Hardcore Twenty-Four (Stephanie Plum #24)(8)

“You can only push a man so far,” Koot said.

“You left the coffee shop and took out four innocent cars.”

“I admit I got carried away. It was like I was in a frenzy, but I wouldn’t have gotten all frenzied up if I’d had my macchiato. It’s a calming influence in the morning. It starts my day off with a smile.”

“Did you have a macchiato today?”

“Yeah. I go to Starbucks now. It’s a longer walk, but they care about their coffee. I get a full cup. Right up to the top. Every time. And it’s nice and hot but not too hot.”

My phone rang, and I saw that it was Lula.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“We’re talking.”

“Just checking. Wanted to make sure you didn’t leave without me.”

I disconnected and turned my attention back to Koot. “Here’s the thing,” I said. “You need to come with me and get rebonded.”

“No. Not going to happen. None of this was my fault. End of story.”

He attempted to close the door, but I had my foot in it.

“You’ll have a chance to tell all this to the judge,” I said.

“Get your foot out of my door, or I’ll shoot it.”

“Have you ever thought about Botox for that wrinkle in your forehead?” I asked.

“Wrinkle? What?”

“You have a big wrinkle between your eyes, and it makes you look angry.”

“That’s because I am angry. You’re disturbing my day. And I don’t like you.”

He wrenched the door open, gave me a shove with both hands, and I stumbled back. He slammed the door shut and by the time I got it open, he was running toward the back of the house. I charged after him and saw him exit through the kitchen. I heard him shriek, and then all was quiet. I looked out the back door and saw that Koot was facedown and Lula was sitting on him.

“Is he breathing?” I asked her.

“Hard to tell.”

I cuffed him, Lula got off, and I pulled him to his feet.

“Are you going to read me my rights?” he asked.

“I’m a bounty hunter,” I said. “You haven’t got any rights. You signed them all away when you took out the bail bond.”

We loaded Koot into my SUV and drove him to the police station. I turned him in and picked up my body receipt.

“That was easy,” Lula said. “We got our A game on today. We got good juju. I can’t wait to rumble at the rally tonight.”

“We aren’t going to rumble. We’re going to quietly stand at the back of the room and try to spot Slick.”

“Sure, I know that, but we might have to rumble a little if things get dicey.”

? ? ?

I dropped Lula off at the office and went to my parents’ house to mooch lunch. They live five minutes from the office, five minutes from Morelli’s house, and a time warp away from me. Even when my mom gets a new refrigerator or buys new curtains the house still feels precisely the same as when I was in school. It’s equally comforting and disturbing.

The duplex is small, and cluttered, and immaculately clean. Living room, dining room, kitchen on the first floor. Three small bedrooms and a bathroom on the second floor. My father is seldom home for lunch. He’s retired from the post office, but he drives a cab part-time.

I parked on the street, and by the time I got to the front door Grandma Mazur already had it open.

“Just in time for lunch,” she said. “We have olive loaf from Giovichinni’s, and Italian cookies from the bakery.”

I followed Grandma to the kitchen at the back of the house and took a chair at the little wooden table. I ate breakfast and lunch at the same table when I was a kid. After school I did my homework there.

“We got company for lunch,” Grandma said to my mom.

My mom was pulling food out of the fridge. Pickles, mustard, macaroni salad, cold cuts, a loaf of bread. “Is olive loaf okay?” she asked me.

“Olive loaf is great,” I said.

My mom is the anchor in the family. She represents normal . . . at least what’s considered normal in the Burg. Grandma and I have totally gone rogue.

Grandma set out plates, knives, forks, water glasses. “Did you hear, some idiot politician is talking at the firehouse tonight,” she said. “So, they canceled bingo. I don’t know what this neighborhood’s coming to. You can’t count on anything anymore.” She sat down and spooned some macaroni salad onto her plate. “Last night I went to pay my respects to Leonard Friedman, and they had a closed casket. It shouldn’t be allowed. There should be a law. If you go to see someone one last time you should be able to see them.”

“He didn’t have a head,” my mother said.

“I admit, that makes it tricky, but they could have gotten around it somehow,” Grandma said. “Maybe they should have made more of an effort to find his head in the first place.”

“Was he the man killed behind the hardware store?” I asked.

“No,” Grandma said. “Lenny passed at home. Heart attack. A big one. He lost his head at the mortuary. I’m told he was slid into the meat locker on arrival and when they pulled him out next morning he didn’t have a head.” Grandma made herself a sandwich with olive loaf and Swiss cheese. “Emily Molinowski was in the drawer next to Lenny, and I guess she lost her head too. I’m glad I’m not dead this week. When I have my viewing I want to have my head. And I want Evelyn Stoddard to do my makeup. She has a good touch. Sometimes Julie Gross does makeup at Stiva’s, and I’m not a fan of her lipstick selections.”