smell anything burning.
No one shot at me. Guess my stalker was taking a day off.
I got into the car, turned my cell phone on, and scrolled to messages.
First message. “Stephanie.” That was the whole message. It was from Morelli at seven-ten this morning. It sounded like it had been said through clenched teeth.
Second message. Morelli breathing at seven-thirty.
Third message. “Call me when you turn your phone on.” Morelli again.
Fourth message. “It's two-thirty and we just found Barroni's car. Call me.”
Barroni's car! I dialed in Joe's cell number.
“It's me,” I said. “I just got off work. I had to turn my phone off because Mama Macaroni said it was giving her brain cancer. Not that it would matter.”
“Where are you?”
“I'm on the road. I'm going home to take a nap. I'm all done in.”
The car...
“The car is okay,” I told Morelli.
“The car is not okay.”
“Give up on the car. What about Barroni?”
“I lied about Barroni. I figured that was the only way you'd call.”
I put my finger to my eye to stop the twitching, disconnected Morelli, and cruised into my lot.
Old Mr. Ginzler was walking to his Buick when I pulled in. “That's some lookin' car you got there, chicky,” Mr. Ginzler said. “And it stinks.”
“I paid extra for the smell,” I told Mr. Ginzler.
“Smart-ass kid,” Mr. Ginzler said. But he smiled when he said it. Mr. Ginzler liked me. I was almost sure of it.
Rex was snoozing in his soup can when I let myself into my apartment. There were no messages on my machine. Most people called my cell these days. Even my mother called my cell. I shuffled into the bedroom, kicked my shoes off, and crawled under the covers. The best I could say about today was that it was marginally better than yesterday. At least I hadn't gotten fired. Problem was, it was hard to tell if not getting fired from Kan Klean was a good thing or a bad thing. I closed my eyes and willed myself to sleep, telling myself when I woke up my life would be great. Okay, it was sort of a fib, but it kept me from bursting into tears or smashing all my dishes.
A couple hours later I was still awake and I was thinking less about breaking something and more about eating something. I strolled out to the kitchen and took stock. I could construct another peanut butter sandwich. I could mooch dinner off my mother. I could take myself off to search for fast food. The last two choices meant I'd have to get back into the Saturn. Not an appealing prospect, but still better than another peanut butter sandwich.
I laced up my sneakers, ran a brush through my hair, and applied lip gloss. The natural look. Acceptable in Jersey only if you've had your boobs enhanced to the point where no one looked beyond them. I hadn't had my boobs enhanced, and most people found it easy to look beyond them, but I didn't care a whole lot today.
I took the stairs debating the merits of a chicken quesadilla against the satisfaction of a dozen doughnuts. I was still undecided when I pushed through the lobby door and crossed the lot to my car. Turns out it wasn't a decision I needed to make because my car was wearing a police boot.
I ripped my cell phone out of my bag and punched in Morelli's number.
“There's a police boot on my car,” I said to him. “Did you put it on?”
“Not personally.”
“I want it off.”
“I'm crimes against persons. I'm not traffic.”
“Fine. I want to report a crime against a person. Some jerk booted my car.”
Morelli blew out a sigh and disconnected.
I dialed Ranger. “I have a problem,” I said to Ranger.
“And?”
“I was hoping you could solve it.”
“Give me a hint.”
“My car's been booted.”
“And?”
“I need to get the boot off.”
“Anything else?”
“I could use some doughnuts. I haven't had dinner.”
“Where are you?”
“My apartment.”
“Babe,” Ranger said, and the connection went dead.
Ten minutes later, Rangers Porsche rolled to a stop next
No one shot at me. Guess my stalker was taking a day off.
I got into the car, turned my cell phone on, and scrolled to messages.
First message. “Stephanie.” That was the whole message. It was from Morelli at seven-ten this morning. It sounded like it had been said through clenched teeth.
Second message. Morelli breathing at seven-thirty.
Third message. “Call me when you turn your phone on.” Morelli again.
Fourth message. “It's two-thirty and we just found Barroni's car. Call me.”
Barroni's car! I dialed in Joe's cell number.
“It's me,” I said. “I just got off work. I had to turn my phone off because Mama Macaroni said it was giving her brain cancer. Not that it would matter.”
“Where are you?”
“I'm on the road. I'm going home to take a nap. I'm all done in.”
The car...
“The car is okay,” I told Morelli.
“The car is not okay.”
“Give up on the car. What about Barroni?”
“I lied about Barroni. I figured that was the only way you'd call.”
I put my finger to my eye to stop the twitching, disconnected Morelli, and cruised into my lot.
Old Mr. Ginzler was walking to his Buick when I pulled in. “That's some lookin' car you got there, chicky,” Mr. Ginzler said. “And it stinks.”
“I paid extra for the smell,” I told Mr. Ginzler.
“Smart-ass kid,” Mr. Ginzler said. But he smiled when he said it. Mr. Ginzler liked me. I was almost sure of it.
Rex was snoozing in his soup can when I let myself into my apartment. There were no messages on my machine. Most people called my cell these days. Even my mother called my cell. I shuffled into the bedroom, kicked my shoes off, and crawled under the covers. The best I could say about today was that it was marginally better than yesterday. At least I hadn't gotten fired. Problem was, it was hard to tell if not getting fired from Kan Klean was a good thing or a bad thing. I closed my eyes and willed myself to sleep, telling myself when I woke up my life would be great. Okay, it was sort of a fib, but it kept me from bursting into tears or smashing all my dishes.
A couple hours later I was still awake and I was thinking less about breaking something and more about eating something. I strolled out to the kitchen and took stock. I could construct another peanut butter sandwich. I could mooch dinner off my mother. I could take myself off to search for fast food. The last two choices meant I'd have to get back into the Saturn. Not an appealing prospect, but still better than another peanut butter sandwich.
I laced up my sneakers, ran a brush through my hair, and applied lip gloss. The natural look. Acceptable in Jersey only if you've had your boobs enhanced to the point where no one looked beyond them. I hadn't had my boobs enhanced, and most people found it easy to look beyond them, but I didn't care a whole lot today.
I took the stairs debating the merits of a chicken quesadilla against the satisfaction of a dozen doughnuts. I was still undecided when I pushed through the lobby door and crossed the lot to my car. Turns out it wasn't a decision I needed to make because my car was wearing a police boot.
I ripped my cell phone out of my bag and punched in Morelli's number.
“There's a police boot on my car,” I said to him. “Did you put it on?”
“Not personally.”
“I want it off.”
“I'm crimes against persons. I'm not traffic.”
“Fine. I want to report a crime against a person. Some jerk booted my car.”
Morelli blew out a sigh and disconnected.
I dialed Ranger. “I have a problem,” I said to Ranger.
“And?”
“I was hoping you could solve it.”
“Give me a hint.”
“My car's been booted.”
“And?”
“I need to get the boot off.”
“Anything else?”
“I could use some doughnuts. I haven't had dinner.”
“Where are you?”
“My apartment.”
“Babe,” Ranger said, and the connection went dead.
Ten minutes later, Rangers Porsche rolled to a stop next
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