Hard Eight (Stephanie Plum Series #8)by Janet Evanovich, C. J. Critt
In Hard Eight, Stephanie, Morelli, Ranger, Lula, Valerie, and Grandma Mazur are strapped in for the ride of their lives. Stephanie is hired to find a missing child. But things aren't always as they seem and Stephanie must determine if she's working for the right side of the law. Plus, there's the Morelli question: can a Jersey girl keep her head on straight when more than just bullets are aimed for her heart? And with the Plum and Morelli relationship looking rocky, is it time for Ranger to move in for the kill? Janet Evanovich's thriller proves that Hard Eight will never be enough.
“Keeps up Evanovich's standards for over-the-top situations” Chicago Tribune
“[A] must read...readers will want to finish this delightful work in one sitting.” Midwest Book Review
“Offers the best action yet.” Newark Star-Ledger
“The girl mercenary is as fresh as ever.” People
“Hard Eight is most emphatically not Raymond Chandler but, like his work, a piece of finely crafted prose.” San Francisco Chronicle
“Plum is one of fiction's most irresistible heroines.” Seattle Post Intelligencer
“Evanovich has certainly come a long way since One for the Money; her latest Stephanie Plum mystery merits a one-day national laydown on June 18.” Library Journal
“Well plotted and cleverly resolved...her wickedly funny characterizations and the intriguing love triangle are what keep her readers coming back for more.” Bookpage
“As close to summer escapism as you can get. Evanovich hits a high note with her newest...a great addition to a well-stocked beach bag.” Houston Chronicle
“A perfect summer vacation book...promises fun, laughter, and unforgettable characters...Evanovich delivers.” Tennessean (Nashville, TN)
“Thrills mixed with lust, seasoned with humor: a delightful escape.” News & Record (Greensboro, NC)
“Evanovich produces more than "beach reading". She writes rollicking, raunchy, hysterical fiction that is so real, you will laugh out loud and want to visit the Burg.” Rockwall County News
“Just when you think the adventures of Plum and company can't get any funnier or more convoluted, Janet Evanovich proves you wrong-nobody does it better!” Romantic Times
Read an Excerpt
Lately, I've been spending a lot of time rolling on the ground with men who think a stiffy represents personal growth. The rolling around has nothing to do with my sex life. The rolling around is what happens when a bust goes crapolla and there's a last ditch effort to hog tie a big, dumb bad guy possessing a congenitally defective frontal lobe.
My name is Stephanie Plum, and I'm in the fugitive apprehension business ...bond enforcement, to be exact, working for my cousin Vincent Plum. It wouldn't be such a bad job except the direct result of bond enforcement is usually incarceration ?and fugitives tend to not like this. Go figure. To encourage fugitive cooperation on the way back to the pokey I usually persuade the guys I capture to wear handcuffs and leg shackles. This works pretty good most of the time. And if done right, cuts back on the rolling around on the ground stuff.
Unfortunately, today wasn't most of the time. Martin Paulson, weighing in at 350 pounds and standing 5'8" tall, was arrested for credit card fraud and for being a genuinely obnoxious person. He failed to show for his court appearance last week, and this put Martin on my Most Wanted List. Since Martin is not too bright, he hadn't been too hard to find. Martin had, in fact, been at home engaged in what he does best ...stealing merchandise off the internet. I'd managed to get Martin into cuffs and leg shackles and into my car. I'd even managed to drive Martin to the police station on North Clinton Avenue. Unfortunately, when I attempted to get Martin out of my car he'd tipped over and was now rollingaround on his belly, trussed up like a Christmas goose, unable to right himself.
We were in the parking lot adjacent to the municipal building. The back door leading to the docket lieutenant was less than fifty feet away. I could call for help, but I'd be the brunt of cop humor for days. I could unlock the cuffs or ankle shackles, but I didn't trust Paulson. He was royally pissed-off, red-faced and swearing, making obscene threats and horrifying animal sounds.
