To the Nines (Stephanie Plum 9)

“We shared it. That don't count. If you share, it's a snack.”

“I want to go back to talk to Howie at one o'clock. Can you wait until then?”

“I guess. What are we going to do in the meantime?”

“I want to wander around the neighborhood. Maybe snoop in a few garages.”

Lula looked up and down the street. “You're going to snoop in this neighborhood? You got a gun on you?”

Ranger reached behind him, under his shirt, and pulled out a .38. He pulled my T-?shirt out of my jeans and he shoved the .38 under my waistband and draped my shirt over the gun. The gun was warm with his body heat and his fingers had been even warmer sliding across my belly.

“Thanks,” I said, trying to keep my voice from cracking.

He curled his hand around my neck and kissed me lightly on the lips. “Be careful.” And he was gone. Off to make the world a better place in his shiny new black Porsche.

“He had his hand in your pants and he kissed you,” Lula said. “I'm wetting myself.”

“It wasn't like that. He gave me a gun.”

“Girl, he gave you more than a gun. I tell you, he ever put his hand in my pants I'll stop breathing and faint dead away. He is so hot.” Lula did some fanning motions with her hand. “I'm getting flashes. I think I'm sweating. Look at me. Am I sweating?”

“It's ninety degrees out,” I said. “Everyone's sweating.”

“It's not ninety,” Lula said. “I just saw the temperature on the bank building. It's only seventy-?eight.”

“Feels like ninety.”

“Ain't that the truth,” Lula said.

An alley ran behind the houses. Cars were parked in the alley and garages opened to the alley. Lula and I walked to the end of the block and then cut down the alley, peering into filthy garage windows, cracking garage doors to look inside. Most of the garages were used for storage. A few were empty. None contained a gray Nissan. We walked three more blocks and three more alleys. No dog. No car. No Singh.

IT WAS 1:15 when I parked in the McDonalds lot. Lula went inside to order and I walked to the outdoor seating area where Howie was eating lunch.

Howie was hunched over his tray, concentrating on his burger, attempting invisibility.

“Hey,” I said, sitting across from him. “Nice day.”

He nodded his head without making eye contact. “Yes.”

“Tell me about Samuel.”

“There is nothing to tell you,” he said.

“He called you at work last week.”

“You are mistaken.” He had his fists balled and his head down. He gestured for emphasis and knocked his empty soda cup over. We both reached for the cup. Howie caught it first and set it straight. “You must stop bothering me now,” he said. “Please.”

“Samuel is missing,” I said to Howie. “I'm trying to find him.”

For the first time, Howie picked his head up and looked at me. “Missing?”

“He disappeared the day after he called you.”

For a fleeting moment Howie looked relieved. “I know nothing,” he repeated, dropping his eyes again.

“What's the deal?” I asked Howie. “Did you owe him money? Did you go out with his girlfriend?”

“No. None of those things. I truly do not know him.” Howie's eyes darted from one side of the lot to the other. “I must go inside now. I do not like associating with the customers. Americans are a crazy people. Only the games are good. The American games are righteous.”