Hot Six (Stephanie Plum 6)

I opened the passenger door and turned to leave.

Ranger caught hold of my wrist. “You're not especially good at following instructions, but you're going to listen to me on this, right? You're going to walk away. And you're going to be careful.”

I gave a sigh, heaved myself out the door, and extracted Bob from the backseat. “Just make sure you don't let Joyce catch you. That would really ruin my day.”

I deposited Bob in the apartment, grabbed my car keys and my shoulder bag, and went back downstairs. I was going somewhere. Anywhere. I was too bummed to stay at home. Truth is, I wasn't all that upset about my employment being terminated. I just hated it being terminated for stupidity. I'd fallen out of a tree, for God's sake. And then I'd sat Junior Macaroni in a chair. I mean, how inept can a person get?

I needed food, I thought. Ice cream. And hot fudge. Whipped cream. There was an ice cream parlor at the mall that constructed sundaes for four people. That's what I needed. A mega sundae.

I got into Big Blue, and Mitchell got in with me.

“Excuse me?” I said. “Is this a date?”

“You wish,” Mitchell said. “Mr. Stolle wants to talk to you.”

“Guess what. I'm not in the mood to talk to Mr. Stolle. I'm not in the mood to talk to anyone, you included. So I hope you don't take this personally, but get out of my car.”

Mitchell drew his gun. “You should change your mood.”

“You'd shoot me?”

“Don't take it personally,” Mitchell said.

Art's Carpets is in Hamilton Township, the land of the strip mall. It's on Route 33, not far from Five Points, and is indistinguishable from every other business on that road, save for its glowing chartreuse sign, which can be seen clearly from Rhode Island. The building is a single-story cinder-block with large storefront windows, heralding a year-round sale. I'd been to Art's Carpets many times, along with every other man, woman, and child in New Jersey. I'd never purchased anything, but I'd been tempted. Art's has good prices.

I parked the Buick in front of the store. Habib pulled the Lincoln in alongside the Buick. And Joyce parked beside the Lincoln.

“What does Stolle want?” I asked. “He doesn't want to kill me or anything, does he?”

“Mr. Stolle don't kill people. He hires people to do that stuff. He just wants to talk to you. That's all he told me.”

There were a couple women browsing in the store. Looked like mother and daughter. A salesman hovered over them. Mitchell and I walked in together, and Mitchell guided me through the stacks of carpet and displays of broadloom to the office at the back.

Stolle was in his mid-fifties and built solid. He was barrel-chested and had begun to jowl. He was dressed in a flashy sweater and dress slacks. He extended his hand and smiled his best rug-merchant smile.

“I'll be right outside,” Mitchell said, and closed the door, leaving me alone with Stolle.

“You're supposed to be a pretty smart girl,” Stolle said. “I've heard some things about you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So how come you're not having any luck delivering Manoso?”

“I'm not that smart. And Ranger's not going to come near me when Habib and Mitchell are around.”

Stolle smiled. “To tell you the truth, I never expected you to hand us Manoso. But hell, nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?”

I didn't say anything.

“Unfortunately, since we couldn't do this the easy way, we're going to have to try something else. We're sending a message to your boyfriend. He doesn't want to talk to me? Fine. He wants to be in the wind? That's okay. You know why? Because we got you. When I run out of patience, and I'm just about there, we're gonna hurt you. And Manoso's gonna know he could have prevented it.”

All of a sudden I didn't have any air in my lungs. I hadn't thought of this angle. “He's not my boyfriend,” I said. “You're overestimating my importance to him.”

“Maybe, but he has a sense of chivalry. Latin temperament, you know.” Stolle sat in the chair behind his desk and rocked back. “You should encourage Manoso to talk to us. Mitchell and Habib look like nice guys, but they'll do whatever I tell them. In fact, in the past, they've done some very mean things. You have a dog, don't you?” Stolle leaned forward, hands on desk. “Mitchell's real good at killing dogs. Not that he'd kill your dog . . .”

“He's not my dog. I'm baby-sitting.”

“I was just giving an example.”