I was standing there, watching Paulson struggle, wondering what the hell I was going to do, because anything short of a fork-lift wasn't going to get Paulson up off the pavement. And just then, Joe Juniak pulled into the lot. Juniak is a former police chief and is now mayor of Trenton. He's a couple years older than me and about a foot taller. Juniak's second cousin, Ziggy, is married to my cousin-in-law Gloria Jean. So we're sort of family ...in a remote way.
The driver side window slid down, and Juniak grinned at me, cutting his eyes to Paulson. "Is he yours?"
"He's illegally parked. His ass is over the white line."
I toed Paulson, causing him to start rocking again. "He's stuck."
Juniak got out of his car and hauled Paulson up by his armpits. "You don't mind if I embellish this story when I spread it all over town, do you?"
"I do mind! Remember, I voted for you," I said. "And we're almost related."
"Not gonna help you, cutie. Cops live for stuff like this."
"You're not a cop anymore."
"Once a cop, always a cop."
Paulson and I watched Juniak get back into his car and drive away.
"I can't walk in these things," Paulson said, looking down at the shackles. "I'm gonna fall over again. I haven't got a good sense of balance."
"Have you ever heard the bounty hunter slogan bring ëem back --dead or alive?"
"Don't tempt me."
Actually, bringing someone back dead is a big no-no, but this seemed like a good time to make an empty threat. It was late afternoon. It was spring. And I wanted to get on with my life. Spending another hour coaxing Paulson to walk across the parking lot wasn't high on my list of favored things to do.
I wanted to be on a beach somewhere with the sun blistering my skin until I looked like a fried pork rind. Okay, truth is at this time of year that might have to be Cancun, and Cancun didn't figure into my budget. Still the point was, I didn't want to be here in this stupid parking lot with Paulson.
"You probably don't even have a gun," Paulson said.
"Hey give me a break. I haven't got all day for this. I have other things to do."
"None of your business."
"Hah! You haven't got anything better to do."
I was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and black Caterpillar boots, and I had a real urge to kick him in the back of his leg with my size seven Cat.
"Tell me," he said.
"I promised my parents I'd be home for dinner at six."
Paulson burst out laughing. "That's pathetic. That's fucking pathetic." The laughter turned into a coughing fit, Paulson leaned forward, wobbled side to side and fell over. I reached for him, but it was too late. He was back on his belly, doing his beached whale imitation.
* * *
My parents live in a narrow duplex in a chunk of Trenton called the Burg. If the Burg was a food, it would be pasta --penne rigate, ziti, fettuccine, spaghetti, and elbow macaroni, swimming in marinara, cheese sauce or mayo. Good, dependable, all-occasion food that puts a smile on your face and fat on your butt. The Burg is a solid neighborhood where people buy houses and live in them until death kicks them out. Backyards are used to run a clothesline, store the garbage can and give the dog a place to poop. No fancy backyard decks and gazebos for Burgers. Burgers sit on their small front porches and cement stoops. The better to see the world go by.
I rolled in just as my mother was pulling the roast chicken out of the oven. My father was already in his seat at the head of the table. He stared straight ahead, eyes glazed, thoughts in limbo, knife and fork in hand. My sister Valerie, who had recently moved back home after leaving her husband, was at work whipping potatoes in the kitchen. When we were kids Valerie was the perfect daughter. And I was the daughter who stepped in dog poo, sat on gum, and constantly fell off the garage roof in an attempt to fly. As a last ditch effort to preserve her marriage, Valerie had traded in her Italian-Hungarian genes and turned herself into Meg Ryan. The marriage failed, but the blond Meg shag persists.
Valerie's kids were at the table with my dad. The nine year old, Angie, was sitting primly with her hands folded, resigned to enduring the meal, an almost perfect clone of Valerie at that age. The seven year old, Mary Alice, the kid from hell, had two sticks poked into her brown hair.
