Three to Get Deadly (Stephanie Plum, #3)

by Janet Evanovich

I was born and raised in the burg and while my current apartment is approximately a mile outside the burg boundary I’m still tethered by an invisible umbilical. I’ve been hacking away at the damn thing for years but have never been able to completely sever it.

I wasn’t sure why I was still working for Vinnie. I suspected it had something to do with the title. Bounty hunter. It held a certain cachet.

Logic dictated that if the government issued a license to own a gun then it must be okay to put it in your purse. I mean, why else would a person want a gun if not to carry it in her purse.

Good thing the fashion police didn’t do too many tours of Trenton.

Lula credited me with saving her life, and I blamed myself for endangering it.

“Yeah. My Lotus is in the shop.” Actually, my Lotus was in my dreams.

“Us crime stoppers have a tough life, huh?”

“They never gonna make a TV series out of this job,”

I guess being short and cute didn’t help all that much when it was time to grow up.

Trouble was…life wasn’t always logical.

“Oh my God,” Connie said. “A homosexual and a drug user. Oh my God.”

When in doubt, always look like you know what you’re doing.

There’d been a part of me that hadn’t wanted the keys to work. Probably it was the smart part. The part that knew I wouldn’t look good in prison clothes.

Damn. What were the chances of two people breaking into Mo’s at the same time?

By day Morelli looked lean and predatory, but sometimes late at night when his features were softened by exhaustion and eighteen hours of beard growth there were glimpses of a more vulnerable Morelli. I found the vulnerable Morelli to be dangerously endearing.

If ever there was a time for clear thought, this was it, and here I was without a clear thought in my head.

“I know you’re in there. I can hear you breathing.” I figured that was a big fat lie because I’d stopped breathing with the first rap of his knuckles.

“I’ve got to get a new job,” I said to Lula. “I don’t like getting shot at.”

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.

“Everybody deserves respect when they’re dead,”

“Don’t you talk about God like that, you worthless ho. I’m not gonna stand here and let you blaspheme God.”

Failure makes me hungry.

“My sex life is okay.” “Yeah,” Morelli said. “But sometimes it’s fun to have a partner.”

It was one thing for me to snub Morelli. It was an entirely different matter for him to snub me. This was not how the game was played.

I’d decided at an early age to stop being embarrassed over my family.

Course, two weeks ago Binney was telling everyone Donald Trump was looking in her window.”

You can’t improve something that doesn’t exist.

I didn’t understand the allure of not growing up, because every little girl in the burg couldn’t wait to grow up and get boobs and go steady.

Not only did Wonder Woman spill over her Wondercups but she also kicked serious ass. If I had to name the single most influential person in my life it would have to be Wonder Woman.

I was currently having problems coming up with a good fantasy.

I suppose curiosity isn’t a healthy character trait in this neighborhood.

Still, “see you around” felt a little bit like “don’t call me, I’ll call you.” Not that I wanted Morelli to call me. It was more that I wondered why he didn’t want to. What was wrong with me, anyway?

“Red would be bitchin’.”

Today was Saturday, and my mother expected me for pot roast at six. “Pity roast” was a more accurate term. Unwed daughter, too pathetic to have a date on a Saturday night, is sucked in by four pounds of rolled rump.

My first instinct was to run away. My second instinct was to shout for help. I didn’t follow either of these instincts because the cold barrel of a gun was pressed to my ear.

James Bond would have shown disdain with a clever remark. Indiana Jones would have sneered and said something snotty. The best I could come up with was, “Oh yeah?”

“They burned me with a cigarette.” A muscle worked in Morelli’s jaw.

“Doesn’t smell all that good either.” “I wasn’t going to mention it. I thought it might be you.”

It was not good etiquette to bury bodies in the basement of a candy store.

“You’re only interested in one thing, Morelli.” “Got my number, do you?” “Yes. And you can forget it. You’re not getting my leftovers.”

Stephanie Plum, master of denial. Why deal with the trauma of almost being tortured when I could put it off indefinitely?

Stephanie Plum’s rule of thumb for mental health—always procrastinate the unpleasant.

Damned if I was going to let a couple loser men get the better of me.

I’m lucky because I was born with a positive personality. Even when things aren’t looking too good, I don’t let myself get beaten down. I just start pushing and shoving. Pretty soon I’m so loud and full of bullshit I just forget about being scared.

“I got a body stuck to my windshield!”

“I’m gonna definitely have the runs,” Lula said. “I can feel it coming on.” “Forget about the runs and help me with this body!”

“Don’t want to get a ticket. I hear the police are real picky about having things sticking out of your trunk.” Especially dead guys.

I knocked on the door and waited, wondering what sort of reception I’d get, praying Morelli was alone. If he had a woman with him I’d be so embarrassed I’d have to move to Florida.

“Funny how life works,” Lula said. “All this came about because I ate a bad burrito. It’s like God knew what he was doing when he gave me the runs.”

Morelli lifted my chin a fraction of an inch with his index finger and studied my face. “Are you going to be okay?”