Twisted Twenty-Six (Stephanie Plum 26)

“What about Edna?” Slick asked. “We’re supposed to stay with Edna.”

“Edna is coming with me.”

I narrowed my eyes at Grandma and jerked my thumb at the SUV. “Get in.”

“What about the stakeout?” Grandma asked.

“The stakeout is done,” I said. “Finished. Over. Kaput.”

“What about me?” Lula asked. “You want me to stay here awhile?”

“I don’t care what you do. Do whatever you want. I’ve had it. I’m fed up! F-E-D up. I’m wet and I’m cold and my arm is killing me, and you wouldn’t even give me a ride.”

“That’s not true,” Lula said. “I gave you two good options. You’re just feeling picky.”

“They weren’t good options. You wouldn’t have taken either of those options.”

“I wouldn’t have to,” Lula said. “I don’t go around getting myself soaked. And if I had to choose an option, I would have removed my clothes. I don’t have a problem with nudity. Especially my own.”

Grandma was already seated in the SUV. “Are you coming, or what?” she said to me. “You’re going to catch your death, standing out there dripping wet. And there’s some blood soaking through your bandage.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I MADE CERTAIN that Grandma was safe inside the house, and then I drove myself home.

Rex was asleep in his soup can when I walked into the kitchen, but I talked to him anyway.

“Honestly,” I said to Rex, “this is ridiculous. Who has a job like this? Grocery checkers don’t get wet. People working the line at the Personal Products plant don’t get wet. The lady working the counter at the Häagen-Dazs store doesn’t get wet. Even hamsters don’t get wet. Crappy bounty hunters get wet. Good ones, no. Ranger never got wet. Just crappy ones . . . like me.”

Rex popped his head out of his soup can, blinked at me, and retreated. I couldn’t blame him for retreating. Even I didn’t want to listen to me. I was ranting.

My mood improved after a hot shower. I put a new giant Band-Aid over my stitches, got dressed, and called Morelli.

“What’s new?” I asked.

“Pino’s has a new sandwich at lunch. It’s got fried chicken and melted cheese and they pour gravy over it.”

“I was thinking more in terms of my crap-ass life and the stupid keys.”

“Nothing’s new on that front.”

I blew out a sigh, disconnected, and went back to the office. Connie was surfing her social media sites, and Lula was reading Star magazine.

“Let’s go,” I said to Lula. “Let’s see if we can catch someone.”

Lula got to her feet. “Who’d you have in mind?”

“Anyone.”

“That’s entirely doable,” Lula said.

We got outside and looked at the cars parked at the curb. Lula’s Firebird and my ’53 Buick.

“Let’s take the Buick,” I said.

Lula nodded. “Good idea.”

I drove to Carol Joyce’s house first. The black Escalade was parked in the driveway.