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Twelve Sharp

St. Martin's Press

All right reserved.

ISBN: 0312349483

Chapter One 

When I was twelve years old I accidentally substituted salt for sugar in a cake recipe. I baked the cake, iced the cake, and served it up. It looked like a cake, but as soon as you cut into it and took a taste, you knew something else was going on. People are like that, too. Sometimes you just can't tell what's on the inside from looking at the outside. Sometimes people are a big surprise, just like the salt cake. Sometimes the surprise turns out to be good. And sometimes the surprise turns out to be bad. And sometimes the surprise is just friggin' confusing.
 
Joe Morelli is one of those good surprises. He's two years older than I am, and for most of my school years, spending time with Morelli was like a visit to the dark side, alluring and frightening. He's a Trenton cop now, and he's my off-again, on-again boyfriend. He used to be the hair-raising part of my life, but my life has had a lot of changes, and now he's the normal part. He has a dog named Bob, and a nice little house, and a toaster. On the outside Morelli is still street tough and dangerously alluring. On the inside Morelli is now the sexy guy with the toaster. Go figure.
 
I have a hamster named Rex, a utilitarian apartment, and my toaster is broken. My name is Stephanie Plum, and I work as a bond enforcement agent, also known as a bountyhunter, for my cousin Vinnie. It's not a great job, but it has its moments, and if I mooch food off my parents the job almost pays enough to get me through the month. It would pay a lot more but the truth is, I'm not all that good at it.
 
Sometimes I moonlight for a guy named Ranger who's extremely bad in an incredibly good way. He's a security expert, and a bounty hunter, and he moves like smoke. Ranger is milk chocolate on the outside . . . a delicious, tempting, forbidden pleasure. And no one knows what's on the inside. Ranger keeps his own counsel.
 
I work with two women I like a lot. Connie Rosolli is Vinnie's office manager and junkyard dog. She's a little older than I am. A little smarter. A little tougher. A little more Italian. She's got a lot more chest, and she dresses like Betty Boop.
 
The other woman is my sometimes-partner Lula. Lula was at this moment parading around in the bail bonds office, showing Connie and me her new outfit. Lula is a way-beyond-voluptuous black woman who was currently squashed into four-inch spike heels and a sparkly gold spandex dress that had been constructed for a much smaller woman. The neckline was low, and the only thing keeping Lula's big boobs from popping out was the fact that the material was snagged on her nipples. The skirt was stretched tight across her ass and hung two inches below the full moon.
 
With Connie and Lula you get what you see.
 
Lula bent to take a look at the heel on her shoe, and Connie was treated to a view of the night sky.
 
"Crikey," Connie said. "You need to put some underwear on."
 
"I got underwear on," Lula said. "I'm wearing my best thong. Just 'cause I used to be a 'ho don't mean I'm cheap. Problem is that little thong stringy gets lost in all my derriere."
 
"Tell me again what you're doing in this getup," Connie said.
 
"I'm gonna be a rock-and-roll singer. I got a gig singing with Sally Sweet's new band. You heard of the Who? Well, we're gonna be the What."
 
"You can't sing," Connie said. "I've heard you sing. You can't hold a tune to 'Happy Birthday.' "
 
"The hell I can't," Lula said. "I could sing your ass off. Besides, half those rock stars can't sing. They just open their big oversize mouths and yell. And you gotta admit, I look good in this here dress. Nobody gonna be paying attention to my singing when I'm wearing this dress."
 
"She's got a point," I said to Connie.
 
"No argument," Connie said.
 
"I'm underrealized," Lula said. "I gotta lot of untapped potential. Yesterday my horoscope said I gotta expand my horizons."
 
"You expand any more in that dress, and you'll get yourself arrested," Connie said.
 