"What's with the sticks?" I asked.
"They not sticks. They're antlers. I'm a reindeer."
This was a surprise because usually she's a horse.
"How was your day?" Grandma asked me, setting a bowl of green beans on the table. "Did you shoot anybody? Did you capture any bad guys?"
Grandma Mazur moved in with my parents shortly after my Grandpa Mazur took his fat clogged arteries to the all-you-can-eat buffet in the sky. Grandma's in her mid-seventies and doesn't look a day over ninety. Her body is aging, but her mind seems to be going in the opposite direction. She was wearing white tennis shoes and a lavender polyester warm-up suit. Her steel gray hair was cut short and permed to within an inch of its life. Her nails were painted lavender to match the suit.
"I didn't shoot anybody today," I said, "but I brought in a guy wanted for credit card fraud."
There was a knock at the front door, and Mabel Markowitz stuck her head in and called, "Yoohoo".
My parents live in a two family duplex. They own the south half, and Mabel Markowitz owns the north half, the house divided by a common wall and years of disagreement over house paint. Out of necessity, Mabel's made thrift a religious experience, getting by on social security and government surplus peanut butter. Her husband, Izzy, was a good man but drank himself into an early grave. Mabel's only daughter died of uterine cancer a year ago. The son-in-law died a month later in a car crash.
All forward progress stopped at the table, and everyone looked to the front door, because in all the years Mabel had lived next door, she'd never once yoohooed while we were eating.
"I hate to disturb your meal," Mabel said. "I just wanted to ask Stephanie if she'd have a minute to stop over, later. I have a question about this bond business. It's for a friend."
"Sure," I said. "I'll be over after dinner." I imagined it would be a short conversation since everything I knew about bond could be said in two sentences.
Mabel left and Grandma leaned forward, elbows on the table. "I bet that's a lot of hooey about wanting advice for a friend. I bet Mabel's been busted."
Everyone simultaneously rolled their eyes at Grandma.
"Okay then," she said. "Maybe she wants a job. Maybe she wants to be a bounty hunter. You know how she's always squeaking by."
My father shoveled food into his mouth, keeping his head down. He reached for the potatoes and spooned seconds onto his plate. "Christ," he mumbled.
"If there's anyone in that family who would need a bail bond, it would be Mabel's ex-grandson-in-law," my mother said. "He's mixed up with some bad people these days. Evelyn was smart to divorce him."
"Yeah, and that divorce was real nasty," Grandma said to me. "Almost as nasty as yours."
"I set a high standard."
"You were a pip," Grandma said.
My mother did another eye roll. "It was a disgrace."
* * *
Mabel Markowitz lives in a museum. She married in 1943 and still has her first table lamp, her first pot, her first chrome and Formica kitchen table. Her living room was newly wallpapered in 1957. The flowers have faded but the paste has held. The carpet is dark oriental. The upholstered pieces sag slightly in the middle, imprinted with asses that have since moved on ...either to God or Hamilton Township.
Certainly the furniture doesn't bear the imprint of Mabel's ass as Mabel is a walking skeleton who never sits. Mabel bakes and cleans and paces while she talks on the phone. Her eyes are bright, and she laughs easily, slapping her thigh, wiping her hands on her apron. Her hair is thin and grey, cut short and curled. Her face is powdered first thing in the morning to a chalky white. Her lipstick is pink and applied hourly, feathering out into the deep crevices that line her mouth.
"Stephanie," she said, "how nice to see you. Come in. I have a coffee cake."
Mrs. Markowitz always has a coffee cake. That's the way it is in the Burg. Windows are clean, cars are big and there's always a coffee cake.
I took a seat at the kitchen table. "The truth is, I don't know very much about bond. My cousin Vinnie is the bond expert."
"It's not so much about bond," Mabel said. "It's more about finding someone. And I fibbed about it being for a friend. I was embarrassed. I just don't know how to even begin telling you this."
