Explosive Eighteen: A Stephanie Plum Novel (Stephanie Plum Novels)

gray sweatshirt. He had a two-day beard, his hair was thick and unruly and wet from the rain … and he was sex walking.
    “I need you to come with me,” Diesel said. “Some guy just got pitched off his fourth-floor balcony, and Wulf is involved. There’s a rumor going around that Wulf’s got a lead on another SALIGIA stone. I imagine this murder fits in somehow.”
    The story Diesel tells is that seven ancient stones hold the power of the seven deadly sins. They’re called the Stones of SALIGIA, and if you combine them in the same vessel you get really bad juju going … like hell on earth. Some people believe the stones have found their way to Salem. Wulf happens to be one of those people. And Wulf has made it known he wants them. Since Wulf is thought to inhabit the dark side from time to time, Diesel has assumed the responsibility of preventing Wulf from collecting the stones.
    “Ordinarily I wouldn’t mind tagging along,” I said to Diesel, “but I’m making soup.”
    “Okay, let’s take a look at what we’ve got. You can stay here and make soup, or you can go with me and save mankind from getting chucked into Satan’s stew pot.”
    I blew out a sigh. Having special abilities sounds good on paper. And there are some people, like Wulf, who might enjoy the power those abilities bring, but I found the gift to be an awkward burden. I get that someone has to save mankind from the big stew pot in hell, but why
me
?
    “To tell you the truth, I’ve never really bought into the whole SALIGIA thing,” I said to Diesel. “And I truly don’t feel equipped to save mankind.”
    “You have a critical ability I lack,” Diesel said. “You’re one of only two people who can sense objects related to the SALIGIA stones.”
    “And you think I’ll have to use that ability at this crime scene?”
    “Probably not,” Diesel said, “but you’re cute. And if I have to go look at some idiot who face-planted onto the sidewalk in the rain, I’m taking you with me.”
    “You think I’m cute?”
    “Yeah. Can you hurry it up here, please?”
    It’s sort of alarming that I can be so easily swayed by a compliment, but there you have it. I scooped the chopped vegetables into my soup pot and clapped a lid on it. I grabbed my purse off the kitchen counter, snatched a hooded sweatshirt off a peg next to the door, and stepped outside.
    The cloud cover was low, the rain was turning to a drizzle, and there was a chill in the air. There were still boats on moorings in the harbor below my house, but their number was significantly decreased from the summer crush. It was definitely fall in New England.
    Diesel opened the white picket fence gate that led from my small backyard to the alley where he was illegally parked. He was driving a red Jeep Grand Cherokee that wasn’t new and wasn’t old. Usually it was mud-splattered and coated in road dust. Today, the rain had washed the top layer of dirt away and it looked almost clean.
    I slid onto the passenger-side seat, buckled myself in, and realized Carl was in the back. Carl looked up at me, gave me a finger wave, and smiled a horrible monkey smile. All monkey gums and monkey teeth and crazy bright monkey eyes.
    I grew up in suburbia. We had cats, dogs, hamsters, guinea pigs, parakeets, and fish. Never a monkey. A monkey was a new, sometimes disturbing experience.
    Diesel drove down Weatherby Street to Pleasant, Pleasant turned into Lafayette, and Lafayette took us to the bridge that crossed into Salem. We followed traffic through the center of town, cut off to the north side, and parked behind a police cruiser on Braintree Street.
    This was a mixed neighborhood of commercial and residential. Cop cars, a truck belonging to the medical examiner, and an EMT truck were angle parked in front of a seven-story, yellow-brick condo building that looked like it had been built in the seventies. Crime scene tape cordoned off an area in front of the building, and a makeshift screen had been erected, preventing gawkers like me from seeing the body sprawled on the rain-slicked pavement. Thank heaven for the screen. I didn’t want to see the dead guy.
    “Do you know his name?” I asked Diesel.
    “Gilbert Reedy. He’s a college professor. My source tells me Reedy came flying through the air and crash-landed with a handprint burned into his neck.”
    I felt my breakfast roll in my stomach, and my upper lip broke out in a sweat. “Oh boy,” I said. “Damn.”
    Diesel looked down at