To the Nines (Stephanie Plum 9)

I looked around. I didn't see any crazy people . . . but then, I'm from Jersey. I'm used to crazy.

“Why do you think Americans are crazy?”

“They are very demanding. Not enough fries in the box. The fries are not hot enough. The sandwich is wrapped wrong. I cannot control these things. I do not wrap the sandwiches. And they are very loud when they tell you about the wrappings. All day people are shouting at me. 'Go faster. Go faster. Give me this. Give me that.' Wanting an Egg McMuffin at eleven o'clock when it is a rule you cannot have an Egg McMuffin past ten-?thirty.”

“I hate that rule.”

Howie gathered his wrappers onto his tray. “And another thing. Americans ask too many questions. How many grams of fat are in a cheeseburger? Are the onions real? What do I know? The onions come in a bag. Do I look like the onion man to you?”

He stood at his seat and took his tray in two hands. “You should leave me alone now. I am done talking to you. If you continue to stalk me, I will report you to the authorities.”

“I'm not stalking you. This isn't stalking. This is asking a couple questions.”

There was a momentary lull in the ambient traffic noise. I heard something go pop pop. Howie's eyes got wide,

his mouth opened, the tray slid from his hands and crashed to the concrete patio. Howie's knees buckled and he collapsed without uttering a word.

A woman screamed behind me and I was on my feet, thinking, He's been shot, help him, take cover, do something! My mind was racing, but my body wasn't responding. I was paralyzed by the unfathomable horror of the moment, staring down at Howie's unblinking eyes, mesmerized by the small hole in the middle of his forehead, by the pool of blood that widened under him. Just a moment ago I was talking to him and now he was dead. It didn't seem possible.

People were scrambling and shouting around me. I didn't see anyone with a gun. No one in the lot had a gun in his hand. I didn't see anyone armed on the road or in the building. Howie seemed to be the only victim.

Lula ran to me with a big bag of food in one hand and a large chocolate shake in her other hand. “Holy crap,” she said, eyes bugged out, looking down at Howie. “Holy moly. Holy Jesus and Joseph. Holy cow.”

I eased away from the body, not wanting to crowd Howie, needing some distance from the shooting. I wanted to make time stand still, to back up ten minutes and change the course of events. I wanted to blink and have Howie still be alive.

Sirens screamed on the highway behind us and Lula furiously sucked on the shake. “I can't get anything up this freakin' straw,” she shrieked. "Why do they give you a straw if you can't suck anything up it? Why don't they give you a goddamn spoon? Why do they make these things so freakin' thick anyways? Shakes aren't supposed to be solid. This here's like trying to suck up a fish sandwich.

“And don't think I'm hysterical, either,” Lula said. “I don't get hysterical. You ever see me hysterical before? This here's transference. I read about it in a magazine. It's when you get upset about one thing only you're really upset about something else. And it's different from hysterical. And even if I was hysterical, which I'm not, I'd have a perfect right. This guy got shot dead in front of you. If you'd have moved an inch to the left you probably would have lost an ear. And he's dead. Look at him. He's dead! I hate dead.”

I grimaced at Lula. “Good thing you're not hysterical.”

“You bet your sweet ass,” Lula said.

A Trenton PD blue and white angled to a stop, lights flashing. Seconds later, another blue and white pulled in. Carl Costanza was riding shotgun in the second car. He rolled his eyes when he saw me and reached for the radio. Calling Joe, I thought. His partner, Big Dog, ambled over.

“Holy crap,” Big Dog said when he saw Howie. “Holy moly.” He looked over at me and winced. “Did you shoot him?”

“No!”

“I got to get out of here,” Lula said. “Cops and dead people give me diarrhea. Anybody wants to talk to me, they can send me a letter. I didn't see anything anyway. I was getting extra sauce for my chicken nuggets. I don't suppose you'd want to give me your car keys?” she asked me. “I'm starting to feel transference coming on again. I need a doughnut, Calm me down.”

Costanza was pushing people around, laying out crime scene tape. An EMS truck arrived, followed by a plainclothes cop car and Morelli's POS. Morelli jogged over to me. “Are you okay?”

“Pretty much. I'm a little rattled.” “No bullet holes?”

“Not in me. Howie wasn't so lucky.”

Morelli looked down at Howie. “You didn't shoot him, did you? Tell me you didn't shoot him.” “I didn't shoot him. I never even carry a gun!” Morelli dropped his eyes to my waist. “Looks to me like you're carrying one now.” Shit. I'd forgotten about the gun.

“Well, I almost never carry a gun,” I said, doing my best to smooth out the bulge in my T-?shirt. I looked around to see if anyone else noticed. “Maybe I should lose the gun,” I said to Morelli. “There might be a problem.” “Besides carrying concealed without a permit?” “It might not be registered.”

“Let me guess. Ranger gave you the gun.” Morelli stared down at his feet and shook his head. He muttered something indiscernible, possibly in Italian. I opened my mouth to speak and he held a hand up. “Don't say anything,” he said, “I'm working hard here. Notice I'm not ranting over the fact that not only are you partners with Ranger, but you were stupid enough to take a gun from him.”

I waited patiently. When Morelli mutters in Italian it's a good idea to give him some room.

“Okay,” he said, “this is what we're going to do. We're going to walk over to my car. You're going to get in, take the gun out of your goddamn pants, and slide the gun under the front seat. Then you're going to tell me what happened.”

An hour later, I was still sitting in the car, waiting for Morelli to leave the scene, when my cell phone rang.