Mabel's eyes filled with tears. She cut a piece of coffee cake and shoved it into her mouth. Angry. Mabel wasn't the sort of woman to comfortably fall victim to emotion. She washed the coffee cake down with coffee that was strong enough to dissolve a spoon if you let it sit in the cup too long. Never accept coffee from Mrs. Markowitz.
"I guess you know Evelyn's marriage didn't work out. She and Steven got a divorce awhile back, and it was pretty bitter," Mabel finally said.
Evelyn is Mabel's granddaughter. I've known Evelyn all my life, but we were never close friends. She lived several blocks away, and she went to Catholic school. Our paths only intersected on Sundays when she'd come to dinner at Mabel's house. Valerie and I called her The Giggler because she giggled at everything. She'd come over to play board games in her Sunday clothes, and she'd giggle when she rolled the dice, giggle when she moved her piece, giggle when she lost. She giggled so much she got dimples. And when she got older, she was one of those girls that boys love. Evelyn was all round softness and dimples and vivacious energy.
I hardly ever saw Evelyn any more, but when I did there wasn't much vivacious energy left in her.
Mabel pressed her thin lips together. "There was so much arguing and hard feelings over the divorce that the judge made Evelyn take out one of these new child custody bonds. I guess he was afraid Evelyn wouldn't let Steven see Annie. Anyway, Evelyn didn't have any money to put up for the bond. Steven took the money that Evelyn got when my daughter died, and he never gave Evelyn anything. Evelyn was like a prisoner in that house on Key Street. I'm almost the only relative left for Evelyn and Annie now, so I put my house here up for collateral. Evelyn wouldn't have gotten custody if I didn't do that."
This was all new to me. I'd never heard of a custody bond. The people I tracked down were in violation of a bail bond.
Mabel wiped the table clean of crumbs and dumped the crumbs in the sink. Mabel wasn't good at sitting. "It was all just fine until last week when I got a note from Evelyn, saying she and Annie were going away for awhile. I didn't think much of it, but all of a sudden everyone is looking for Annie. Steven came to my house a couple days ago, raising his voice and saying terrible things about Evelyn. He said she had no business taking Annie off like she did, taking her away from him and taking her out of first grade. And he said he was invoking the custody bond. And then this morning I got a phone call from the bond company telling me they were going to take my house if I didn't help them get Annie back."
Mabel looked around her kitchen. "I don't know what I'd do without the house. Can they really take it from me?"
"I don't know," I told Mabel. "I've never been involved in anything like this."
"And now they all got me worried. How do I know if Evelyn and Annie are okay? I don't have any way of getting in touch. And it was just a note. It wasn't even like I talked to Evelyn."
Mabel's eyes filled up again, and I was really hoping she wasn't going to flat-out cry because I wasn't great with big displays of emotion. My mother and I expressed affection through veiled compliments about gravy.
"I feel just terrible," Mabel said. "I don't know what to do. I thought maybe you could find Evelyn and talk to her ...make sure her and Annie are all right. I could put up with losing the house, but I don't want to lose Evelyn and Annie. I've got some money set aside. I don't know how much you charge for this sort of thing."
"I don't charge anything. I'm not a private investigator. I don't take on private cases like this." Hell, I'm not even a very good bounty hunter!
Mabel picked at her apron, tears rolling down her cheeks, now. "I don't know who else to ask."
Oh man, I don't believe this. Mabel Markowitz, crying! This was at about the same comfort level as getting a gyno exam in the middle of Main Street at high noon.
"Okay," I said. "I'll see what I can do ...as a neighbor."
Mabel nodded and wiped her eyes. "I'd appreciate it." She took an envelope from the sideboard. "I have a picture for you. It's Annie and Evelyn. It was taken last year when Annie turned seven. And I wrote Evelyn's address on a piece of paper for you, too. And her car and license plate."
"Do you have a key to her house?"
