Hardcore Twenty-Four (Stephanie Plum 24)

I cruised past the protesters, and Grandma swiveled in her seat. “Do you think that was a real zombie?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “I think it was someone made up to look like a zombie to get attention.”

I parked in my parents’ driveway, and I carried the bags of dog paraphernalia into the kitchen while Grandma walked Henry around the front yard, trying to get him to tinkle.

“What’s all this?” my mom asked.

“Grandma has a surprise to show you,” I said. “This is part of it.”

Grandma brought Henry into the house. “Here he is,” she said to my mom. “Isn’t he a pip? His name is Henry, and he’s not going to be any trouble. I’m going to walk him and feed him and he’s going to sleep with me.”

My mom’s eyes glazed over for a beat, and I knew she was thinking Why me? “What on earth?” she finally said. “How. Why?”

I took the dog bed out of a bag and put it on the floor. “Because she was going to sleep with either Roger Murf and his wife, or else she was going to sleep with Henry.”

My mom knelt down to get a better look at Henry. “He is cute,” she said.

“I have to run,” I said. “Things to do.”

I wanted to get back to the protesters. I wanted to see the zombie up close. Hard to believe it could be Slick, but no stone unturned.

I hustled out of the Burg to the new bakery in Hamilton, and arrived just as the protesters were filing onto a bus. I parked and rushed over to a guy who looked like he was the handler.

“Is the zombie on the bus?” I asked him.

“Zombie?”

“Short guy with messy brown hair, wrinkled dirt-smudged clothes, red eyes. Smells like carnations.”

“Ah, that guy. No, he took off on foot as soon as he got paid. We have another gig, but he wasn’t interested.”

“How much did he get paid?”

“Standard protester wage. Twenty dollars an hour for carrying a sign, and a twenty-dollar bonus if you heckle enough to start a riot. Why? Are you interested? I could use another body at the next stop.”

“I could use the money. What will you be protesting?”

“I don’t know exactly. I don’t have the details on my work order. All I know is, it’s a political fundraiser at a private residence.”

“What were you protesting at this bakery?”

“They refuse to do gluten-free wedding cakes. It’s blatantly discriminatory.”

“I never thought of gluten in those terms.”

“So, what’s the word?” he asked. “Are you getting on the bus?”

“No, but thanks for the offer.”

I returned to the Buick and drove a grid, looking for Slick. He was on foot. I thought he couldn’t have gone far. After twenty minutes of searching I decided I needed another pair of eyes, so I went back to the office and got Lula.

“These zombies are sneaky,” Lula said. She had her window down, hoping to catch a whiff of carnation. “One minute they’re here and the next thing . . . poof.”

I looked at my gas gauge. It was a smidgen from empty. By the time I dropped Lula at the bonds office, I’d be running on fumes. I drifted into a gas station and called Morelli while I pumped in my last twenty dollars.

“Have you gotten any forensics back?” I asked him.

“Yes. It’s pretty interesting. I can’t tell you everything over the phone, but we’ve been able to identify some of the DNA. The sample we got from the double-wide broken window was especially helpful. And the hot sauce on the take-out calf brains on my sidewalk was instantly identified as Tabasco. The red smear on your door also appears to be Tabasco.”