Look Alive Twenty-Five (Stephanie Plum 25)

Technically that was sort of true.

“I’m not that kind of bounty hunter,” I said. “I don’t break doors down.”

“These are desperate times,” Annie said. “You have my phone number, and I’m going to text you the address. It’s easy to recognize Miss Muffy because she’s fluffy. And she’s a cat. There should be a cat carrier by the back door. I could see it through the window. Just put Miss Muffy in the carrier. She’s very sweet.”

I hung up, and my phone dinged with the texted address.

“What was that about?” Lula asked.

“Annie Gurky wants me to steal her cat back for her.”

“That’s a worthy cause,” Lula said. “That’s righteous.”

“It’s a felony.”

“Not for us,” Lula said. “We go in looking for Annie, and we can’t help if the cat follows us out.”

Connie had her hands over her ears. “I’m not hearing any of this.”

Half Connie’s family is mob. She grew up knowing when not to listen.

“It’s my understanding from last time we talked to Annie that her husband has the cat,” Lula said. “Does this intervention involve getting the husband out of the house?”

“The house is empty,” I said. “The husband is at a cornhole competition in Atlantic City.”

“Say what?”

“Cornhole competition. That’s what Annie told me.”

“That sounds like something sick,” Lula said. “What kind of a person would participate in a cornhole competition? I personally wouldn’t be involved in anything to do with cornholes. Even when I was working as a ’ho I didn’t touch cornholes.”

“It’s a game with beanbags,” Connie said. “There’s a board with a hole in it, and you throw the beanbags and try to get them through the hole.”

“Then why’s it called a cornhole competition?” Lula asked. “Why isn’t it a beanbag competition?”

“I don’t know,” Connie said. “I got nothing.”

“So where does this guy live?” Lula asked.

“Hamilton Township.”

“We should go take a look,” Lula said, settling her faux Vuitton tote onto her shoulder. “Scope it out. It could coincide with lunch at the new diner on Route 33. I understand they serve an excellent Taylor’s pork roll sandwich.”

We took Lula’s Firebird and followed her GPS to Freestone Street. It was a neighborhood of nicely maintained single-family houses. Lots were just the right size to have a swing set in the back for the kids and a fenced yard for the dog. Sidewalks were shaded by mature trees. No graffiti. No bullet holes in the aluminum siding. Very respectable. Didn’t seem appropriate for the scumbag cat snatcher and his whore.

“This is a real nice neighborhood,” Lula said. “I bet they got stainless appliances in these kitchens.”

“We’re looking for number 3625 Freestone,” I said. “It’s the ranch just ahead on the right.”

Lula idled in front of the house. “Not a lot of bushes around it,” she said. “And the neighbors’ houses are close on both sides. People are going to see us creeping around, looking to break in.”

“We want to go in through the back door,” I said. “That’s where the cat carrier is located.”

“I’m thinking we do this at night,” Lula said. “It’s harder to see me at night on account of I’m like a shadow then. I’m like Super Dark Shadow Girl.”

I was like Super White Moonbeam, but I could tamp it down if I wore a black hoodie.

Lula cruised on down the street, and the Rangeman guy followed close behind. We stopped at the diner and invited the Rangeman guy to join us for lunch, but he declined.