"No," Mabel said. "She never gave me one."
"Do you have any ideas about where Evelyn might have gone? Anything at all?"
Mabel shook her head. "I can't imagine where she's taken off to. She grew up here in the Burg. Never lived any place else. Didn't go away to college. Most all our relatives are right here."
"Did Vinnie write the bond?"
"No. It's some other company. I wrote it down." She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "It's True Blue Bonds, and the man's name is Les Sebring."
My cousin Vinnie owns Vincent Plum Bail Bonds and runs his business out of a small storefront office on Hamilton Avenue. A while back when I'd been desperate for a job I'd sort of blackmailed Vinnie into taking me on. The Trenton economy has since improved, and I'm not sure why I'm still working for Vinnie, except that the office is across from a bakery.
Sebring has offices downtown, and his operation makes Vinnie's look like chump change. I've never met Sebring but I've heard stories. He's supposed to be extremely professional. And he's rumored to have legs second only to Tina Turner.
I gave Mabel an awkward hug, told her I'd look into things for her, and I left.
My mother and my grandmother were waiting for me. They were at my parent's front door with the door cracked an inch, their noses pressed to the glass.
"Pssst," my grandmother said. "Hurry up over here. We're dying."
"I can't tell you," I said.
Both women sucked in air. This went against the code of the Burg. In the Burg, blood was always thicker than water. Professional ethics didn't count for much when held up to a juicy piece of gossip among family members.
"Okay," I said, ducking inside. "I might as well tell you. You'll find out anyway." We rationalize a lot in the Burg, too. "When Evelyn got divorced she had to take out something called a child custody bond. Mabel put her house up as collateral. Now Evelyn and Annie are off somewhere, and Mabel is getting pressured by the bond company."
"Oh my goodness," my mother said. "I had no idea."
"Mabel is worried about Evelyn and Annie. Evelyn sent her a note and said she and Annie were going away for a while, but Mabel hasn't heard from them since."
"If I was Mabel I'd be worried about her house," Grandma said. "Sounds to me like she could be living in a cardboard box under the railroad bridge."
"I told her I'd help her, but this isn't really my thing. I'm not a private investigator."
"Maybe you could get your friend Ranger to help her," Grandma said. "That might be better anyway, on account of he's hot. I wouldn't mind having him hang around the neighborhood."
Ranger is more associate than friend. Although, I guess friendship is mixed in there somehow, too. Plus a scary sexual attraction. A few months ago we made a deal that has haunted me. Another one of those jumping off the garage roof things, except this deal involved my bedroom. Ranger is Cuban-American with skin the color of a mocha latte, heavy on the mocha, and a body that can best be described as yum. He's got a big-time stock portfolio, an endless inexplicable supply of expensive black cars, and skills that make Rambo look like an amateur. I'm pretty sure he only kills bad guys, and I think he might be able to fly like Superman. Although, the flying part has never been confirmed. Ranger works in bond enforcement, among other things. And Ranger always gets his man.
My black Honda CRV was parked curbside. Grandma walked me to the car. "Just let me know if there's anything I can do to help," she said. "I always thought I'd make a good detective on account of I'm so nosey."
"Maybe you could ask around the neighborhood."
"You bet. And I could go to Stiva's tomorrow. Charlie Shleckner is laid out. I hear Stiva did a real good job on him."
New York has Lincoln Center. Florida has Disney World. The Burg has Stiva's Funeral Parlor. Not only is Stiva's the premier entertainment facility for the Burg, it's also the nerve center of the news network. If you can't get the dirt on someone at Stiva's, then there isn't any dirt to get.
* * *
It was still early when I left Mabel's, so I drove past Evelyn's house on Key Street. It was a two family house very much like my parents. Small front yard, small front porch, small two story house. No sign of life in Evelyn's half. No car parked in front. No lights shining behind drawn drapes. According to Grandma Mazur, Evelyn had lived in the house when she'd been married to Steven Soder and had stayed there with Annie when Soder moved out. Eddie Abruzzi owns the property and rents out both units. Abruzzi owns several houses in the Burg and a couple large office buildings in downtown Trenton. I don't know him personally, but I've heard he's not the world's nicest guy.