The bonds office is on Hamilton Avenue, a couple blocks from Saint Frances Hospital. Handy for bonding out guys who've been shot. It's a small storefront office sandwiched between a beauty parlor and a used bookstore. There's an outer room with a scarred imitation leather couch, a couple folding chairs, Connie's desk and computer, and a bank of files. Vinnie's office is located in a room behind Connie's desk.
 
When I started working for Vinnie he used his office to talk to his bookie and set up nooners with barnyard animals, but Vinnie has recently discovered the Internet, and now Vinnie uses his office to surf porn sites and online casinos. Behind the bank of file cabinets is a storeroom filled with the nuts and bolts of the bail bonds business. Confiscated televisions, DVD players, iPods, computers, a velvet painting of Elvis, a set of cookware, blenders, kids' bikes, engagement rings, a tricked-out Hog, a bunch of George Foreman grills, and God knows what else. Vinnie had some guns and ammo back there too. Plus a box of cuffs that he got on eBay. There's a small bathroom that Connie keeps spotless and a back door in case there's a need to sneak off.
 
"I hate to be a party pooper," Connie said, "but we're going to have to put the fashion show on hold because we have a problem." She slid a stack of folders across her desk at me. "These are all unresolved skips. If we don't find some of these guys we're going belly-up."
 
Here's the way bail bonds works. If you're accused of a crime and you don't want to sit and rot in jail while you're waiting for your trial to come up, you can give the court a wad of money. The court takes the money and lets you walk, and you get the money back when you show up on your trial date. If you don't have that money stashed under your mattress, a bail bondsman can give the court the money on your behalf. He'll charge you a percentage of the money, maybe ten percent, and he'll keep that percentage whether you're proven guilty or not. If the accused shows up for court, the court gives the bail bondsman his money back. If the accused doesn't show up, the court keeps the money until the bondsman finds the accused and drags his sorry butt back to jail.
 
So you see the problem, right? Too much money going out and not enough money going in, and Vinnie might have to refinance his house. Or worse, the insurance company that backs Vinnie could yank the plug.
 
"Lula and I can't keep up with the skips," I said to Connie. "There are too many of them."
 
"Yeah, and I'll tell you the problem," Lula said. "It used to be Ranger worked full time for you, but anymore he's got his own security business going, and he's not doing skip tracing. It's just Stephanie and me catching the bad guys these days."
 
It was true. Ranger had moved most of his business toward the security side and only went into tracking mode when something came in that was over my head. There are some who might argue everything is over my head, but for practical purposes we've had to ignore that argument.
 
"I hate to say this," I told Connie, "but you need to hire another bond enforcement person."
 
"It's not that easy," Connie said. "Remember when we had Joyce Barnhardt working here? That was a disaster. She screwed up all her busts doing her big bad bounty hunter routine. And then she stole everyone's skips. It's not like she's a team player."
 
Joyce Barnhardt is my archenemy. I went all through school with her, and she was a misery. And before the ink was dry on my marriage license she was in bed with my husband, who is now my ex-husband. Thank you, Joyce.
 
"We could put a ad in the paper," Lula said. "That's how I got my filing job here. Look at how good that turned out."
 
Connie and I did eye rolls.
 
Lula was about the worst file clerk ever. Lula kept her job because no one else would tolerate Vinnie. The first time Vinnie made a grab at Lula she clocked him on the side of the head with a five-pound phone book and told him she'd staple his nuts to the wall if he didn't show respect. And that was the end of sexual harassment in the bail bonds office.
 
Connie read the names off the files on her desk. "Lonnie Johnson, Kevin Gallager, Leon James, Dooby Biagi, Caroline Scarzolli, Melvin Pickle, Charles Chin, Bernard Brown, Mary Lee Truk, Luis Queen, John Santos. These are all current. You already have half of them. The rest came in last night. Plus we have nine outstanding that we've relegated to the temporarily lost cause file. Vinnie's writing a lot of bond these days. Probably taking risks he shouldn't. The result is more than the normal FTAs."
 
