Two for the Dough (Stephanie Plum 2)

Suddenly I saw the value of guarding Spiro. I'd be right there on the spot if Kenny actually did show up. I'd be in a position to wheedle information. And I could legally search through Spiro's house every night. Okay, so along with all that I was selling out for the money, but hell, it could be worse. I could have sold out for fifty. “When do I start?”

“Tonight. I close up at ten. Get here five or ten minutes ahead.”

“Why me? Why don't you get some big tough guy?”

Spiro put the money back in the drawer. “I'd look like a fag. This way people think you're after my ass. Better for my image. Unless you keep wearing dresses like that. Then I might reconsider.”

Wonderful.

I left his office and caught sight of Morelli slouched against the wall next to the front door, hands shoved in pants pockets, clearly pissed off. He spotted me, and his expression didn't change, but the rise and fall of his chest picked up. I plastered a phony smile on my face and breezed across the lobby to him, whisking out the door before Spiro had a chance to see us together.

“I see you got my message,” I said when we reached the truck, turning up the wattage on the smile.

“Not only did you steal my truck, but you parked it illegally.”

“You park illegally all the time.”

“Only when it's official police business, and I have no other choice . . . or when it's raining.”

“I don't know why you're upset. You wanted me to talk to Spiro. So that's what I did. I came here and talked to Spiro.”

“For starters, I had to flag down a blue-and-white to get a ride over here. And more important, I don't like you running around on your own. I want you in eyesight until we nail Mancuso.”

“I'm touched you're worried about my safety.”

“Safety hasn't got much to do with it, Skippy. You have an uncanny knack for running into people you're looking for, and you're completely inept at taking them down. I don't want you screwing up another encounter with Kenny. I want to make sure I'm around next time you stumble across him.”

I settled onto the seat with a sigh. When you're right, you're right. And Morelli was right. I wasn't totally up to speed as a bounty hunter.

We were silent for the ride back to my apartment. I knew these streets like I knew my own hand. Half the time, I drove them unconsciously, suddenly realizing I was in my parking lot, wondering how the devil I'd gotten there. Tonight I paid closer attention. If Kenny was out there, I didn't want to miss him. Spiro had said Kenny was like smoke, that he lived in the shadows. I told myself this was a romanticized vision. Kenny was your everyday sociopath who went sneaking around thinking he was God's second cousin.

The wind had picked up, and clouds scudded overhead, periodically obliterating the sliver of moon. Morelli parked next to the Buick and cut the engine. He reached over and toyed with the collar on my jacket. “Do you have any plans for tonight?”

I told him about the bodyguard deal.

Morelli just stared at me. “How do you do it?” he asked. “How do you walk into this stuff? If you knew what you were doing, you'd be a real threat.”

“Guess I lead a charmed life.” I looked at my watch. It was 7:30, and Morelli was still working. “You put in long hours,” I said. “I thought cops clocked on in eight-hour shifts.”

“Vice is flexible. I work when I need to.”

“You have no life.”

He shrugged. “I like my job. When I need a break I take off for a weekend at the shore or a week in the Islands.”

This was pretty interesting. I'd never thought of Morelli as being an “Islands” person. “What do you do when you go to the Islands? What's the appeal?”

“I like to dive.”

“And what about the shore? What do you do at the Jersey shore?”

Morelli grinned. “I hide under the boardwalk and abuse myself. Old habits die hard.”

I had a tough time visualizing Morelli diving off the coast of Martinique, but the thought of him abusing himself under the boardwalk was crystal clear. I could see him as a horny little eleven-year-old, hanging outside the Seaside bars, listening to the bands, eyeballing the women in their elastic tank tops and skimpy shorts. And later, crawling under the boardwalk with his cousin Mooch, the two of them whacking off together before they had to meet up with Uncle Manny and Aunt Florence for the ride back to the bungalow in Seaside Heights. Two years later he would have substituted his cousin Sue Ann Beale for his cousin Mooch, but the basic routine would be the same.

I pushed the truck door open and lurched out into the parking lot. The wind whistled around Morelli's antenna and whipped at my skirt. My hair flew about my face in a frenzied explosion of tangled frizz.

I made an attempt to tame it in the elevator while Morelli looked on, calmly curious about my efforts to shove the mess into an elastic band I'd found in my jacket pocket. He stepped into the hall when the doors opened. Waited while I f