Plum Boxed Set 1, Books 1-3 Stephanie Plum Novels) by Janet Evanovich

concealed weapon?”
    “Yes.” And I was at least ten percent convinced it was legal.
    “Where’d you get your permit?”
    “Ranger got it for me.”
    “Ranger Mañoso? Christ, he probably made it in his cellar.” He shook out the bullets and gave the gun back to me. “Find a new job. And stay away from Ramirez. He’s nuts. He’s been charged with rape on three separate occasions and been acquitted each time because the victim always disappears.”
    “I didn’t know …”
    “There’s a lot you don’t know.”
    His attitude was beginning to piss me off. I was only too well aware that I had a lot to learn about apprehension. I didn’t need Morelli’s sarcastic superiority. “So what’s your point.”
    “Get off my case. You want a career in law enforcement? Fine. Go for it. Just don’t learn on me. I have enough problems without worrying about saving your ass.”
    “No one asked you to save my ass. I would have saved my own ass if you hadn’t interfered.”
    “Honey, you couldn’t find your ass with both hands.”
    My palms were skinned and burned like the devil. My scalp was sore. My knees throbbed. I wanted to go back to my apartment and stand in a hot shower for five or six hours until I felt clean and strong. I wanted to get away from Morelli and regroup. “I’m going home.”
    “Good idea,” he said. “Where’s your car?”
    “Stark Street and Tyler.”
    He flattened himself at the side of the door and took a quick look out. “It’s okay.”
    My knees had stiffened up, and the blood had dried and caked on what was left of my pantyhose. Limping seemed like an indulgent weakness not to be witnessed by the likes of Morelli, so I forged ahead, thinking ouch, ouch, ouch but not saying a word. When we got to the corner I realized he was walking me all the way to Stark. “I don’t need an escort,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”
    He had his hand at my elbow, steering me forward. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not nearly so concerned about your welfare as I am about getting you the hell out of my life. I want to make sure you leave. I want to see your tailpipe fading off into the sunset.”
    Good luck, I thought. My tailpipe was somewhere on Route 1, along with my muffler.
    We reached Stark, and I faltered at the sight of my car. It had been parked on the street for less than an hour, and in that time it had been spray-painted from one end to the other. Mostly Day-Glo pink and green, and the predominant word on both sides was “pussy.” I checked the plate and looked in the back seat for the box of Fig Newtons. Yep, this was my car.
    One more indignity in a day filled with indignities. Did I care. Not a whole lot. I was numb. I was becoming immune to indignity. I searched through my bag for my keys, found them, and plugged them into the door.
    Morelli rocked back on his heels, hands in his pockets, a grin beginning to creep to his lips. “Most people are content with pinstriping and a vanity plate.”
    “Eat dirt and die.”
    Morelli tipped his head back and laughed out loud. His laughter was deep and rich and infectious, and if I hadn’t been so distraught, I’d have laughed along with him. As it was, I jerked the car door open and rammed myself behind the wheel. I turned the key in the ignition, gave the dash a good hard smack, and left him choking in a cloud of exhaust and a blast of noise that had the potential to liquify his insides.

    O FFICIALLY , I LIVED AT THE EASTERN BOUNDARY of the city of Trenton, but in actuality my neighborhood felt more like Hamilton Township than Trenton proper. My apartment building was an ugly dark red brick cube built before central air and thermal pane windows. Eighteen apartments in all, evenly distributed over three floors. By modern-day standards it wasn’t a terrific apartment. It didn’t come with a pool membership or have tennis courts attached. The elevator was unreliable. The bathroom was vintage Partridge family with mustard yellow