Three to Get Deadly (Stephanie Plum, #3)

by Janet Evanovich

“Mo might be dead in there,” Lula said. “Or maybe he’s sick. Could of had a stroke and be laying on the bathroom floor.” “We are not going to break in.” “Would be a humanitarian effort,” Lula said. “And against the law.” “Sometimes these humanitarian efforts go into the gray zone.”

I pulled on gloves but thought twice about a hat. You wear a hat in the morning and you look like a fool for the rest of the day. Not that I looked all that wonderful this morning. It was more that I didn’t want to compound the problem. Especially since Morelli was sitting in my parking lot. Just in case the unthinkable happened, and I got arrested…I didn’t want to have hat hair for my mug shot.

I thought kids were okay from a distance, but I wasn’t all that excited about the way they smelled up close. I suppose when they belong to you it makes a difference.

Cops never stopped being cops. It had to be the world’s hardest job.

Lula lost her footing, and the two of them went down to the floor—Leroy, arms outstretched, stiff as a board, looking like Frankenstein from the ’hood, on top of Lula.

Morelli had his gun in his hand. “Stay here,” he said. Which was as good as guaranteeing I’d follow him down.

Someday when the memory was fuzzy at the edges I’d dredge it up and give it attention. Stephanie Plum’s rule of thumb for mental health—always procrastinate the unpleasant. After all, I could get run over by a truck tomorrow and never have to come to terms with the attack at all.

Muscle tone wouldn’t help a lot when it came to pepper spray, but it’d give me an edge on attitude. Mentally alert, physically fit would be my new motto.

I was happy with the run. Even happier to have it behind me.

“Don’t worry,” Lula said. “I know what I’m doing. I’ve got perfect reflexes. I’m like a cat.”

“Dang,” Lula said. I thought that summed it up.

No matter how much violent death I saw, I would never get used to it.

I didn’t want revenge. Revenge isn’t a productive emotion. I simply wanted to succeed.

A person can take only so much cop humor.

“So why’d you part ways with this Dickie Orr person?” Lula asked. “He’s a jerk.” “Good enough for me,” she said. “I hate him already.”

It was okay to be afraid, but not okay to let it restrict my life.

Fred looked to be about three hundred years old. Gravity had pulled the skin from the top of his head down to his neck, and Fred had tucked it into his shirt collar.

When something needs to be ironed I put it in the ironing basket. If a year goes by and the item is still in the basket I throw the item away. This is a good system since eventually I end up only with clothes that don’t need ironing.

Threatening my hamster made me Godzilla. I had no intention of saying good-bye to my hamster.

I might not be the most patient woman in the world, or the most glamorous, or the most athletic, but I’m right up there at the top of the line when it comes to resiliency.