Top Secret Twenty-One: A Stephanie Plum Novel by Janet Evanovich(46)

“I need you to pretend to be a lawyer tomorrow morning, and you need to look the part.”

“My friend Nick is my size. I might be able to borrow some clothes from him. What kind of lawyer am I?”

“Litigator.”

“Oh man, I’m going to be a kick-ass litigator. Who are we suing? I can do this. I’ll scare the crap out of the sonsabitches. I even thought about being a lawyer when I was in college.”

“I’m not suing anyone. This is sort of a con.”

“A what?”

“A con. A scam.”

“Say again.”

“A con,” I yelled into the phone.

“A con. Even better!”

“Call me if you need a ride to pick up the clothes. Otherwise I’ll come get you tomorrow at eight A.M.”

Lula was on the couch, reading email on her smartphone, when I walked into the office.

“This here’s from my cousin Joleen,” she said. “She’s gonna get married as soon as her boyfriend gets a parole. He’s got a hearing coming up in a couple weeks, and they’re thinking about a December wedding if everything goes right.”

“Gee, that’s great,” I said. “What’s he in for?”

“Armed robbery with intent to kill, but it wasn’t his fault. He was on a lot of drugs.”

“And he’s off them now?”

“Yeah. Drugs are expensive in prison, and he don’t have a good source of income there.”

“I need to have another conversation with Buster,” I said. “Do you want to ride along?”

“Sure,” Lula said. “As long as we get back by five o’clock. I got a big date tonight, and it might take me some time to get beautiful.”

I drove past Rangeman on the way across town. The crime scene tape had been taken down, but several vans from a variety of government agencies were still in place.

“This whole thing gives me the creeps,” Lula said. “I don’t like no radioactive shit leaking out in my neighborhood. Excuse my language, but there’s no other way to say it. It’s scary as snot.”

I cut back to State Street, turned up Stark, and parked across the street from Buster. It was late in the day, and people were lining up for pizza.

We crossed the street, I pushed the intercom buzzer, and Buster answered.

“It’s me again,” I said.

“Is the chick with the big tits with you?”

“Yeah.”

“Come on up.”

“That’s sweet,” Lula said. “He remembered me.”

Buster was standing at the top of the stairs, wearing a red chef’s apron and holding a spoon.

“What’s up?” he said. “I’m in the middle of making dinner.”

“What are you making?” Lula asked him.

“Red sauce. I’m having spaghetti. I got some nice parmesan and some fresh basil.”

“We need to talk,” I said. “Someone just shot a rocket into a very expensive Porsche because Briggs was in it. Was that you?”

“No shit,” Buster said. “Did Briggs get blown up?”

“No, he was thrown clear.”

“Bummer,” Buster said.

“So?” I asked him.

“Not me. I don’t do rockets.”

“Who would do rockets?”

Buster shrugged. “Could be anyone.”

“Let’s take this from another direction. Who would want Briggs dead?”

“Just about everyone I know. He snooped where he shouldn’t be snooping. He messed around with other people’s wives. He was damn annoying. And he can’t drive. He’s a menace on the road. He kept smashing into my Mercedes with his stupid blue RAV4. I hated that car.”

“Omigod,” I said. “You’re the car bomber.”

“Right now I’m the spaghetti maker,” Buster said. “Do you ladies want to stay for supper?”

“I got a date,” Lula said, “but I’ll take a rain check. That spaghetti sauce smells good.”

I drove Lula back to the office and continued on to Morelli’s house. Morelli wasn’t home, so I took Bob for a walk, straightened up the kitchen, fed Bob, and made myself a grilled cheese sandwich.

Morelli rolled in at seven o’clock. He grabbed me and kissed me, and scratched Bob behind his ear. He got a beer out of the fridge, chugged it, and belched.

“Long day,” I said.

“No kidding. Do we have food?”

I assembled two more grilled cheese sandwiches and set them into the fry pan. I wasn’t any kind of a cook, but I could make grilled cheese.

“Ron Siglowski turned up today,” Morelli said. “He floated down the Delaware and washed up onto the shore by the Route 1 bridge embankment. A homeless guy found him at four o’clock. He was decomposed, but it was obvious he’d taken a bullet in the head.”

“That leaves just two poker players.”

Morelli looked around. “Where’s Briggs?”

“He’s staying in my apartment while it’s under construction. I thought it was better than having him here.”

“If I had to live with him another day, you could add me to the list of people trying to kill him.”