To the Nines (Stephanie Plum 9)

“I was returning to my apartment because you liked looking at Gilman in her thong.”

“Shit,” Morelli said. “You're such a girl.”

I closed my eyes and rested my head on the seat back. “You're lucky I'm drugged.”

“Did you notice anything unusual when you parked? A strange car? A paranoid schizophrenic lurking in the shadows?”

“Nothing. I wasn't looking. I was making the most of my indignation.”

By the time we reached Morelli's house the sun was low in the sky and the night insects were singing. I looked down the street, more from comfort than fear. Hard to believe anything bad could happen on Morelli's street. Mrs. Brodsky was sitting on her porch and Aunt Rose's second-?story curtains, filmy behind the glass, floated like a protective charm. Morelli's neighborhood felt benign. Of course, none of that stopped Morelli from doing his cop thing. He'd been checking his tail all the way over, making sure we weren't followed. He parked and helped me out of the truck, hustling me into the house, partially shielding me with his body.

“I appreciate the effort,” I said, sinking onto his couch. “But I hate when you put yourself in danger to protect me.”

Bob climbed up next to me, leaving no room for Morelli. Bob had a piece of dog biscuit stuck to his head.

“How does he always get food stuck to him?” I asked Morelli.

“I don't know,” Morelli said. “It's a Bob mystery. I think stuff falls out of his mouth and he rolls in it, but I'm not sure.”

“About Gilman ...” I said.

“I can't talk about Gilman. It's police business.”

“This isn't one of those James Bond things where you sleep with Gilman to get information out of her, is it?”

Morelli slouched into a chair and clicked the television on. “No. This is one of those Trenton cop things where we threaten and bribe Gilman to get information out of her.” He found a ball game, adjusted the sound, and turned to me. “So are you sleeping with me tonight?”

“Yes. But I have a headache.” I closed my eyes and tried to relax. “Omigosh!” I said, my eyes popping open. “I forgot to tell you. I have an email from Howie's killer and it links the killing and the flowers.”

Morelli was long gone by the time I dragged myself out of bed. I shuffled into the bathroom, took a shower, dressed in jeans and T-?shirt, and found my way to the kitchen. I got coffee brewing and put a couple slices of bread in the toaster while I drank my orange juice and checked my email. I suspected there would be a message from the killer. I wasn't disappointed. Now the hunter is the hunted, the email read. How does it feel? Does it excite you? Are you prepared to die? Bob was sitting beside me, waiting for bread crumbs to fall out of my mouth.

“I'm not excited,” I told Bob. “I'm scared.” The words echoed in the kitchen and made my breath catch in my chest. I didn't like the way the words sounded and decided not to say them out loud again. I decided to give denial another chance. Some thoughts are best kept silent. That's not to say I was going to ignore being scared. I was going to try very, very hard to be very, very careful.

I signed off and called Morelli and told him about the latest email. Then I called Lula and asked her to pick me up. I wanted to go back to TriBro and my car was still parked in my apartment building lot. I needed a ride. And I needed a partner. I wasn't going to stay inside, hiding in a closet, but in all honesty I didn't want to go out alone.

Ten minutes later, Lula rolled to a stop in front of Morelli's house. Lula drove a big ol' red Firebird that had a sound system that could shake the fillings loose in your teeth. The front door to Joe's house was closed and locked and I was in the kitchen in the back of the house . . . and I knew Lula had arrived because Shady s bass was giving me heart arrhythmia.

“You don't look so good,” Lula said when I got into the car. “You got big bags under your eyes. And your eyes are all bloodshot. You must have really had a good time last night to look this bad this morning.”

“I was shot with a tranquilizer dart last night and I had a killer hangover from it until about four this morning.”

“Get out! What were you doing getting shot with a tranquilizer dart?”

“I wasn't doing anything. I was walking from my car to my apartment building and someone shot me in the back.”

“Get out! Did you find out who did it?”

“No. The police are investigating.”

“I bet it was Joyce Earnhardt. Joyce would do something like that, trying to even the score for all the times we zapped her with the stun gun and you let Bob poop on her front lawn.”

Joyce Earnhardt. I'd forgotten about Joyce Earnhardt. She'd be a prime contender, too, except for the Howie shooting. Joyce wasn't a killer.

I went to school with Joyce and she'd made my life a misery. Joyce publicized secrets. When she didn't have a secret she fabricated stories and started rumors. I wasn't the only one singled out, but I was a favorite target. A while back, Vinnie hired Joyce to do some apprehension work and once again Joyce and I crossed paths.

“I don't think it's Joyce,” I told Lula. “I think the tranq incident is related to the Howie shooting.”

“Get out!”