When someone doesn't show up for a court appearance we call them FTA. Failure to Appear. People fail to appear for a bunch of reasons. Hookers and pushers can make more money on the street than they can in jail so they only show up in court when you finally stop bonding them out. All other people just don't want to go to jail.
 
Connie gave me the new files, and it was like an elephant was sitting on my chest. Lonnie Johnson was wanted for armed robbery. Leon James was suspected of arson and attempted murder. Kevin Gallager was wanted for grand theft auto. Mary Lee Truk had inserted a carving knife into her husband's left buttock during a domestic disturbance. And Melvin Pickle was caught with his pants down in the third row of the multiplex.
 
Lula was looking over my shoulder, reading along with me.
 
"Melvin Pickle sounds like fun," she said. "I think we should start with Melvin."
 
"Maybe a bond enforcement agent wanted ad in the paper isn't such a bad idea," I said to Connie.
 
"Yeah," Lula said, "just be careful how you word it. You probably want to fib a little. Like you don't want to say we're looking for some gun-happy lunatic to take down a bunch of scumbags."
 
"I'll keep that in mind when I write it up," Connie said.
 
"I'm going down the street," I told Lula. "I need something to make me happy. We'll go to work when I get back."
 
"You going to the drugstore?" Lula wanted to know.
 
"No. The bakery."
 
"I wouldn't mind if you brought me back one of them cream-filled doughnuts with the chocolate frosting," Lula said. "I need to get happy, too."
 
At mid-morning the Garden State was heating up. Pavement was steaming under a cloudless sky, petrochemical plants were spewing to the north, and cars were emitting hydrocarbons statewide. By mid-afternoon I'd feel the toxic stew catch in the back of my throat, and I'd know it was truly summer in Jersey. For me, the stew is part of the Jersey experience. The stew has attitude. And it enhances the pull of Point Pleasant. How can you completely appreciate the Jersey shore if the air is safe to breathe in the interior parts of the state?
 
I swung into the bakery and went straight to the doughnut case. Marjorie Lando was behind the counter, filling cannoli for a customer. Fine by me. I could wait my turn. The bakery was always a soothing experience. My heart rate slowed in the presence of massive quantities of sugar and lard. My mind floated over the acres of cookies and cakes and doughnuts and cream pies topped with rainbow sprinkles, chocolate frosting, whipped cream, and meringue.
 
I was patiently contemplating my doughnut selection when I sensed a familiar presence behind me. A hand brushed my hair back, and Ranger leaned in to me and kissed me on the nape of my neck.
 
"I could get you to look at me like that if I had five minutes alone with you," Ranger said.
 
"I'll give you five minutes alone with me if you'll take over half my skips."
 
"Tempting," Ranger said, "but I'm on my way to the airport, and I'm not sure when I'll be back. Tank is in charge. Call him if you need help. And let him know if you decide to move into my apartment."
 
Not that long ago I needed a safe place to stay, and sort of commandeered Ranger's apartment when he was out of town. Ranger had come home and found me sleeping in his bed like Goldilocks. He'd very graciously not thrown me out the seventh-floor window. And in fact he'd allowed me to stay with a minimum of sexual harassment. Okay, maybe minimum isn't entirely accurate. Maybe it was a seven on a scale of ten, but he hadn't forced the issue.
 
"How did you know I was here?" I asked him.
 
"I stopped at the bonds office, and Lula told me you were on a doughnut mission."
 
"Where are you going?"
 
"Miami."
 
"Is this business or pleasure?"
 
"It's bad business."
 
Marjorie finished with her customer and made her way over to me. "What'll it be?" she wanted to know.
 
"A dozen Boston Cream doughnuts."
 
"Babe," Ranger said.
 
"They're not all for me."
 
