Hardcore Twenty-Four (Stephanie Plum #24)(5)

“What’s new?” I asked Connie. “Did any skips come in this morning?”

Connie is the office manager. She’s a couple years older than me, she’s twice as Italian, and if she was in a bitch-slapping contest with the Rock, my money would be on her.

“We have two new high bonds,” Connie said, sliding the files across her desk.

I paged through the files and gave Lula the condensed version. “Edward Koot. Fifty-seven years old. Shot up a coffeehouse because he said they shorted him on his caramel macchiato. Went outside in a rage and shot up four cars before he was knocked out by a senior citizen who smacked him with a HurryCane. No one was injured except Koot. He had a concussion and got a bunch of stitches in the back of his head.”

“You don’t want to mess with them HurryCanes,” Lula said. “They’re built to last. I got a neighbor has one of them. Koot got any priors?”

“He was put in an anger management program after a road rage incident.”

“Guess we know how that worked out,” Lula said.

“The second FTA is Zero Slick,” I said.

“I like him already,” Lula said. “That’s an awesome name.”

“He’s twenty-nine years old, five feet two inches, and he lists his gender as ‘questionable.’”

“Guess that covers all the bases,” Lula said. “He must be a confused individual. What’d he do?”

“He accidentally blew up an apartment building on State Street.”

“That don’t sound so bad,” Lula said. “It was a accident, right?”

“He was cooking a massive batch of meth at the time.”

“Everybody knows it’s best you do that in small batches,” Lula said. “He should have read the instructions. He’s lucky he didn’t die.”

“It says here that he was out smoking weed when the meth blew.”

“Now that I’m thinking about it, I remember seeing this on the news. There wasn’t nothing left of that building. Not that it mattered much on account of it was empty except for the meth cooker. It was gonna be torn down.”

“There’s more,” Connie said. “He also left the scene in one of the fire trucks and ran over two police cars before driving through the front door of a 7-Eleven. Rumor has it he’s suing the city for discrimination because the fire truck wasn’t equipped for a five-foot two-inch truck jacker to drive safely.”

“I always wanted to drive a fire truck,” Lula said. “I might think about being a fireman except they gotta wear them man shoes, and it would ruin my look. I got a image to protect.”

Lula’s image for the day involved a bursting-at-the-seams, super-short blue metallic bandage dress that matched her hair, and silver sandals with a three-inch wedge. If I tried to wear something like that I’d look like an idiot, but it seemed to work for Lula. I suppose it’s all about expectations.

“I’ve done preliminary phone work on Koot and Slick,” Connie said. “They don’t appear to be employed. Koot got fired from his job as a security guard when he shot up the coffeehouse. Slick lists his occupation as ‘pharmaceutical activist.’ High school graduate. No work history. He’s bounced around the country. Seattle, Chicago, Denver.”

“And now he’s here,” Lula said. “Lucky us.”

“His parents live in Hamilton Township,” Connie said. “I spoke to his mother on the phone, and she said she didn’t know where he was staying, but she might be a place for you to start anyway.”

“He’s probably on the lookout for another abandoned building,” Lula said. “I’m suggesting we get a list of them and go trolling. I want to see what someone named Zero Slick looks like.”

“We have a photo,” I said. “He doesn’t look like much. Chubby guy with brown ponytail.”

Lula glanced at the photo. “I was hoping for something better. Like he should have some tattoos or purple hair. This man doesn’t look like he’s living up to his name.”

“Maybe he’s more Zero Slick in person,” I said. “We can hunt him down as soon as we check on Ethel.”

Lula’s eyes got wide. “Ethel? You mean you haven’t found Ethel yet? No way am I going searching for Ethel. Look at me. Do I look like I’m dressed for a snake jamboree? I don’t think so.”

“You can wait in the car.”

“I guess I could do that, but don’t expect me to get out and go traipsing around.”

“Fine. Great. Wait in the car.”

“You sound like you’re all upset about this,” Lula said.

“If you wore more sensible clothes and shoes, you would be able to do more traipsing.”

“If I wore rubber boots up to my pussy I still wouldn’t go look in that double-wide,” Lula said.

Connie glanced over at me. “She has a point.”

I blew out a sigh and hiked my messenger bag higher on my shoulder. I said adios to Connie and left the office.

“Your car or mine?” I asked Lula.

“Your car. I just had mine detailed, and I’m not driving my baby on Diggery’s dirt road.”

My “baby” did just fine on Diggery’s dirt road, because my SUV was a POS that looked like it hadn’t been detailed in ten years. I wasn’t even sure of the paint color under the grime.