Twelve Sharp (Stephanie Plum 12)

I cut my eyes to Lula. 'You're an excellent liar.'

'Maybe, but I gotta be saving myself for tonight. I can't afford to use my voice too much.'

'That is so lame,' I said to Lula.

'It's the best I could come up with.'

I punched Leon's number into my cell phone. 'I'd like to speak to Leon James,' I said to the guy who answered.

'Speaking.'

'I think I might need some help in solving a problem.'

'Un hunh.'

'You were recommended.'

'Oh yeah. Who recommended me?'

'Butchy.'

'I don't know any Butchy.'

'Well, he knows you. And he recommended you.'

'What sort of problem we talking about?'

'I don't want to say on the phone.'

'That sounds promising already,' James said.

'I was hoping we could meet somewhere. I need to solve this problem fast.'

'It'll cost you.'

'I don't care. Just solve my friggin' problem, okay?'

I'd agreed to meet Leon James in a small park in the Burg. The park wasn't much more than a patch of grass half a block in size. It had a couple trees and a couple benches and that was it. Once in a while an old guy would sit on a bench and soak up sun. And once in a while a couple kids would sit on a bench and smoke some weed. And once in a while someone would walk his dog in the park.

Lula and I had driven to Morelli's house and commandeered Bob. The plan was that I'd meet Leon James at the bench, and while we were talking, Lula would mosey by with Bob. Then when James was distracted, one of us would zap him with a stun gun.

I dropped Lula and Bob off on a side street, turned a corner, and parked not far from the bench. I walked to the bench and sat down with my purse in my lap. After five minutes a car pulled up behind Lula's Firebird, and James got out. He looked around, straightened his jacket, and walked toward me. It was eighty degrees out, and there was only one reason to be wearing a jacket.

James was five-foot-nine and stocky. The fact that he'd been caught numerous times for arson put him in the not-too-bright category. Arson is a respected profession among certain subcultures in Jersey, and the good ones don't get caught. The good ones channel lightning and mysterious acts of spontaneous combustion.

I fought stage fright as I watched James cut across the grass. My heart was racing, and I could feel panic sticking in my throat. Deep breath, I told myself. Be calm. Be cool.

'You looking for a problem solver?' James said, coming up to the bench.

'I might be.'

He sat down. 'What kind of problem you got?'

'A cheating husband.'

'And?'

'I'm told it would be cheaper to pay you to take care of the bastard than it would be to divorce him and lose half of everything.'