One for the Money (Stephanie Plum 1)

“Jesus! You are so fucking arrogant. Did it ever occur to you I might shoot you with this gun?”

“No. It never occurred to me.”

“I've been practicing. I'm a pretty good shot.”

He moved behind me, closed and locked the door. “Yeah, I'll bet you're hell on wheels blasting the shit out of those paper men.”

“What are you doing in my apartment?”

“I'm cooking dinner.” He went back to his sautéing. “Rumor has it you've had a tough day.”

My mind was spinning. I'd been wracking my brain, trying to find Morelli, and here he was in my apartment. He even had his back turned to me. I could shoot him in the butt.

“You don't want to shoot an unarmed man,” he said, reading my thoughts. “The state of New Jersey frowns on that sort of thing. Take it from someone who knows.”

All right, so I wouldn't shoot him. I'd zap him with the Sure Guard. His neurotransmitters wouldn't know what hit them.

Morelli added some fresh sliced mushrooms to the pan and continued to cook, sending heavenly food smells wafting my way. He was stirring red and green peppers, onions, and mushrooms, and my killer instincts were weakening in direct proportion to the amount of saliva pooling in my mouth.

I found myself rationalizing a decision to hold off on the spray, telling myself I needed to hear him out, but the ugly truth was my motives weren't nearly so worthy. I was hungry and depressed, and I was a lot more frightened of Ramirez than I was of Joe Morelli. In fact, I suppose in a bizarre way, I felt safe with Morelli in my apartment.

One crisis at a time, I decided. Have some dinner. Gas him for dessert.

He turned and looked at me. “You want to talk about it?”

“Ramirez almost killed Lula and hung her on my fire escape.”

“Ramirez is like a fungus that feeds on fear. You ever see him in the ring? His fans love him because he goes the distance unless the referee calls the fight. He plays with his opponent. Loves to draw blood. Loves to punish. And all the time he's punishing, he's talking to his victim in that soothing voice of his, telling them how much worse it's going to get, telling them he'll only stop when they beg to get knocked out. He's like that with women. Likes to see them squirm in fear and pain. Likes to leave his mark.”

I dumped my pocketbook on the counter. “I know. He's very large on mutilation and begging. In fact, you might say he's obsessed with it.”

Morelli turned the heat down. “I'm trying to scare you, but I don't think it's working.”

“I'm all scared out. I don't have any more scare left in me. Maybe tomorrow.” I looked around and realized someone had cleaned up the blood. “Did you scrub the kitchen?”

“The kitchen and the bedroom. You're going to have to have your carpet professionally cleaned.”

“Thank you. I wasn't looking forward to seeing more blood today.”

“Was it bad?”

“Yeah. Her face is battered almost beyond recognition, and she was bleeding . . . everywhere.” My voice broke and hitched in my throat. I looked down at the floor. “Shit.”

“I have wine in the refrigerator. Why don't you trade in that gun for a couple glasses?”

“Why are you being nice to me?”

“I need you.”

“Oh boy.”

“Not that way.”

“I wasn't thinking 'that way.' All I said was oh boy. What are you making?”

“Steak. I put it in when you

pulled into the parking lot.” He poured the wine and gave me a glass. “You're living a little Spartan here.”