Ranger doesn't often smile. Mostly he thinks about smiling, and this was one of those thinking-smile times. He wrapped his hand around my wrist, pulled me to him, and kissed me. The kiss was warm and short. No tongue in front of the bakery lady, thank God. He turned and walked away. Tank was idling at the curb in a black SUV. Ranger got in and they drove off.
 
Marjorie was behind the counter with a cardboard box in her hand and her mouth dropped open. "Wow," she said.
 
That dragged a sigh out of me because she was right. Ranger was definitely a wow. He stood half a head taller than me. He was perfectly toned muscle, and he had classic Latino good looks. He always smelled great. He dressed only in black. His skin was dark. His eyes were dark. His hair was dark. His life was dark. Ranger had lots of secrets.
 
"It's a work relationship," I told Marjorie.
 
"If he was in here any longer, the chocolate would have melted off the eclairs."
 
 
"I don't like this," Lula said. "I wanted to go after the pervert. I personally think it's a bad choice to go after the guy who likes guns."
 
"He's got the highest bond. The fastest way to dig Vinnie out of the hole is to get the guy with the highest bond."
 
We were in Lula's red Firebird, sitting across the street from Lonnie Johnson's last known address. It was a small clapboard bungalow in a depressed neighborhood that backed up to the hockey arena. It was close to noon and not a great time to roust a bad guy. If he's still in bed, it's because he's drunk and mean. If he's not in bed, it's most likely because he's at a bar getting drunk and mean.
 
"What's the plan?" Lula wanted to know. "We gonna just bust in like gangsta bounty hunters and kick his ass?"
 
I looked at Lula. "Have we ever done that?"
 
"Don't mean we can't."
 
"We'd look like idiots. We're incompetent."
 
"That's harsh," Lula said. "And I don't think we're completely incompetent. I think we're closer to eighty percent incompetent. Remember the time you wrestled that naked greased-up fat guy? You did a good job with that one."
 
"Too early in the day to do the pizza delivery routine," I said.
 
"Can't do the flower delivery either. Nobody believe someone sending flowers to this dope."
 
"If you hadn't changed clothes you could do the hooker delivery routine," I said to Lula. "He would have opened the door to you in that gold thing."
 
"Maybe we pretend we're selling cookies. Like Girl Scouts. All we gotta do is go back to the 7-Eleven and get some cookies."
 
I looked Johnson's phone number up on the bond sheet and called him from my cell.
 
"Yeah?" a man said.
 
"Lonnie Johnson?"
 
"What the fuck you want? Fuckin' bitch calling me at this hour. You think I got nothin' better to do than answer this phone?" And he hung up.
 
"Well?" Lula asked.
 
"He didn't feel like talking. And he's angry."
 
A shiny black Hummer with tinted windows and bling wheel covers rolled down the street and stopped in front of Johnson's house.
 
"Uh-oh," Lula said. "Company."
 
The Hummer sat there for a moment and then opened fire on Johnson's house. Multiple weapons. At least one was automatic, firing continuous rounds. Windows blew out and the house was drilled with shots. Gunfire was returned from the house, and I saw the nose of a rocket launcher poke out a front window. Obviously the Hummer saw it too because it laid rubber taking off.
 
"Maybe this isn't a good time," I said to Lula.
 
"I told you to go for the pervert."
 
 
Melvin Pickle worked in a shoe store. The store was part of the mall that attached to the multiplex where he'd been caught shaking hands with the devil. I didn't have a lot of enthusiasm for this capture, since I had some sympathetic feelings for Pickle. If I had to work in a shoe store all day I might go to the multiplex to whack off once in a while too.
 
"Not only is this going to be an easy catch," Lula said, parking at the food court entrance, "but we can get pizza and go shopping."
 
A half hour later, we were full of pizza and had taken a couple new perfumes out for a test drive. We'd moseyed down the mall and were standing in front of Pickle's shoe store, scoping out the employees. I had a photo of Pickle that had come with his bond agreement.
 
"That's him," Lula said, looking into the store. "That's him on his knees, trying to sell that dumb woman those ugly-ass shoes."
 
