Explosive Eighteen (Stephanie Plum 18)

He had a gash on his forehead and a cotton roll stuck up each nostril. I suspected this was damage from his run-in with my RAV4 yesterday.

“I have a better idea,” I said. “I’ll drive you.”

“Nuh-ah. I like to drive.”

I pressed the stun-gun prongs against his chest and pushed the go button. Nothing happened. Low battery.

Buggy snatched my bag from my shoulder. “Your keys are in here, right?”

“No! Give it back.”

He rummaged around in the bag, found the keys, and dropped the bag on the ground.

“Thanks. I was wondering how I was gonna get a Band-Aid,” he said, knocking me aside, muscling his way to the car and wedging himself behind the wheel.

I watched Buggy drive away, and I called Ranger. “You’re not going to believe what just happened.”

“Babe, it’s getting so I’ll believe just about anything.”

“The big dopey guy took my car again.”

Silence for a beat. “Maybe it’d be easier if I gave him a car of his own,” Ranger finally said. “Does he have your bag?”

“No.”

“I’ll send Hal out to get your car. What about you? Is Lula rescuing you again?”

“No.”

Another moment of silence. “Am I?”

“Would you like to?” I asked him.

EIGHT

THE BLACK 911 PORSCHE TURBO eased to a stop in front of Buggy’s house, and I angled into the car. Ranger was wearing the Rangeman uniform of black T-shirt and black cargo pants. He was armed, as usual. And also as usual, there was the subtle, lingering, tantalizing hint of his Bulgari shower gel.

“As long as we’re together,” I said to him, “would you have time to get me into a locked house in Hamilton Township?”

“I have a four o’clock meeting. Until then, I’m all yours.”

I gave him the address and told him about Joyce. Twenty minutes later, Ranger parked next to an electrician’s panel van in front of the Mercado Mews model home, and we walked a block and a half to Joyce’s town house. Best not to have your car sitting in front of a house you’re breaking into. We rang the bell and knocked on the front door. When no one answered, we circled to the back of the house, and Ranger stood hands on hips, looking at the bullet holes in the door to the privacy fence.

“It was locked,” I said to Ranger.

“So you shot it?”

“Actually, Lula shot it.”

Ranger pushed it open, and we went into Joyce’s yard. I closed and locked the gate behind us, and Ranger tried the back door. Locked. He removed a slim case from one of the pockets in his cargo pants, selected a tool, opened the door, and Joyce’s security alarm went off. He pulled me into the house and locked the door.

“Start working your way through the house while I watch for the police,” Ranger said. “You probably have ten to fifteen minutes.”

“Then what?”

“Then we hide and wait. There are no signs of forced entry into the house, so the police will walk around, look in windows, test the doors, and leave, probably.”

I started in the kitchen, going through cupboards and drawers, snooping in the refrigerator, trying to ignore the alarm. I’d just finished the kitchen when Ranger signaled that the police were here. He pulled me into a broom closet and closed the door.