Two for the Dough (Stephanie Plum 2)

“Can you get in?” Morelli whispered.

“No. The window's stuck.” I squatted down, peered through the opening and worked the flashlight around the room. So far as I could see, nothing had changed. There was the same clutter, the same squalor, the stink of unwashed clothes and overflow ashtrays. I saw no signs of struggle, flight, or affluence.

I thought I'd give one more try with the window. I braced my feet and pushed hard against the old wood frame. Masonry bolts tore loose from crumbling brick, and the slatted floor of the fire escape tipped to a 45-degree angle. Stairs slid out of place, railings ripped from their moorings, angle irons wrenched free, and I skidded feet first, ass second off into space. My hand connected with a crossbar, and in an act of blind panic and reflexive action, I held fast . . . for ten seconds. At the end of those ten seconds, the entire third-floor gridwork crashed onto the second-floor fire escape. There was a momentary pause. Long enough for me to whisper, oh shit.

Above me, Morelli leaned out the window. “Don't move!”

CHAAANG! The second-floor fire escape separated from the building and crumbled to the ground, carrying me with it. I landed flat on my back with a solid whump that knocked the air out of my lungs.

I lay there stunned until Morelli's face once again loomed over me, just inches away.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “Jesus, Stephanie, say something!”

I stared straight ahead, unable to talk, not yet able to breathe.

He felt for the pulse in my neck. Then his hands were on my feet, moving up my legs. “Can you move your toes?”

Not when his hand was feeling up the inside of my thigh like this. My skin felt scorched under his palm, and my toes were curled into a cramp. I heard myself make a sucking sound. “Your fingers go any higher up my leg, and I'm filing for sexual harassment.”

Morelli rocked back on his heels and passed a hand over his eyes. “You just scared the hell out of me.”

“What's going on out there?” A loud voice from one of the windows. “I'm calling the police. I'm not putting up with this shit. We got noise ordinances in this neighborhood.”

I propped myself up on my elbow. “Get me out of here.”

Morelli gently hoisted me to my feet. “You sure you're okay?”

“Nothing seems broken.” I wrinkled my nose. “What is that smell? Oh God, I didn't mess myself, did I?”

Morelli turned me around. “Whoa!” he said. “Someone in this building has a big dog. A big, sick dog. And it looks like you hit ground zero.”

I shrugged out of the jacket, and held it at arm's length. “Am I okay now?”

“Some of it's splattered down the back of your jeans.”

“Anyplace else?”

“Your hair.”

This sent me into instant hysteria. “GET IT OUT! GET IT OUT!”

Morelli clapped a hand over my mouth. “Quiet!”

“Get it out of my hair!”

“I can't get it out of your hair. You're going to have to wash it out.” He pulled me toward the street. “Can you walk?”

I staggered forward.

“That's good,” Morelli said. “Keep doing that. Before you know it you'll be to the van. And then we'll get you to a shower. After an hour or two of scrubbing you'll be good as new.”

“Good as new.” My ears were ringing, and my voice sounded far away . . . like a voice in a jar. “Good as new,” I repeated.

When we got to the van Morelli opened the rear door. “You don't mind riding in back, do you?”

I stared at him blank-minded.

Morelli shone my flashlight in my eyes. “You sure you're okay?”