Three to Get Deadly (Stephanie Plum 3)

I told them about the two visits to Mrs. Steeger. Then I told them about Ranger's office.

“You see,” Lula said. “Just like Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne had an office.”

Connie gave Lula one of her “what the hell are you talking about” looks, so Lula explained her Ranger is a superhero theory.

“First off,” Connie said. “Bruce Wayne is Batman, and Batman isn't actually a superhero. Batman's just some neurotic guy in a rubber suit. You have to get nuked or come from another planet to be a real superhero.”

“Batman's got his own comic book,” Lula said.

Connie wasn't impressed with this logic. “Donald Duck has his own comic book. You think Donald Duck is a superhero?”

“What's the office like?” Lula asked. “Does he have a secretary?”

“No secretary.” I said. “It's a one-person office with a desk and a couple chairs.”

“We should go over there and snoop around,” Lula said. “See what we can find.”

Anyone snooping around Ranger's private space would have to have a death wish. “Not a good idea,” I told Lula. “Not only would he kill us, but it's also not a nice thing to do. He's not the enemy.”

Lula didn't look convinced. “That's all true, but I'd still like to snoop.”

“You don't really think he's a superhero,” Connie said to Lula. “You think he's hot.”

“Damn skippy I do,” Lula said. “But that doesn't mean he isn't hiding something. The man has secrets, I'm telling you.”

Connie leaned forward. “Secrets could mean lots of things. He could be wanted for murder in twelve states and have assumed a new identity. Even better . . . he could be gay.”

“I don't want to think about him being gay,” Lula said. “Seems like anymore, all the buff bodies are gay, and all the bad-smelling, rangy men are straight. I find out Ranger's gay and I'm going straight to the freezer section at Shop & Bag. Only men you can count on these days is Ben and Jerry.”

Connie and I nodded sympathetically. Used to be I worried about losing my boyfriends to Joyce Barnhardt. Now I had to worry about losing them to her brother, Kevin.

I was curious about Ranger, but I wasn't nearly as curious as Lula. I had bigger fish to fry. I had to find Mo. I had to get my pickup. I had to nail down Joe Morelli's sudden disinterest in me. I was pretty sure it didn't have to do with a shortage of Y chromosomes.

I backtracked to my parents' house, recruited my father to drive the Buick home and zipped off to the garage.

My father didn't say anything on the trip over, but his thoughts were vibrating off the top of his head.

“I know,” I said, testily. “I wouldn't be having this trouble if I'd bought a Buick.”

The Nissan was parked in a numbered slot in the lot. My father and I cut our eyes to it in silent suspicion.

“You want me to wait?” my father asked.

“Not necessary.”

My father cruised off. We'd done this routine before.

Ernie, the service manager, was in the little office attached to the warehouse of bays. He saw me on line and stepped from behind the counter, took my keys from a hook on the wall and pulled my bill. “You talked to Slick about the carburetor?”

“Yes.”

Ernie smiled. “We like to keep our customers happy. Don't want you going away without a full explanation.”

I was so happy I was practically suicidal. If I had to spend any more time talking to Slick, I was going to slit my throat.

“I'm in sort of a hurry,” I said, passing Ernie my credit card. Another lie. I had absolutely nothing to do. I was all dressed up with nowhere to go.

If I was a hotshot detective I'd park myself in a van a couple houses down from the candy store, and I'd watch Mrs. Steeger. Unfortunately, I wasn't a hotshot detective. I didn't have a van. I couldn't afford to buy one. I couldn't afford to rent one. And since everyone in the burg was so nosy, a van probably wouldn't work anyway.