Hard Eight (Stephanie Plum 8)

“Let me know if you want the system put back in,” Ranger said.

“I appreciate the thought, but I'd rather walk blindfolded into an apartment filled with alligators.”

“Do you want to try your luck with another car? We could raise the stakes. I could give you a Porsche.”

“Tempting, but no. I'm expecting an insurance check tomorrow. As soon as I get it, I'll have Lula drive me to a dealer.”

Ranger and Hector took off, and I locked myself into my apartment. I'd worked out a lot of aggression shooting the keypad, and I felt much more mellow now. My heart was only skipping a beat once in a while, and the eye twitch was hardly noticeable. I ate the last lump of frozen cookie dough. It wasn't a Tastykake, but it was pretty good, all the same. I zapped the television on and found a hockey game.

“UH-OH,” LULA SAID the next morning. “Was that a taxi that brought you to the office? What happened to Ranger's car?”

“It burned up.”

“Say what?”

“And my bag was in it. I need to go shopping for a new handbag.”

“I'm the woman for the job,” Lula said. “What time is it? Are the stores open yet?”

It was ten o'clock, Monday morning. The stores were open. I'd reported my melted credit cards. I was ready to roll.

“Hold on,” Connie said. “What about the filing?”

“The filing's just about all done,” Lula said. She took a stack of files and shoved them into a drawer. “Anyway, we aren't gonna be long. Stephanie always gets the same boring bag. She goes straight to the Coach counter and gets one of them big-ass black leather shoulder bags, and that's the end of that.”

“Turns out that my driver's license burned up, too,” I said. “I was hoping you might also give me a ride to the DMV.”

Connie did a big eye roll. “Go.”

IT WAS NOON when we got to Quaker Bridge Mall. I bought my shoulder bag, and then Lulu and I tested out some perfume. We were on the upper level, walking toward the escalators on our way to leave for the lot, and a familiar shape loomed in front of me.

“You!” Martin Paulson said. “What is it with you? I can't get away from you.”

“Don't start with me,” I said. “I'm not happy with you.”

“Gee, that's too bad. I almost really care. What are you doing here today? Looking for somebody new to brutalize?”

“I didn't brutalize you.”

“You knocked me down.”

“You fell down. Twice.”

“I told you I have a bad sense of balance.”

“Look, just get out of my way. I'm not going to stand here and argue with you.”

“Yeah, you heard her,” Lula said. “Get out of her way.”

Paulson turned to better see Lula, and apparently he was caught off guard by what he saw, because he lost his balance and fell backward, down the escalator. There were a couple people in front of him, and he knocked them over like bowling pins. They all landed in a heap on the floor.

Lula and I scrambled down the escalator to the pile of bodies.

Paulson seemed to be the only one who was hurt. “My leg's broken,” he said. “I bet you anything my leg's broken. I keep telling you, I have a problem with equilibrium. Nobody ever listens to me.”

“There's probably a good reason why no one listens to you,” Lula said. “You look like a big bag of wind, if you ask me.”

“It's all your fault,” Paulson said. “You scared the hell out of me. They should get the fashion police out after you. And what's with the yellow hair? You look like Harpo Marx.”