Smokin' Seventeen: A Stephanie Plum Novel (Stephanie Plum Novels)

activity got them killed. Dugan had a laundry list of bad activities.”
    I was having a hard time concentrating on Dugan’s activities, because I was thinking Morelli looked unusually hot. He was in jeans and sweat socks and a T-shirt that wasn’t tucked in. And he was developing a nice five o’clock shadow. I mentally undressed him, my eyes lingering over critical areas, my body heat notching up a couple degrees.
    Morelli grinned over at me. “Cupcake, that is
such
a dirty smile.”
    I dropped my gaze to his feet. “It’s the socks. Very sexy.”
    “I’ll leave them on next time. The way my schedule is looking that’ll be next month. These bonds office murders are attracting attention. I have to be at a press conference tonight at seven. After the press conference I have a meeting with the mayor.”
    “Wow, the mayor.”
    “I’m one of many attending, and I’m not one of the more important. I’m cannon fodder. Someone to throw under the bus if it becomes necessary.”
    “Nice.”
    “Yeah. At least Terry Gilman will be there. This time I’m going to get a better seat.”
    I punched him in the chest, kissed him, and left.

NINETEEN
     
    RANGEMAN HAS UNDERGROUND PARKING for private and fleet vehicles, all of which are black and immaculate. All are equipped with GPS tracking. Ranger has personal space at the back of the garage, directly in front of the elevator. His cars are also black and immaculate. He has four spaces, and he currently has three vehicles—a Porsche 911 Turbo, a tricked-out Ford F150, and a Porsche Cayenne. I parked my filthy, dented Escort in the fourth spot.
    I entered the elevator, waved hello to the hidden camera and went to the fifth floor. Every part of Rangeman is monitored with the exception of the restrooms off the lobby on the ground floor, employees’ private apartments, and Ranger’s apartment on the seventh floor. The fifth floor is Rangeman command central. The monitoring station is here, plusRanger’s office. The elevator door opened on five, and Ranger stepped in and pressed the seven button.
    “The plans are upstairs,” he said. “I thought we could go over them while we ate. I’m sure Ella left enough for two.”
    Ella and her husband manage the Rangeman building, and Ella personally manages Ranger. She keeps his apartment pristine, ensures that his clothes are perfect, delivers two gourmet meals a day, and attempts to humanize a space that without her would be sterile. Ranger isn’t a man who sets up family photos on the coffee table.
    The elevator opened to a small marble-floored vestibule with one door. Ranger fobbed the door open, and I stepped into his apartment. It had been professionally decorated with little help from Ranger, but it felt right for him. It was calm without being enervating. And it was masculine but not overbearing. The furniture was contemporary and comfortable with clean lines. The color palette was all earth tones. Upholstered pieces were cream with chocolate accents. Wood was dark and glossy. Lighting was subdued. The front door opened to a short hall with nondescript art on one side and a cherry sideboard on the other. Ella kept fresh flowers on the sideboard alongside a silver tray with the day’s mail, and a second tray for keys.
    Ranger dropped his keys into the key tray, leafed through his mail, and returned it to the mail tray unopened. For as many times as I’ve been in his apartment I’ve never once caught him looking at the art. I suspect he didn’t know it was there.
    The hall led to an open-floor-plan living room and dining room with a small but state-of-the-art kitchen to the right. Appliances were stainless steel, counters were black granite, dishes were white, stemware was crystal. Ranger lived well, not by his choice, but by Ella’s. She’d left a large spinach salad on the counter, a breadbasket in the warming drawer, and a casserole in the oven. I set the bread and casserole on the counter next to the salad, and Ranger opened a bottle of pinot noir. We fixed plates and took our dinner to the dining room table.
    I buttered a dinner roll. “Tell me about the security system.”
    “Large house. Twelve thousand square feet. Wealthy, politically ambitious client with a young second wife. Two teenage daughters and one teenage son by the first marriage. He wants maximum security. The teenagers want no security. Not sure what the wife wants.”
    “So security can’t be intrusive.”
    “It can’t be intrusive,