Hardcore Twenty-Four (Stephanie Plum #24)(24)

My understanding is that Diesel has a job that is a little like mine. He works for a mysterious private organization, and he tracks down organization members who abuse their power. I know nothing beyond this, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t kill people.

Johnny Chucci’s mother was sitting in the middle of the viewing room. Chucci’s sister, Penny, was with her. I didn’t see any of the Chucci men. Johnny’s brother Earl was my age. We went through school together, but he was never in any of my classes, and we never hung out. The second brother, Little Pinkie, I only knew in passing. His given name is George but everyone calls him Little Pinkie because he has a stump for a little finger on his left hand.

A woman approached the casket, looked down at Emily, and fainted. She was the third woman to faint so far. My guess is that the head hadn’t gone on perfectly.

Grandma abandoned her seat at eight-thirty and made her way to the lobby. This was standard procedure for her at this point in time. Her lady friends would be collecting around the refreshment table. They’d exchange gossip, critique the appearance of the deceased, and stuff cookies into their purses.

I joined Grandma a couple minutes before closing.

“You should have come out earlier,” Grandma said. “All the good cookies are gone.”

“Did you learn anything interesting?”

“A couple people have seen Johnny. Myrna Zuck ran into him at the Italian bakery. He was buying a rye bread. And Florence Minkowski saw him at Cluck-in-a-Bucket. No one knows where he’s staying. I asked the mother and sister about him, and they grabbed the last two Oreos and rushed off.”

Lights dimmed as a signal that the viewing was over.

“It was a good viewing but not great,” Grandma said. “It would have been better if the zombie had taken Harold Kucher’s brain. Harold’s the exalted ruler of the Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks. There would have been a big ceremony for him. All the Elks would have been here wearing their sashes and hats and medals. As it was, we just had some fainters.”

Grandma and I followed the crowd to the door, where the funeral director was wishing everyone a good night.

“It was pretty good work, considering the problem you must have had fixing the head back on,” Grandma told the funeral director.

The funeral director nodded in agreement. “We try our best.”

“I couldn’t help notice it was screwed on a little crooked,” Grandma said.

The funeral director squelched a grimace, and I moved Grandma through the door and down the stairs.

“You must have had a hard time finding a place to park,” Grandma said. “There’s cars all up and down the street.”

“I cheated and parked in the driveway for the funeral home garages. We can take a shortcut through the parking lot.”

The parking lot ran the length of one side of the funeral home. The garages were to the rear, shielded from view by a hedge and some chunky shrubs. We walked through the lot and skirted around the hedge. The funeral director’s car was parked by the building’s rear exit. The hearses and flower cars were out of sight in the garage. The area was lit by an overhead flood. The Lexus was discreetly parked in a shaded area on the edge of the drive.

We approached the car and something rustled in the bushes. My first thought was animal. My second thought was funeral director.

Grandma hauled her gun out of her purse and two-handed it in front of her. “Who’s there?” she said. “I’ve got a gun so you better be careful.”

There was more rustling. Something gave a guttural grunt, and for a split second I thought I saw the outline of a man. He was in dark shadow. He was there, and then he was gone.

“Do you smell that?” Grandma asked. “That’s the stink of a zombie.”

“Are you sure it’s not the dumpster?”

“Two entirely different stinks,” Grandma said. “There was a zombie prowling around out here. No doubt he was looking for a brain to eat, and I scared him away.”

“No doubt.”

“We should tell the funeral director,” Grandma said.

“That might not be a good idea,” I said, opening the car door for Grandma. “We’re not supposed to be parked back here.” Not to mention, most sane people don’t entirely believe in zombies.

“I forgot about that. I guess we should keep quiet, but I’m going to feel real bad if he comes back and eats someone’s brain.”

? ? ?

I turned Grandma over to my mom and went home to a quiet apartment. Rex was running on his wheel. Diesel was off, doing his Diesel thing. No zombies lurking in my kitchen. Ranger’s car was safely parked in the lot behind my building. It was all good.

I poured myself a glass of wine, tucked a box of Froot Loops under my arm, and settled in front of the television. I watched three recorded episodes of The Mind of a Chef and one episode of Barnwood Builders. I don’t cook and I don’t have any plans to build a barn, but I’m hooked on the shows.

Before heading to bed, I threw the deadbolt and put the security chain in place on my apartment door. I knew it wouldn’t stop Diesel from getting in, but it might make it more of a challenge.

I was dragged out of sleep by a warm body moving next to me. I looked at my bedside clock. Four in the morning. An arm curled around me and drew me closer to the body. Diesel was back.