Lean Mean Thirteen (Stephanie Plum 13)

“Does that make us a couple?”

“Spend another night with me, and I'll explain couple to you,” Ranger said. I was tempted to ask him how we'd spent last night, but thought maybe it was best not to

know. I'd gone to bed alone, and he was up and dressed when the alarm went off. I was telling

myself he'd slept on the couch. That was my story and I was going to go with it. He removed his tie and unbuttoned his dress shirt, and I managed to keep myself from

dragging my tongue down his chest to his belt buckle. I conjured the image of Morelli in my

kitchen and told myself it wouldn't be a good idea to spend another night here. Ranger disappeared into his dressing room, and when he returned, he was in cargo pants, Tshirt, and cross-trainers. His gun was clipped to his belt. He grabbed our jackets and hats from

the coat closet. His hat said seal and mine said rangeman.

“Let's roll,” Ranger said.

We were in Rangers turbo, parked on Ellery, looking out at the pathetic apartment building

where Rufus Caine conducted his business. Other buildings on the block were graffitidecorated, but Caine s building was unscathed. It was four floors of eroded redbrick and

peeling paint trim. And the front door was missing.

“Are you sure you want to leave the Porsche here?” I asked Ranger. "What are the chances

it'll be here when we come back?“ ”Chances are good. Only a dealer would leave a turbo

sitting out here in front of Caine s building. And no one wants to steal that car. No one wants

that kind of trouble."

We left the car and stopped at the buildings stoop. The tiny foyer was littered with used

condoms and syringes and what I hoped was dog poo.

Ranger scooped me up and carried me to the stairs. "This way we only have one pair of

shoes to throw away," he said.

We hiked to the fourth floor and Ranger knocked on the door.

“Yeah?” came through the closed door to us. “Who's there?”

“Ranger.”

The door opened and a toady looked out at us. “Who's she?” he asked Ranger. Ranger didn't say anything, and the toady backed up and opened the door. There were four people in the room. Three goons and Rufus Caine. Easy to tell Rufus. He

was the two-hundred-pound, five-foot-five guy having a midlife crisis, all decked out in

jewelry and hair plugs. He was on the couch with a napkin daintily perched on his knee and a

glass of champagne in his hand. There was a mound of sandwiches on a large plastic take-out

platter on the coffee table in front of him.

“I was having lunch,” Rufus said to Ranger. “Help yourself.”

“I just ate,” Ranger said. “But thanks.”

Rufus eyeballed me like I was dessert. “Who's your bitch?”