Three to Get Deadly (Stephanie Plum 3)

“Did Mrs. Steeger say anything that might be helpful?”

“She said Mo showed up around nine. Mo told her he'd borrowed a car from someone, and that he'd left the car in his garage for safekeeping until the owner came to retrieve it. Then he gave her the key.”

“That's it?”

“That's it.”

“Maybe I should have a chat with Mrs. Steeger.” I knew it was a long shot, but Mo might come back for his key. Or at least call to see if everything worked out. I wasn't looking forward to spending time with Mrs. Steeger, but if I could get her to arrange a meeting or a phone call between Mo and me it would be worth it.

Ranger checked his door to make sure it was locked. “Gonna explain to her how Mo's crime career is in the toilet, and she should pass him your personal number? The one that guarantees him safe passage to the state spa?”

“Thought it was worth a shot.”

“Absolutely,” Ranger said. “He didn't want to talk to me about it, but you might have more luck. Are you running tomorrow morning?”

“Gee, I'd love to, but I have blisters.”

Ranger looked relieved.

Stephanie Plum 3 - Three To Get Deadly

13

I thought it wouldn't hurt to look professional when I went to see Mrs. Steeger, so I'd dressed in a tailored black suit, white silk shirt, leopard print silk scarf, taupe stockings and heels. I wasn't a master at long division, but I could accessorize with the best of them.

I'd called ahead to tell Mrs. Steeger I was stopping by. Then I'd spent a few moments lecturing myself about attitude. I was an adult. I was a professional. And I looked pretty damn good in my black suit. It was unacceptable that I should be intimidated by Mrs. Steeger. As a final precaution against insecurity, I made sure my .38 was loaded and tucked into my shoulder bag. Nothing like packing a pistol to put spring in a girl's step.

I parked on Ferris Street, got out of the car and sashayed up the sidewalk to Steeger's front porch. I gave the door a couple authoritative knocks and stood back.

Mrs. Steeger opened the door and looked me over. “Are you carrying a gun? I don't want you in my house if you're carrying a gun.”

“I'm not carrying a gun,” I said. Lie number one. I told myself it was all right to lie since Mrs. Steeger expected it. In fact, she'd probably be disappointed if I told the truth. And hell, I wouldn't want to disappoint Mrs. Steeger.

She led the way into the living room, seated herself in a club chair and motioned me to a corresponding chair on the other side of the coffee table.

The room was compulsively neat, and it occurred to me that Mrs. Steeger had retired while still vital and now had nothing better to do than to polish the polish. Windows were trimmed with white sheers and heavy flowered drapes. Furniture was boxy. Fabric and rug were sensible browns and tans. Mahogany end tables, a dark cherry rocker. Two white Lenox swan nut dishes sat side by side on the coffee table. Nut dishes without nuts. I had a feeling Mrs. Steeger didn't get a lot of company.

She sat there for a moment, poised on the edge of her seat, probably wondering if she was required by burg etiquette to offer me refreshments. I saved her the decision by immediately going into my spiel. I emphasized the fact that Mo was in danger now. He'd put a dent in the pharmaceutical profit margin and not everyone was pleased. Relatives of dead people were unhappy. The pharmaceutical management was bound to be unhappy. Users and abusers were unhappy.

“And Mo isn't good at this,” I added. “He isn't a professional hit man.” Even as I said it a little voice was whispering . . . eight bodies. How many does it take to make a professional?

I rose and handed Mrs. Steeger my card before she could quiz me on state capitals or ask me to write a book report on John Quincy Adams, biography of a statesman.

Mrs. Steeger held my card between two fingers. The way you do when you're afraid of cootie contamination. “Just exactly what is it you want me to do?”

“I'd like to talk to Mo. See if I can work something out. Get him back into the system before he gets hurt.”

“You want him to call you.”

“Yes.”

“If I hear from him again I'll pass the message.”

I extended my hand. “Thank you.”

End of visit.

Neither of us had mentioned the incident in the store. This subject was way beyond our comfort zone. Mrs. Steeger hadn't discovered I was lying about the gun and hadn't threatened to send me to the principal's office, so I considered the entire session a rousing success.