Top Secret Twenty-One: A Stephanie Plum Novel(48)

“Is that the story you’re going with?” my mother asked.

“Yeah, I think I’ll stick with that one,” Grandma said.



Morelli and Bob were watching television when I walked in.

“My mother called,” Morelli said. “Someone got Bella with a chocolate cream pie. A full-on face job.”

I squeezed in between Morelli and Bob. “Seems like a waste of a perfectly good pie.”

“I wouldn’t want to be in the shoes of whoever did it,” Morelli said.

“Do you mean because of the curse thing?”

“I mean because of the Sicilian revenge thing.”

He hooked a finger under the hem of my T-shirt, lifted it up, and peeked under.

“This is going to be fun tonight,” he said. “Just you and me.”

“Are we going to use the One-Second Wonder Tool?”

“No. We’re going to do it the old-fashioned way. We’re going to use my wonder tool.”

Oh boy.





TWENTY-ONE


I WAITED UNTIL Morelli was out of the house before I showered and dressed in my black all-purpose suit and high-neck stretchy pink shirt. I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and went with the fresh-face look. A swipe of mascara and some lip gloss. That’s as natural as I get. I stuffed my sliced-up bra and my white shirt with the gash in it into my messenger bag. I told Bob he should be a good boy and that Morelli would be home at lunchtime to let him out. And I chugged off in the Buick to get Briggs.

Briggs was waiting for me by the back door of my apartment building. He was dressed in a tan suit that almost fit him, a light blue dress shirt, a yellow and blue striped tie, and the running shoes he always wore.

“Sorry about the shoes,” he said, climbing onto the passenger seat. “They’re all I’ve got right now. But what do you think about the suit? It’s not bad, right?”

“It’s great. I appreciate your help.”

“What?”

“I appreciate your help.”

“No, I don’t need any help,” Briggs said. “Where are we going? Are we going to the courthouse? Do you have an office set up for the scam?”

“We’re going to the bail bonds office to meet Ranger,” I yelled at him. “And then we’re going to New York to the Russian consulate on the Upper West Side.”

“Are you shitting me? We’re going to scam the Ruskies? I’m there. I’m ready.”

“That’s not exactly it. I need information on someone I believe is associated with the consulate. I only have a description of him, and I need his name, so we’re going to say I was at a party two nights ago and this guy attacked me. If I can get someone to pull his dossier, I might be able to create a diversion and steal it.”

Briggs nodded, but I wasn’t sure he’d understood a word I’d said.

“What about Ranger?” Briggs asked. “What’s his role?”

“He’s driving us in and waiting outside for us. He’s security.”

“He’s a secretary?”

“Security. SECURITY.”

“Cool,” Briggs said. “Security. We’re going to kick some Ruskie ass.”

A black Rangeman SUV was already parked in front of the bail bonds office. I pulled in behind it, and Briggs and I got out and got into the SUV.

I buckled myself in next to Ranger and we drove in silence to the Turnpike, through the tunnel, up Tenth Avenue to the Upper West Side. Ranger parked in the lot we’d used before and called the man he had in place watching the consulate.

“Business as usual,” he said to me. “No sign of our friend. I’m going to hang back, but I’ll keep you in sight. Pretend I’m not here.” He gave me a new earbud. “If you get into trouble, feed Briggs to the dogs and run.”

“What?” Briggs said. “What about Briggs?”

“He has some hearing loss from the blast,” I told Ranger.

“Babe,” Ranger said.

I figured that pretty much covered it, so I stuck the earbud into my ear and yelled at Briggs to walk with me.

We got to the consulate, I pushed the intercom buzzer, and I told the voice at the other end that I needed to speak to someone in charge. The door was buzzed open, and Briggs and I were in.

A man in a suit came forward and asked if he could help me.

“I was at a party here two nights ago,” I said, “and one of the men attacked me. I got frightened and left, but I’m back today with my lawyer.”

The man gave Briggs a curt nod. “I’ll see if I can find someone of authority.”

Five minutes later we were taken to a second-floor office. It was a small room dominated by a large oak desk, and a large Russian man sat behind the desk.

“My name is Sergei Yablonovich,” he said. “Please have a seat.”

The two seats in front of the desk were brown leather, overstuffed, and big enough for Paul Bunyan. I perched on the edge of mine, and Briggs stood looking at his. I imagined he was wondering how he was going to get in it and, more to the point, how he was going to avoid looking ridiculous. After a long moment he sacrificed dignity, climbed up onto the chair, and sat back with his legs sticking straight out in front of him.

“Comfy chair,” he said.