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

my life possibly get any worse?
    “Put the gun down,” Alpha said.
    Dave narrowed his eyes. “
You
put
your
gun down.”
    I heard a car engine catch from the back of the lot, and I caught a glimpse of the black Lexus as it crept forward, out ofits parking space. And here comes the rhinoceros, I thought. Now
three
people were trying to kill me. This had to be some sort of record.
    The tires on the Lexus chirped when the accelerator went down to the floorboard, and the car jumped into motion. Dave turned toward the sound, loosening his grip enough for me to jump clear. A fraction of a second later there was a round of gunfire and the sickening thud of a car slamming into a body. The Lexus careened around a row of cars and roared away. I peeked out from behind Mr. Molnar’s Chrysler and saw both men lying motionless on the pavement.
    I suppose I should have gone to see if I could help them, but I didn’t. I ran back to the building, up the stairs, and down the hall as fast as I could in my red spike heels. I was shaking so bad I had double vision, and I had to two-hand the key to get it into the lock to open my door. I rushed inside, flipped the deadbolts, and bent at the waist to breathe. I was gasping for air and sobbing, and I dialed two wrong numbers before I was able to tap in 911. I reported the gunfire and car massacre, disconnected, and called Morelli and Ranger.
    Sirens wailed in the distance, and red and blue strobe lights flashed against my window as cop cars and EMTs swept into my lot. I went to the window and looked down. It was dark and difficult to see, but I could make out the two bodies on the pavement. When I saw Morelli’s SUV and Ranger’s Porsche pull into the lot I took the stairs to the lobby.

THIRTY-NINE
     
    IT WAS A GLORIOUS MORNING. The sun was shining. The air quality was in the breathable range. And I was alive. The emergency vehicles, cops, reporters, coroners, and gawkers were gone from my parking lot. The pimple had disappeared from my forehead. And the vordo was back with a vengeance. I felt like Julie Andrews in
The Sound of Music
. I wanted to throw my head back, and sing, and twirl around with my arms stretched wide.
    Alpha had shot and killed Dave. And Regina was in jail, charged with vehicular homicide, in the death of Alpha. Off-hand I couldn’t think of anyone who was alive and free and wanted to kill me.
    I’d showered, done the whole blow-dry thing with my hair, and gotten dressed in my favorite T-shirt and jeans. My cupboardswere bare, and I was ravishingly hungry, so I drove to my parents’ house where there would be eggs, bacon, coffee, juice, and Danish pastries.
    I parked at the curb, and saw Grandma come to the door before I reached the porch.
    “He seemed like such a nice young man,” Grandma said, opening the door to me. “We heard first thing this morning, and we couldn’t believe it. Your mother went straight to the ironing basket.”
    I followed Grandma to the kitchen, said hello to my mom, and poured myself a cup of coffee.
    “Are you hungry?” Grandma asked me. “Do you need breakfast?”
    “I’m famished!”
    Grandma pulled eggs and bacon out of the refrigerator. “We got coffee cake on the table, and I’ll get an omelet started for you.”
    My mother’s eyes were glazed, her face registering complete disbelief, her arm mechanically moving the iron over the sleeve of my father’s dress shirt. “He seemed like such a nice young man,” she said. “I was sure he was the one. He came from such a good family.”
    “Captain of the football team,” Grandma said, laying the bacon out in the big fry pan.
    Bang, bang, bang
on the front door. “Yoohoo!”
    It was Lula.
    “I was on my way to your apartment, and you drove rightpast,” Lula said to me. “So I hooked a U-turn. When it turned out you didn’t go to the office, I figured you were headed here.” She looked over at the kitchen table. “Coffee cake!”
    “Help yourself,” Grandma said. “We got bacon and eggs coming up.”
    Lula sat at the table and cut a piece of cake. “I heard all about last night. It was on the morning news. And I have to tell you it was a shocker. Dave seemed like such a nice guy. Who would have thought a demented killer could cook like that. And now he’s dead, and there’s no more Fiesta Casserole.”
    “It’s a cryin’ shame,” Grandma said.
    “Fuckin’ A,” Lula said. “Oops, ’scuse my language, but the news was real upsetting.”
    I sat