin my upholstery. You’re gonna have to take your clothes off or else ride in the trunk.”

I gave Lula the finger and blew raspberries at her.

“That’s not nice,” Lula said.

The Rangeman SUV rolled down the street and stopped.

“I need a ride,” I told them.