Hardcore Twenty-Four (Stephanie Plum #24)(56)

“Is it a puppy?”

“Almost. He’s four years old, but he looks like a puppy. He’s white and brown spotted, and he has floppy ears. It said his name is Duffy, but I’m going to call him Henry. I always wanted a dog named Henry.”

We walked into the store a couple minutes after it opened, and Grandma went straight to the adoption area in the front. There were several cats in cages and two small dogs. One of them was Duffy.

“What kind of dog is this?” I asked the attendant.

“He’s a mix,” she said. “He belonged to an elderly man who had to give him up when he went into a nursing home. If I had to make a guess I’d say he was part Maltese or Havanese.”

“He’s the one I want,” Grandma said. “I saw him on your website, and I knew right away that he was the one.”

“He’s had all his shots and he’s neutered,” the woman said.

“How much does he weigh?” I asked her.

“Nine pounds.”

“My pocketbook weighs more than that,” Grandma said.

An hour later we were out of the store and back in Big Blue. Henry had a new red collar and leash, a dog bed, dog bowls, dog food, a bunch of dog toys, a dog toothbrush and toothpaste, a brush and comb, and a tag shaped like a dog bone with his name and Grandma’s cellphone number on it.

“Does Mom know about this?” I asked Grandma.

“I might have forgot to tell her,” Grandma said.

Henry was happy, sitting on Grandma’s lap, and Grandma was looking out the window.

“There’s another one of those protests up ahead,” Grandma said. “I can’t make out what they’re protesting, but one of them looks like a zombie.”

The protesters were in front of a new bakery, and one of the sign carriers looked like it might be the zombie version of Zero Slick. Under any other circumstances, I would have stopped, but I had Grandma and her new dog with me. And to further complicate things, Grandma was probably carrying and would like the chance to shoot a zombie.

I cruised past the protesters, and Grandma swiveled in her seat. “Do you think that was a real zombie?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “I think it was someone made up to look like a zombie to get attention.”

I parked in my parents’ driveway, and I carried the bags of dog paraphernalia into the kitchen while Grandma walked Henry around the front yard, trying to get him to tinkle.

“What’s all this?” my mom asked.

“Grandma has a surprise to show you,” I said. “This is part of it.”

Grandma brought Henry into the house. “Here he is,” she said to my mom. “Isn’t he a pip? His name is Henry, and he’s not going to be any trouble. I’m going to walk him and feed him and he’s going to sleep with me.”

My mom’s eyes glazed over for a beat, and I knew she was thinking Why me? “What on earth?” she finally said. “How. Why?”

I took the dog bed out of a bag and put it on the floor. “Because she was going to sleep with either Roger Murf and his wife, or else she was going to sleep with Henry.”

My mom knelt down to get a better look at Henry. “He is cute,” she said.

“I have to run,” I said. “Things to do.”

I wanted to get back to the protesters. I wanted to see the zombie up close. Hard to believe it could be Slick, but no stone unturned.

I hustled out of the Burg to the new bakery in Hamilton, and arrived just as the protesters were filing onto a bus. I parked and rushed over to a guy who looked like he was the handler.

“Is the zombie on the bus?” I asked him.

“Zombie?”

“Short guy with messy brown hair, wrinkled dirt-smudged clothes, red eyes. Smells like carnations.”

“Ah, that guy. No, he took off on foot as soon as he got paid. We have another gig, but he wasn’t interested.”

“How much did he get paid?”

“Standard protester wage. Twenty dollars an hour for carrying a sign, and a twenty-dollar bonus if you heckle enough to start a riot. Why? Are you interested? I could use another body at the next stop.”

“I could use the money. What will you be protesting?”

“I don’t know exactly. I don’t have the details on my work order. All I know is, it’s a political fundraiser at a private residence.”

“What were you protesting at this bakery?”

“They refuse to do gluten-free wedding cakes. It’s blatantly discriminatory.”

“I never thought of gluten in those terms.”

“So, what’s the word?” he asked. “Are you getting on the bus?”

“No, but thanks for the offer.”

I returned to the Buick and drove a grid, looking for Slick. He was on foot. I thought he couldn’t have gone far. After twenty minutes of searching I decided I needed another pair of eyes, so I went back to the office and got Lula.

“These zombies are sneaky,” Lula said. She had her window down, hoping to catch a whiff of carnation. “One minute they’re here and the next thing . . . poof.”

I looked at my gas gauge. It was a smidgen from empty. By the time I dropped Lula at the bonds office, I’d be running on fumes. I drifted into a gas station and called Morelli while I pumped in my last twenty dollars.