Hardcore Twenty-Four (Stephanie Plum 24)

“Yes. But I don’t know why. It doesn’t fit the user profile.”

“Thanks for telling me.”

“Be careful,” he said.

I stood and stuffed my phone into my jeans pocket. I had an idea about the setup and Slick. He was making a video. It had started as a documentary, but now maybe he was fabricating. Maybe it had turned too ordinary when it became just another drug story. Maybe he had to sensationalize it. Problem was, I didn’t know how far he would go to get good film. And I didn’t know if he was using the drug. Bottom line was that I had to find Slick.

“Gotta go,” I told my mom and Grandma. “I’m still looking for Zero Slick.”

“If you find him, I wouldn’t mind meeting him,” Grandma said. “He’s a real celebrity. He’s the Zombie Blogger.”

I felt my eyebrows lift halfway into my forehead. “How long has he been the Zombie Blogger?”

“Not too long. I started following him over the weekend. He’s got some good videos on YouTube, too. He’s making a real name for himself.”

“I’d like to see some of his videos,” I said.

“I got my computer on the dining room table,” Grandma said. “All you have to do is look for Zero Slick.”

I sat down, typed in his name, and there he was. The videos were all short. The cemetery during the day. Just scenery. The cemetery at night, badly lit, as if he was holding his cellphone camera with one hand, and a flashlight with the other. There were zombies in the night videos. Dirty, dull-faced creatures. Their gait was halting and stiff-legged. One of them fell into a pit that I assumed was an open grave. The camera cut away to another zombie sticking a needle into his arm.

More dark footage from inside one of the dirt caves. What appeared to be part of a head on a small table. Some surgical instruments also on the table. Sickening to look at given the atrocities of the past week. No sound with the video beyond some scraping and heavy breathing.

“He’s good at making horror movies,” Grandma said. “He has a real flair.”

I didn’t tell Grandma this was probably real. Better only one of us has nightmares.

The last two videos were my door with the words BRAINS and DIE scratched into it, and Morelli’s vandalized door. Two blurred figures could be seen very briefly staring at Morelli’s door. Morelli and me. I doubt anyone else would recognize us. The video had been shot from a distance, and the quality was poor.

“That’s it for the movies,” Grandma said. “According to his blog he’ll be putting a new movie up tonight.”

I took some time to read through his blog. It was a diary of his nighttime wanderings and adventures with the zombies. Hard to tell what was real and what was fiction. He wrote about working with the Supreme Ruler of the Zombies, and he promised that something shocking was about to be videoed.

I thought the videos I just watched were already too shocking. I wasn’t a horror movie kind of person. I was more romantic comedy. Indiana Jones was as violent as I could go.

I called Morelli back.

“Have you seen Zero Slick’s videos on YouTube?” I asked him.

“There are videos?”

“Yes. And he has a blog. You want to check it out. He mentions the Supreme Ruler of the Zombies. Apparently, they’re hanging out together. And there’s a fuzzy picture of us in front of your house, looking at your door.”

“How did you discover this?”

“Grandma.”

“I should have guessed,” Morelli said.

I ended the call with Morelli, said goodbye to my mom, and walked to the door. Grandma went with me.

“Let me know if you need help with the zombies,” Grandma said. “I’m good with dead people.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

I DROVE OUT of the Burg and cruised past the bonds office. It was closed for the night. Traffic was heavy on Hamilton Avenue an

d going through the center of the city. Rush hour. Everyone going home. Except me. I was going to Rangeman. I drove into the garage, stepped into the elevator, and exited into Ranger’s apartment. It was nice, but it wasn’t home. I went to the kitchen and said hello to Rex and poured myself a glass of wine. Ranger kept wine in his apartment, but he almost never drank it. He didn’t mix alcohol and guns. And he almost always carried a gun.