Game On: Tempting Twenty-Eight (Stephanie Plum #28)(35)

Diesel followed us out and led us across the street to his Bronco. It was parked on the sidewalk with two red cones in front of the car and two behind it.

“Where did you get the cones?” I asked him.

“They were marking a pothole in front of the hospital. It was well lit. I didn’t think they were necessary.”

My mother was still ironing when we walked into the kitchen. Melvin was at his computer, making notes in a steno pad.

“You’re home early,” my mom said.

“It was a bust,” Grandma said. “They had the deceased’s mouth clamped shut and there was no sign of the tongue. Then it was so crowded you couldn’t even see who was there. And if that wasn’t enough, I got bumped and spilled my tea and cookies.” Grandma filled the teakettle with water and turned it on. “I’m having a cup of tea and some of that leftover applesauce cake.” She pulled the cake out of the refrigerator. “There’s plenty for everyone, and we got whipped cream for it.”

“Sign me up,” Melvin said.

“Are you making any progress?” I asked him.

“I was able to access some older emails and messages from Mushy2’s computer. I found some embarrassing nude selfies and it looks like there’s another local Baked Potato. Mushy2 and Charlie Q. seemed to know each other. Mushy2 sent messages to Charlie Q. through a different messenger app than the group used.”

“Oswald was able to track down at least three Baked Potatoes and learn who they were and where they live,” I said. “Why can’t we?”

“I suspect he traced us through the secure messenger app service we used. At least we thought it was secure,” Melvin said. “Pretty impressive. And the Baked Potatoes were so privacy oriented that we never shared our real identities. It turned out to work against us because now I can’t warn anyone.”

“Can you send a message to Charlie Q. through Mushy2’s messenger app?” I asked.

“I already tried. Charlie Q has wiped his account and trail clean. I suspect he heard about Mushy2.”

“What do you know about Charlie Q.?”

“Almost nothing except that he’s brilliant. It would be a terrible loss if Oswald got to him. I think some of the Baked Potatoes might have been evil. Charlie, Clark, and I were on the fence. If we did something bad it was for a good reason, and we didn’t take money for it.”

“How did the Baked Potatoes get to be a club?” Grandma asked.

“Shared interests online,” Melvin said. “I’ve been communicating with some of the Baked Potatoes since high school.”

“That’s nice,” Grandma said. “Good for you. It’s important to have friends, even if you don’t know who they are.”

My mom unplugged the iron.

“You still have a shirt left in the ironing basket,” Grandma said. “And you only ironed the one on the board seven times.”

“I’m out of steam,” my mom said. “I’m switching to my new hobby. I’ve taken up knitting.”

“Since when?” Grandma asked.

“Since this afternoon. I got some yarn and needles and a knitting book. There was a woman on television who said knitting was like yoga for your mind.”

“I might try that, too,” Grandma said. “I always wanted to take up yoga, but it seemed like a lot of fuss. You have to carry a mat around with you and you have to get into all those awkward positions. All you have to do is move your fingers with this knitting yoga. And I can see where carrying knitting needles in your purse would come in handy. I imagine you could do some damage with a knitting needle. If a man attacks you, you could give him a poke in his one-eyed snake.”

Diesel winced and Melvin looked confused.

“Gotta go,” I said. “I need to pick my car up at the bail bonds office.”

My mom pulled a plastic container from the fridge. “I put some spaghetti aside for you. And there’s some grated cheese with it.” She put it in a paper grocery bag with half a loaf of Italian bread. “The bread is from the bakery. Fresh today.” My mother gave me a kiss and shook her finger at Diesel. “Make sure she gets home safe.”

Diesel was back on his heels, smiling. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And thank you for not letting her die on the train tracks.”



* * *




Diesel drove to Hamilton Avenue and idled behind my car. “I’m going to follow you home, not only because my motor home is parked in your lot, but because I promised your mother that I’d keep you safe. And honestly, your mother and grandmother can be a little scary.”

This was fine by me. I wasn’t so liberated that I didn’t appreciate a man protecting me from spiders and maniacs. Diesel’s headlights in my rearview mirror were comforting. The comfort started to fade when I got closer to my neighborhood and saw an ominous red glow in the direction of my building. I turned onto the side street that led to my parking lot and was relieved to see that my building wasn’t on fire. The fire was in the parking lot. Probably the dumpster, I thought. Again. Impossible to see past the fire trucks and EMTs.

I parked on the street, and Diesel and I walked into the lot and stared at the drenched but still smoldering remains of his motor home.

His phone buzzed; he looked at the screen and muttered, “Oswald.” He did a fast scan of the area. He went to speakerphone mode and answered.