Twisted Twenty-Six (Stephanie Plum 26)

“No.”

“Well, I have a blog and I’m thinking about being an influencer. I could influence the shit out of stuff.”

“No doubt.”

I turned onto State Street, drove two blocks, and spotted the white Taurus parked at a 7-Eleven. Strunk was walking out the door with a monster drink and a hot dog.

“It’s him!” Lula yelled. “That’s our guy.”

I pulled into the lot and before I came to a complete stop, Lula was out of the car, charging Strunk.

“You almost ran me over, you sonnovabitch!” Lula yelled.

Strunk froze with his mouth open and his eyes bugged out at the sight of the giant nipples and bouncing breasts coming at him.

Lula got to arm’s length, and he snapped out of his catatonic state and threw his soda at her and hit her in the face with the hot dog. He turned to run, and I tackled him, taking him down to the ground. Lula jumped in and snagged his shirt and wrenched him off me. We got him facedown, and Lula sat on him while I cuffed him.

We hoisted him to his feet and stuffed him into the Buick’s back seat. Cars were driving by and honking at Lula, and Lula would give them a V-for-victory gesture and thumbs-up.

“You should put your shirt back on,” I said to Lula. “You’ll get arrested if you show up at the police station like that.”

“No way can I put it on now,” Lula said. “I’ve got sticky titties from him throwing soda on me. You have to take me home first so I can get another shirt.”

“I’ll drop you at the office,” I said. “Your car is there. I can get Strunk to the police station on my own.”

* * *

—

Strunk was sullen and silent in the back seat all the way to the office. Lula got out, and after I drove for two blocks, Strunk started growling and thrashing around.

“Hey,” I said, “get a grip back there.”

“I hate you,” he said. “And you’re ugly.”

“I’m not ugly,” I told him. “I have blue highlights in my hair, and I have dainty pink nipples.”

&nbs

p; “Let me see them.”

“You can look at my highlights all you want.”

“I don’t want to see the highlights. Show me your nipples.”

“Not a chance.”

“I’ll hold my breath and make myself throw up in your car.”

“People don’t throw up from holding their breath. You have to stick your finger down your throat to throw up, and your hands are cuffed.”

“I could stick my tongue down my throat. It’s already halfway there.”

He made gagging sounds like he was trying to get his tongue down his throat.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

“I hate you.”