I parked and walked to Evelyn's front porch. I rapped lightly on her door. No answer. I tried to peek in the front window, but the drapes were drawn tight. I walked around the side of the house and stood on tippy toes, looking in. No luck with the side windows in the front room and dining room, but my snoopiness paid off with the kitchen. No curtains drawn in the kitchen. There were two cereal bowls and two glasses on the counter next to the sink. Everything else seemed tidy. No sign of Evelyn or Annie. I returned to the front and knocked on the neighbor's door.
The door opened, and Carol Balog looked out at me.
"Stephanie!" she said. "How the hell are you?"
I went to school with Carol. She got a job at the button factory when we graduated and two months later married Lenny Balog. Once in a while I run into her at Giovichinni's Deli but beyond that we've lost touch.
"I didn't realize you were living here," I said. "I was looking for Evelyn."
Carol did an eyeroll. "Everyone's looking for Evelyn. And to tell you the truth, I hope no one finds her. Except for you, of course. Those other jerks I wouldn't wish on anyone."
"What other jerks?"
"Her ex-husband and his friends. And the landlord, Abruzzi and his goons."
"You and Evelyn were close?"
"As close as anyone could get to Evelyn. We moved here two years ago, before the divorce. She'd spend all day popping pills and then drink herself into a stupor at night."
"What kind of pills?"
"Prescription. For depression, I think. Understandable, since she was married to Soder. Do you know him?"
"Not well." I met Steven Soder for the first time at Evelyn's wedding, nine years ago, and I took an instant dislike to him. In my brief dealings with him over the following years I found nothing to change my original bad impression.
"He's a real manipulative bastard. And abusive," Carol said.
"He'd hit her?"
"Not that I know. Just mental abuse. I could hear him yelling at her all the time. Telling her she was stupid. She was kind of heavy, and he used to call her the cow. Then one day he moved out and moved in with some other woman. Joanne Something. Evelyn's lucky day."
"Do you think Evelyn and Annie are safe?"
"God, I hope so. Those two deserve a break."
I looked over at Evelyn's front door. "I don't suppose you have a key?"
Carol shook her head. "Evelyn didn't trust anyone. She was real paranoid. I don't think her grandma even has a key. And she didn't tell me where she was going, if that's your next question. One day she just loaded a bunch of bags into her car and took off."
I gave Carol my card and headed for home. I live in a three story brick apartment building about ten minutes from the Burg ...five if I'm late for dinner and I hit the lights right. The building was constructed at a time when energy was cheap and architecture was inspired by economy. My bathroom is orange and brown, my refrigerator is avocado green and my windows were born before Thermopane. Fine by me. The rent is reasonable, and the other tenants are okay. Mostly the building is inhabited by seniors on fixed incomes. The seniors are, for the most, part nice people ...as long as you don't let them get behind the wheel of a car.
I parked in the lot and pushed through the double glass door that led to the small lobby. I was filled with chicken and potatoes and gravy and chocolate layer cake and Mabel's coffee cake, so I bypassed the elevator and took the stairs as penance. All right, so I'm only one flight up, but it's a start, right?
My hamster, Rex, was waiting for me when I opened the door to my apartment. Rex lives in a soup can in a glass aquarium in my kitchen. He stopped running on his wheel when I switched the light on and blinked out at me, whiskers whirring. I like to think it was welcome home but probably it was who put the damn light on? I gave him a raisin and a small piece of cheese. He stuffed the food into his cheeks and disappeared into his soup can. So much for room mate interaction.
