Hardcore Twenty-Four (Stephanie Plum #24)(4)

Morelli ran across the yard, grabbed my sweatshirt sleeve, and yanked me toward the road. We reached the road and walked hand in hand back to the car.

“This was fun,” Morelli said. “We should do this more often.”

“Tomorrow?”

“No.”

We were at the car, and we took a last look around. The sun had set, and the double-wide was a black blob in the darkness. There was some rustling in the surrounding brush, but aside from that it was quiet. No dogs barking. No cats howling. No one screaming that they were being eaten alive by a giant snake.

“Do you think we should look inside before we leave?” I asked Morelli.

“No,” Morelli said. “We should definitely not look inside.”

Forty-five minutes later Morelli pulled to the curb in front of his house.

“Usually Simon gets rebonded when he misses his date,” Morelli said. “What’s the deal with him staying in jail?”

“He’s being stalked by zombies. He figures he’s safer if he’s locked up.”

That got a smile out of Morelli. “One of the disadvantages to being a grave robber. I guess occasionally you dig up a zombie.”

“He said he dug into a portal.”

“That can’t be good.”

I cut my eyes to Morelli. “You don’t believe in zombies, do you?”

“No. Do you?”

“No, of course not.” And if I did believe in zombies I for sure wouldn’t admit to it.

? ? ?

Bob did his happy dance when we walked through the door. His happiness was enhanced by the fact that we were carrying hot dogs. I snagged a couple bottles of beer from Morelli’s fridge, and we all went out to the backyard. Morelli fired up the grill, and before long we were all stuffed full of hot dogs.

“So, what’s new?” I asked Morelli.

Morelli cracked open a second beer. “Someone was decapitated last night. Male Caucasian without identification. He was found in the alley behind the hardware store on Broad Street. Looks like he was dragged there. The ME puts the time of death around four A.M.”

“Is it your case?”

“Yeah, lucky me.”

“And?”

“And I got nothing. I’m waiting for the lab reports to come back.”

“You didn’t recognize him?”

“No one recognized him. He didn’t have a head.”

“Are you serious?”

“Unfortunately, yes. No head. Gone without a trace. We checked all the dumpsters in the area but nada.”

My job was bad enough. If I had Morelli’s job I’d be a raging alcoholic. Every day he was, figuratively speaking, ankle deep in blood. He witnessed scenes of horrible crimes committed by sick people. And despite this, for the most part he could sleep at night, and he hadn’t lost faith in the human race. He’d become a master at compartmentalizing. I’m not so good at it. I frequently sleep with the bedroom light on.

Morelli shut the grill down and wrapped an arm around me. “You know what comes next?”

“Ice cream?”

“I haven’t got any ice cream.”

“What do you have?”

Morelli grinned. “Something better than ice cream.”

“Hard to believe.”

“The key word is hard.”

Oh boy.





TWO


MORELLI LIVES IN a neighborhood of good people packed into modest houses on minimal lots. His front yard is plain. His grass is kept neat. No flowers. No shrubs. No plastic pink flamingos or plaster statues of the Virgin Mary. He has a large flat-screen television in his living room, a pool table in his dining room, and a small table with two chairs in his kitchen. There are three small bedrooms and a full bath upstairs. The master has a king-size bed, which is a good thing because Bob takes up a lot of space.

Morelli is an early riser, always eager to start his day. On the rare occasion he’s not completely eager, he’s still propelled forward by routine. My routine has a slower start. I’m mostly reluctant to start my day. Especially when it involves looking for a snake.

Sunlight was pouring into Morelli’s room by the time I dragged myself out of his bed and into the shower. We didn’t cohabitate, but I spent enough time there to warrant space in the closet. I retrieved some clean clothes, got dressed, went downstairs, and let Bob out to roam around the backyard. I toasted a bagel, helped myself to coffee, and talked myself into heading out to the office.

? ? ?

Vincent Plum Bail Bonds is housed in a small storefront office on Hamilton Avenue. It’s between the hospital and the bakery, and it’s across the street from Chambersburg, better known as the Burg. I grew up in the Burg, and my parents still live there. When I was a kid, the Burg was predominantly Italian with some eastern Europeans scattered here and there. It was home to mostly midlevel mob families and second-generation Americans. The population is more diverse now, but it’s still a neighborhood that has strong family bonds, keeps itself clean, and takes pride in displaying the flag.

Lula was already at the office when I rolled in.

“Look at you,” Lula said. “I can tell you got some last night. You got that satisfied look on you.”

It was true that I got some. And it was true that it was satisfying, but that was last night, and I thought the satisfaction Lula was seeing this morning was more from the bagel.