According to Pickle's paperwork he'd just turned forty. He had sandy-colored hair that looked like it had been cut in boot camp. His skin was pale, his eyes hidden behind round-rimmed glasses, his mouth accented by a big herpes sore. He was five-foot-seven and had an average build gone soft. His slacks and dress shirt were just short of shabby. He didn't look like he cared a whole lot if the woman bought the shoes.
 
I moved my cuffs from my shoulder bag to my jeans pocket. "I can manage this," I said to Lula. "You stay here in case he bolts."
 
"I don't think he looks like a bolter," Lula said. "I think he looks more like the walking dead."
 
I agreed with Lula. Pickle looked like he was two steps away from putting a bullet in his brain. I moved behind him and waited for him to stand.
 
"I love this shoe," the woman said. "But I need a size nine."
 
"I don't have a size nine," Pickle said.
 
"Are you sure?"
 
"Yeah."
 
"Maybe you should go back and look again."
 
Pickle sucked air for a couple beats and nodded. "Sure," he said.
 
He stood and turned and bumped into me.
 
"You're going to leave, aren't you?" I said. "I bet you're going to go out the back door and go home and never come back."
 
"It's a recurring fantasy," he said.
 
I glanced at my watch. It was twelve-thirty. "Have you had lunch?" I asked him.
 
"No."
 
"Take your lunch now and come with me, and I'll buy you a piece of pizza."
 
"There's something wrong with this picture," Pickle said. "Are you one of those religious nuts who wants to save me?"
 
"No. I'm not a religious nut." I held my hand out. "Stephanie Plum."
 
He automatically shook my hand. "Melvin Pickle."
 
"I work for Vincent Plum Bail Bonds," I said. "You missed a court date, and you need to reschedule."
 
"Sure," he said.
 
"Now."
 
"I can't go now. I gotta work."
 
"You can take your lunch break."
 
"I had plans for lunch."
 
Probably going to see a movie. I was still holding his hand, and with my other hand I clapped a bracelet on him.
 
He looked down at the cuff. "What's this? You can't do this. People will ask questions. And then what will I tell them? I'll have to tell them I'm a pervert!"
 
Two women looked over at him and raised their eyebrows.
 
"No one will care," I said. I turned to the women. "You don't care, right?"
 
"Right," they murmured and hurried out of the store.
 
"Just walk out into the mall quietly with me," I said. "I'll take you to court and get yopture thing.
 
"Darn," Pickle said. "Darn it all."
 
And he took off with the cuff dangling from his wrist. Lula stepped in front of him, but he had momentum and knocked her on her ass. He faltered for a moment, got his footing, and ran off into the mall. I was ten steps behind him. I stumbled over Lula, scrambled to my feet, and kept going. I chased him through the mall and up an escalator.
 
A hotel with an open atrium was attached to one end of the mall. Pickle ran into the hotel and barreled through the fire door into the stairwell. I chased him up five flights of stairs and thought my lungs were going to explode. He exited the stairwell, and I dragged myself, gasping, to the door.
 
There were seven floors in the hotel. All rooms opened to a hallway that overlooked the hotel atrium. We were on the sixth floor. I staggered out of the stairwell and saw that Pickle had made it halfway around the atrium and was straddling the balcony railing.
 
"Don't come near me," he yelled. "I'll jump."
 
"Fine with me," I said. "I get my money dead or alive."
 
Pickle looked depressed at that fact. Or maybe Pickle just always looked depressed.
 
"You're in pretty good shape," I said, still winded. "How do you stay in such good shape?"
 
"My car got repossessed. I walk everywhere. And all day long I'm up and down with the shoes. At the end of the day my knees are killing me."
 
I was talking to him, creeping closer. "Why don't you get a different job? One that's easier on your knees."
 