In the past, Rex has sometimes shared his room mate status with a Trenton cop named Joe Morelli. Morelli's two years older than I am, half a foot taller, and his gun is bigger than mine. Morelli started looking up my skirt when I was seven, and he's just never gotten out of the habit. We've had some differences of opinion lately, and Morelli's toothbrush is not currently in my bathroom. Unfortunately, it's a lot harder to get Morelli out of my heart and my mind than out of my bathroom. Nevertheless, I'm making an effort.
I got a beer from the fridge and settled in front of the television. I flipped through the stations, hitting the high points, not finding much. I had the photo of Evelyn and Annie in front of me. They were standing together, looking happy. Annie had curly red hair and the pale skin of a natural redhead. Evelyn had her brown hair pulled back. Conservative make-up. She was smiling, but not enough to bring out the dimples.
A mom and her kid ...and I was supposed to find them.
* * *
Connie Rosolli had a doughnut in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other when I walked into the bail bonds office the next morning. She pushed the doughnut box across the top of her desk with her elbow and white powdered sugar sifted off her doughnut, down onto her boobs. "Have a doughnut," she said. "You look like you need one."
Connie is the office manager. She's in charge of petty cash and she uses it wisely, buying doughnuts, file folders, and financing the occasional gaming trip to Atlantic City. It was a little after eight, and Connie was ready for the day, eyes lined, lashes mascaraed, lips painted bright red, hair curled into a big bush around her face. I, on the other hand, was letting the day creep up on me. I had my hair pulled into a half-assed pony tail and was wearing my usual stretchy little T-shirt, jeans and boots. Waving a mascara wand in the vicinity of my eye seemed like a dangerous maneuver this morning, so I was au naturel.
I took a doughnut and looked around. "Where's Lula?"
"She's late. She's been late all week. Not that it matters."
Lula was hired to do filing, but mostly she does what she wants.
"Hey, I heard that," Lula said, swinging through the door. "You better not be talking about me. I'm late on account of I'm going to night school now."
"You go one day a week," Connie said.
"Yeah, but I gotta study. It's not like this shit comes easy. It's not like my former occupation as a 'ho helps me out, you know. I don't think my final exam's gonna be about hand jobs."
Lula's a couple inches shorter and a lot of pounds heavier than me. She buys her clothes in the petite department and then shoehorns herself into them. This wouldn't work for most people, but it seems right for Lula. Lula shoehorns herself into life.
"So what's up?" Lula said. "I miss anything?"
I gave Connie the body receipt for Paulson. "Do you guys know anything about child custody bonds?"
"They're relatively new," Connie said. "Vinnie isn't doing them yet. They're high risk bonds. Sebring is the only one in the area taking them on."
"Sebring," Lula said. "Isn't he the guy with the good legs? I hear he's got legs like Tina Turner." She looked down at her own legs. "My legs are the right color but I just got more of them."
"Sebring's legs are white," Connie said. "And I hear they're good at running down blondes."
I swallowed the last of my doughnut and wiped my hands on my jeans. "I need to talk to him."
"You'll be safe today," Lula said. "Not only aren't you blonde, but you aren't exactly decked-out. You have a hard night?"
"I'm not a morning person."
"It's your love life," Lula said. "You aren't getting any, and you got nothing to put a smile on your face. You're letting yourself go, is what you're doing."
"I could get plenty if I wanted."
Connie gave me a check for the Paulson capture. "You aren't thinking about going to work for Sebring, are you?"
I told them about Evelyn and Annie.
"Maybe I should talk to Sebring with you," Lula said. "Maybe we can get him to show us his legs."
"Not necessary," I said. "I can manage this myself." And I didn't especially want to see Les Sebring's legs.
"Look here. I didn't even put my bag down," Lula said. "I'm ready to go."
Lula and I stared at each other for a beat. I was going to lose. I could see it coming. Lula had it in her mind to go with me. Probably didn't want to file. "Okay," I said, "but no shooting, no shoving, no asking him to roll up his pants leg."
