Three to Get Deadly (Stephanie Plum 3)

Undoubtedly there were some closet vigilantes still at large, but they were keeping a low profile. Some of the wind had gone out of the movement's sails when Mo's secret life was made public information. And whatever vigilante momentum had been left had died a natural death without Reverend Bill acting as catalyst.

I quietly walked to the door and looked out through my peephole. Joe Morelli looked back at me. I should have guessed.

I opened the door to him. “You must have smelled the chicken.”

Morelli grinned and rocked back on his heels. “I wouldn't want to impose.”

Yeah, right. I got him a beer from the fridge. “Haven't seen you in a while.”

“Not since we closed the case on Mo. You never returned my phone calls.”

I flopped onto the couch. “Nothing to say.”

Morelli took a pull at his beer. “You still pissed off at me for withholding information?”

“Yes. I helped you out with Dickie, and you gave me nothing in return.”

“That's not true. I gave you Reverend Bill.”

“Only because you knew I'd get it from other sources. I'm glad I ralphed on you that night in your kitchen.”

“I suppose that was my fault too?”

“Damn skippy it was.” I actually accepted full responsibility, but I had no intention of conveying this to Morelli.

Moreili took a piece of chicken. “Everyone at headquarters is very impressed with you. You were the only one to pick up on the movie angle.”

“Thanks to Sue Ann Grebek and her motor mouth. When she told me about Larry Skolnik I thought about Cameron Brown. The Cameron Brown murder never felt right to me. He sold some drugs, but he wasn't a major player. His primary source of income was prostitution. Then Larry and Gail confirmed it. In fact, Larry had already figured most of it out.”

The Rangers scored another goal, and we leaned forward to watch the replay.

I'd been reading the papers and talking to Eddie Gazarra, so I knew some of the details on Mo and Reverend Bill. I knew that both of them were coming up to trial. I wasn't sure what would happen to Mo, but Bill was up on seven counts of murder one. Plus, in a late-afternoon raid, the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms people hauled enough weapons out of the two Freedom houses on Montgomery Street to fill a five-ton U-Haul. That was way over the limit for anarchist stockpiling.

“I hear you're back to working vice.”

Morelli nodded. “I didn't have the wardrobe for homicide. And they actually expected me to shave every day.”

“You still living in the house?”

“Yeah. I like it. It's got more space. Lots of closets. Bigger kitchen. Cellar.” He leaned close. “It's even got a back door.”

I slid him a sideways glance.

He drew a little circle at my temple with his fingertip, and the pitch dropped on his voice. “It's got a backyard, too.”

“Backyards are nice.”

The fingertip traced down to my collarbone. “Good for summer activities . . . like barbecues.”

I hauled back and looked at him. Morelli barbecuing?

“Play your cards right and I might invite you over for a hamburger,” Morelli said.

“Just a hamburger?”

“More than a hamburger.”

This brought to mind the old adage—be careful what you wish for because you might get it.