Turbo Twenty-Three (Stephanie Plum 23)

RANGER DROVE AWAY, leaving his man grinning at Lula.

“She’ll take him apart and won’t put him back together again,” Ranger said. “Is your car at the office?”

“No. Lula picked me up at home.”

“Babe,” Ranger said.

“Babe” covers a lot of ground for Ranger, depending upon inflection. Tonight it was said softly with an undertone of desire, as if he might take me home and stay awhile. It gave me an instant rush, and heat curled through a bunch of internal organs. I did my best to squash the heat and ignore the rush, but in the process of ignoring the rush I inadvertently gave up a sigh.

“What?” Ranger asked.

“Morelli.”

Morelli and I have had an on-again, off-again relationship since I was five years old. Lately when we’re off again Ranger swoops in. At first glance it might appear that I’m lacking in moral character by bouncing around between men like this, but it’s only two men. I mean it’s not like I’m dating a football team. And let’s be honest about this. These guys are both twelve on a scale of one to ten. And I might only be an eight on a good day. So how lucky am I? A couple weeks ago, in a moment of euphoria, Morelli and I agreed to being engaged to be engaged. It was a good moment, but I think it’s a little like planning on winning the lottery or contemplating losing five pounds. I mean, what are the chances of it actually happening?

“Unfortunate,” Ranger said, “but the night wasn’t a complete loss. I got to see a dead guy dressed up like a Bogart Bar. What were you doing with the freezer truck?”

“Lula and I were staking out Larry Virgil, and he drove up in the semi. One thing led to another. Blah, blah, blah. And Lula crashed the truck into Eddie Gazarra’s squad car.”

“And the deceased?”

“We opened the door to look inside, and the guy fell out.”

“As it turns out,” Ranger said, “I’ve been hired by Harry Bogart. He wants increased security in his factory. For years he’s been engaged in an ice cream war with Mo Morris. In the past it’s been confined to competitive pricing, ripping off recipes, ads that pushed the boundaries of slander, and occasionally a shouting match at a family function.”

“They’re related?”

“Cousins.”

“And I guess they don’t like each other.”

“Not even a little. Lately bad things have been happening to Harry Bogart. Salmonella in the double chocolate. A bomb hoax that shut down production for an entire day. One of the freezers was down for the night, and literally a ton of ice cream melted. Bogart is sure it’s Mo Morris out to ruin him, but he can’t prove anything.”

“So he’s hired you.”

“His factory is old-school. No security cameras. No instant alerts when equipment goes down. Locks that can be opened with a nail file. I guess he’s never needed more. It’s not like he’s doing nuclear research.”

“You’re fixing all that.”

“Yes, but it takes time. It’s a big job. He needs new wiring. He has to approve the system design. I’d like to give him a couple men on foot patrol until we get everything up and running, but he refuses. He says ice cream is happiness and comfort, and his customers would turn to birthday cake and mac and cheese if they thought his ice cream was under siege.”

“He sounds like a nice man.”

“He’s ruthless and miserly. So far I haven’t seen evidence of nice.”

“He makes good ice cream.”

Ranger nodded. “So I’ve been told.”

“Do you think the dead guy could be Harry Bogart?”

“No. Wrong body type. Bogart is a big man.”

“Eats a lot of ice cream?”

“Eats a lot of everything.” Ranger turned into my parking lot. “I need someone to go inside the two ice cream factories and look around. Do you have time to moonlight for me?”

“What would I do?”