Three to Get Deadly (Stephanie Plum 3)

I flicked a spoonful of whipped cream at him, but I missed, and it went splat on the wall and slimed its way down to the back counter.

Morelli made a sundae for himself and took the stool next to me. We ate in silence, and when we were done we still sat there.

“So,” Morelli finally said. “Let's talk.”

I told him about the phone call and the assault and about the attempted payoff.

“Tell me about these men,” Morelli said.

“They always wear ski masks and coveralls, and it's always been dark, so I've never been able to get a good look. The eerie part is that I think they're regular people. It's like they're from the community, and they're trying to protect Mo but they've turned violent. Like a lynch mob.” I looked down at my hand. “They burned me with a cigarette.”

A muscle worked in Morelli's jaw. “Anything else?”

“Under the coveralls they look respectable. Wedding bands on their fingers and nice running shoes. This wiry little guy seems to be the leader.”

“How little is he?”

“Maybe five-nine. Got a smoker's voice. I've named him Jersey City because he has a Jersey City accent. The other two were bigger and chunkier.”

Morelli covered my hand with his, and we sat some more.

“How did you know I was here?” I asked.

“I accessed your answering machine,” Morelli said.

“You know my code?”

“Well . . . yeah.”

“You do that a lot? Listen in on my messages?”

“Don't worry,” Morelli said. “Your messages aren't that interesting.”

“You're scum.”

“Yeah,” Morelli said. “You've told me that before.”

I scraped at a little fudge that was left on the side of the sundae dish. “What did you want to see me about?”

“We got ballistics back on Leroy Watkins. Looks like the same gun that killed Cameron Brown and Ronald Anders also killed Leroy Watkins.”

I stopped scraping at the fudge and stared at Morelli.

“Oh boy,” I said.

Morelli nodded. “My exact thought.”

I shifted on my stool. “Is it me, or is it warm in here?”

“It's warm in here,” Morelli said. “Mo must have turned the heat up when he came by to visit.”

“Doesn't smell all that good either.”

“I wasn't going to mention it. I thought it might be you.”

I sniffed at myself. “I don't think it's me.” I sniffed at Morelli. “It's not you.”

Morelli was off the stool, moving through the store. He got to the hall and stopped. “It's pretty strong in the hall.” He opened the cellar door. “Uh-oh.”