Eleven on Top (Stephanie Plum 11)

Problem was, it was hard to tell if not getting fired from Kan Klean was a good thing or a bad thing. I closed my eyes and willed myself to sleep, telling myself when I woke up my life would be great. Okay, it was sort of a fib, but it kept me from bursting into tears or smashing all my dishes.

A couple hours later I was still awake and I was thinking less about breaking something and more about eating something. I strolled out to the kitchen and took stock. I could construct another peanut butter sandwich. I could mooch dinner off my mother. I could take myself off to search for fast food. The last two choices meant I'd have to get back into the Saturn. Not an appealing prospect, but still better than another peanut butter sandwich.

I laced up my sneakers, ran a brush through my hair, and applied lip gloss.

The natural look. Acceptable in Jersey only if you've had your boobs enhanced to the point where no one looked beyond them. I hadn't had my boobs enhanced, and most people found it easy to look beyond them, but I didn't care a whole lot today.

I took the stairs debating the merits of a chicken quesadilla against the satisfaction of a dozen doughnuts. I was still undecided when I pushed through the lobby door and crossed the lot to my car. Turns out it wasn't a decision I needed to make because my car was wearing a police boot.

I ripped my cell phone out of my bag and punched in Morelli's number.

“There's a police boot on my car,” I said to him. “Did you put it on?”

“Not personally.”

“I want it off.”

“I'm crimes against persons. I'm not traffic.”

“Fine. I want to report a crime against a person. Some jerk booted my car.”

Morelli blew out a sigh and disconnected.

I dialed Ranger. “I have a problem,” I said to Ranger.

“And?”

“I was hoping you could solve it.”

“Give me a hint.”

“My car's been booted.”

“And?”

“I need to get the boot off.”

“Anything else?”

“I could use some doughnuts. I haven't had dinner.”

“Where are you?”

“My apartment.”

“Babe,” Ranger said, and the connection went dead.

Ten minutes later, Rangers Porsche rolled to a stop next to the Saturn.

Ranger got out and handed me a bag. Ranger was in his usual black. Black

T-shirt that looked like it was painted onto his biceps and clung to his washboard stomach. Black cargo pants that had lots of pockets for Rangers goodies, although clearly not all his goodies were relegated to the pockets.

His hair was medium cut and silky straight, falling across his forehead.

“Doughnuts?” I asked.

“Turkey club. Doughnuts will kill you.”