Three to Get Deadly (Stephanie Plum, #3)

by Janet Evanovich

There was little to brighten the neighborhood in January.

blinking twinkle lights and red plastic Santas of Christmas were packed away, and spring was still far in the future. Hydrangea bushes were nothing more than mean brown sticks, lawns were frost-robbed of color and streets were empty of kids, cats, car washers and blaring radios. Windows and doors were shut tight against the cold and gloom.

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. Fortunately, the vulnerable Morelli wasn’t showing its face tonight. Tonight Morelli was all tired cop.

I thought of Mary Lou’s kid with the graham crackers smeared in his hair, and felt better about being a bounty hunter. You see, it could always be worse, I thought. I could be a schoolteacher.

Even the night people, the drunks and the kiddie crews, were tucked away, leaving the occasional fluorescent wash of light to derelict pigeons, walking the sidewalks, pecking at fool’s food.

Poochie, Mrs. Crandle’s two-hundred-year-old toy poodle, was sitting on the porch across the street, conjuring up one last tinkle before he called it a night.

My father stared at us all for a moment, looking like he might be contemplating the advantages of a six-month tour on an aircraft carrier, and then he returned his attention to the TV.

Stephanie Plum’s rule of thumb for mental health—always procrastinate the unpleasant. After all, I could get run over by a truck tomorrow

I drank my coffee and looked out the rain-streaked window. Cars drove by in abstract motion. Blurry images and smeary flashes of bright red taillights.

“A woman’s never too old to make an idiot of herself. It goes along with equality of the sexes and potty parity.”

I had pepper spray and a stun gun, but it seemed like excessive force to use them against a chicken armed with special sauce.

“I haven’t got all day,” Lula said to Stuart. “I want to get some chicken and go back to work, and you’re holding me up. Put those stupid squirters down.”

Half an hour later I left the station with my body receipt, happy to escape the cracks about smelling like a barbecue. Not to mention the abuse I took for bringing in a chicken. A person can take only so much cop humor.

I checked myself out in the rearview mirror. When a person has orange hair it’s best to appraise it in the dark.

Bucky had said my car would be ready at ten. Not that I doubted Morelli or Bucky, but I’d come to regard car repairs with the same sort of cynicism I’d previously reserved for Elvis sightings.

“Killing people is for the good of America?” “Eliminating the drug scourge.” Oh boy. Scourge removers.

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.

Larry and I were alone in the store. No one else behind the counter. No one else in front of the counter. Just me and Larry and three hundred shirts.