"You got a lot of rules," Lula said.
We took the CRV across town and parked in a lot next to Sebring's building. The bonds office was on the ground floor, and Sebring had a suite of offices above it.
"Just like Vinnie," Lula said, eyeballing the carpeted floor and freshly painted walls. "Only it looks like humans work here. And check out these chairs for people to sit in ...they don't even have stains on them. And his receptionist don't have a mustache either."
Sebring escorted us into his private office. "Stephanie Plum. I've heard of you," he said.
"It wasn't my fault that the funeral parlor burned down," I told him. "And I almost never shoot people."
"We heard of you, too," Lula said to Sebring. "We heard you got great legs."
Sebring was wearing a silver gray suit, white shirt and red, white and blue tie. He reeked of respectability, from the tips of his shined black shoes to the top of his perfectly trimmed white hair. And behind the polite politician smile he looked like he didn't take a lot of shit. There was a moment of silence while he considered Lula. Then he hiked his pants leg up. "Get a load of these wheels," he said.
"You must work out," Lula said. "You got excellent legs."
"I wanted to speak to you about Mabel Markowitz," I said to Sebring. "You called her on a child custody bond."
He nodded. "I remember. I have someone scheduled to visit her again today. So far, she hasn't been helpful."
"She lives next door to my parents, and I don't think she knows where her granddaughter or her great-granddaughter have gone."
"That's too bad," Sebring said. "Do you know about child custody bonds?"
"Not a lot."
"PBUS, which as you know is a professional bail bonds association, worked with the Center for Missing and Exploited Children to get legislation going that would discourage parents from kidnapping their own kids.
"It's a pretty simple idea. If it looks like there's a good chance one or both parents will take off with the child for parts unknown, the court can impose a cash bond."
"So this is like a criminal bail bond, but it's a child who's bonded," I said.
"With one big difference," Sebring said. "When a criminal bond is posted by a bail bondsman and the accused fails to appear in court, the bondsman forfeits the bond amount to the court. Then the bondsman can hunt down the accused, return him to the system and hopefully be reimbursed by the court. In the case of a child custody bond, the bondsman forfeits the bond to the wronged parent. The money is then supposed to be used to find the missing child."
"So if the bond isn't enough of a deterrent to kidnapping, at least there's money to hire a professional to search for the missing child," I said.
"Exactly. Problem is, unlike a criminal bond, the child custody bondsman doesn't have the legal right to hunt down the child. The only recourse the child custody bondsman has to recoup his loss is to foreclose on property posted at the time of the bond signature.
"In this case, Evelyn Soder didn't have the cash on hand for the bond. So she came to us and used her grandmother's house as collateral. The hope is that when you call up the grandmother and tell her to start packing she'll divulge the location of the missing child."
"Have you already released the money to Steven Soder?"
"The money gets released in three weeks."
So I had three weeks to find Annie.
Hard Eight Copyright © 2002 by Evanovich, Inc. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010
Meet the Author
Janet Evanovich is the author of the Stephanie Plum books, including One for the Money and Sizzling Sixteen, and the Diesel & Tucker series, including Wicked Appetite. Janet studied painting at Douglass College, but that art form never quite fit, and she soon moved on to writing stories. She didn't have instant success: she collected a big box of rejection letters. As she puts it, "When the box was full I burned the whole damn thing, crammed myself into pantyhose and went to work for a temp agency." But after a few months of secretarial work, she managed to sell her first novel for $2,000. She immediately quit her job and started working full-time as a writer. After a dozen romance novels, she switched to mystery, and created Stephanie Plum. The rest is history. Janet's favorite exercise is shopping, and her drug of choice is Cheeze Doodles. She and her husband live in New Hampshire, in house with a view of the Connecticut River Valley.
- Hanover, New Hampshire
- Date of Birth:
- April 22, 1943
- Place of Birth:
- South River, New Jersey
- B.A., Douglass College, 1965
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