Hardcore Twenty-Four (Stephanie Plum 24)

I thought if the sound system in her car hadn?

??t permanently damaged her ears, the flash grenades weren’t going to have an effect.

Lula put her hands to her head. “Where’s my Farrah Fawcett wig? Someone took my wig. I’m pressing charges. Don’t anybody leave the scene.”

There were a bunch of signs scattered around, but not many protesters. Slick was gone and so were my handcuffs. The police and some Parks were cleaning up the litter. No blond wig in sight.

“It was splattered with tomato, anyway,” I said.

“Yeah, you got some on you too. And egg. And your shirt got a big rip in it. I’m sayin’ that all in all this here was a depressing day. I need a donut.”

A donut sounded like a good idea. A dozen donuts sounded even better. It was almost nine o’clock, and the sun had set. I wasn’t sure if I was up for the late dinner with Morelli. I was hungry, but I wasn’t feeling like a sex goddess. I was feeling like I’d gotten punched in the face, and my eye was swelling.

“Do I have a black eye?” I asked Lula.

“I can’t tell,” Lula said. “It’s too dark here.”

We walked for two blocks and stopped.

“Where’s your car?” Lula asked. “I could swear we parked it here.”

We looked around. No car.

“I think someone stole your car,” Lula said.

“I think you’re right.”

“This is doodie,” Lula said. “Just when I need a donut someone goes and steals your car. Some people have no consideration.”

I reviewed my choices. I could call Morelli. I could call my dad. I could call Uber. Or I could call Ranger.

“Hold on,” Lula said. “What’s that laying in the gutter? Looks to me like your license plates.”

I went to the curb and retrieved the plates.

“This is looking up,” Lula said. “At least you got your plates. All we need now is a car. How about the one across the street. It looks like a Lexus.”

“We aren’t going to steal a car.”

“I don’t see why not. Someone took ours, so we should be able to help ourself to a new one. Tit for tat.”

My cellphone buzzed, and the screen told me it was Ranger. Ricardo Carlos Manoso, aka Ranger, is former Special Forces. He’s smart. He’s sexy. He’s Cuban American. He grew up street tough. He has his own moral code. And he has secrets. He wears only black unless he’s undercover. He sits with his back to the wall when he’s in a public place.

When we first met, Ranger was working as a bounty hunter. Since then he’s become a successful businessman, owning and operating Rangeman, a high-tech security firm housed in a stealth building in downtown Trenton. We’ve been intimate in the past, but much like with Diesel, there’s no possibility of marriage or even a long-term, stable relationship. Ranger has complicated life goals. He also has an overly protective attitude, and he puts trackers on my cars so he can keep tabs on me. I’ve given up trying to remove them.

“My control room tells me your car just went for a swim in the Delaware River,” Ranger said.

“It was just stolen. You should probably send the police to see if there’s anyone in it.”

“Do you need a ride?”

I blew out a sigh. “Yes. And I have Lula with me. Do you know where I am?”

“State and Lincoln.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Do you have my messenger bag bugged again?”

“No. I can ping your cellphone.”