"Are you kidding me? I'm lucky to have this job. Look at me. I'm a loser. And now everybody's going to know I'm a pervert. I'm a pervert loser. And I have a big herpes. I'm a pervert loser with a herpes!"
 
"You need to get a grip. You don't have to be a pervert loser if you don't want to be."
 
He sat on the railing and swung both legs over. "Easy for you to say. You aren't named Melvin Pickle. And I bet you were a baton twirler in high school. You probably had friends. You probably date."
 
"I don't exactly date, but I sort of have a boyfriend."
 
"What does sort of mean?"
 
"It means that he looks like my boyfriend, but I don't say it out loud."
 
"Why not?" Pickle wanted to know.
 
"It feels weird. I'm not sure why." Okay, I knew why, but I wasn't going to say that out loud either. I had feelings for two men, and I didn't know how to chose between them. "And I wish you wouldn't sit like that. It's creeping me out."
 
"Are you afraid I'll fall? I thought you didn't care. Remember dead or alive?"
 
My cell phone was ringing in my bag.
 
"For crying out loud, answer it," Pickle said. "Don't worry about me, I'm only going to kill myself."
 
I did an exaggerated eye roll and answered the phone.
 
"Hey," Lula said. "Where are you? I been looking all over."
 
"I'm in the hotel at the end of the mall."
 
"I'm right outside of that hotel. What are you doing there? Do you have Pickle?"
 
"I don't exactly have Pickle. We're on the sixth floor, and he's thinking about jumping off the balcony."
 
I looked over the railing and saw Lula walk into the atrium. She looked up, and I waved at her.
 
"I see you," Lula said. "Tell Pickle he's gonna make a big mess if he jumps. This floor's marble, and his head's gonna crack open like a fresh egg, and there's gonna be brains and blood all over the place."
 
I disconnected and relayed the message to Pickle.
 
"I have a plan," he said. "I'm going to jump feet first. That way my head won't make such an impact when I land."
 
Pickle was getting noticed. People were dotted around the atrium, looking up at him. The elevator opened behind me and a man in a suit stepped out.
 
"What's going on here?" he wanted to know.
 
"Don't come near me!" Pickle yelled. "If you come near me, I'll jump."
 
"I'm the hotel manager," the man said. "Is there something I can do?"
 
"Do you have a giant net?" I asked him.
 
"Just go away," Pickle said. "I have big problems. I'm a pervert."
 
"You don't look like a pervert," the manager said.
 
"I whacked off in the multiplex," Pickle told him.
 
"Everybody whacks off in the multiplex," the manager said. "I like to go when there's one of those chick flicks playing, and I wear my wife's panties and I--"
 
"Jeez," Pickle said. "Too much information."
 
The manager disappeared behind the elevator doors and minutes later reappeared in the lobby. He stood in a small cluster of hotel employees, everyone with their heads back, their eyes glued to Pickle.
 
"You're making a scene," I said to Pickle.
 
"Yeah," Pickle said. "Pretty soon they're going to start yelling 'jump.' The human race is lacking. Have you noticed?"
 
"There are some good people," I told him.
 
"Oh yeah? Who's the best person you know? Of all the people you know personally, is there anyone who has a sense of right and wrong and lives by it?"
 
This was a sticky question because it would have to be Ranger . . . but I suspected he occasionally killed people. Only bad people, of course, but still . . .
 
The crowd in the atrium was growing and now included some uniformed security guys and two Trenton cops. One of the cops was on his two-way, probably calling Morelli to tell him I was involved in yet another disaster. A cameraman and his assistant joined the crowd.
 
"We're on television," I told Pickle.
 
Pickle looked down, waved at the camera, and everyone cheered.
 
"This is getting too weird," I told Pickle. "I'm leaving."
 
"You can't leave. If you leave, I'll jump."
 
"I don't care, remember?"
 
"Of course you care. You'll be responsible for my death."
 
"Oh no. No, no, no." I wagged my finger at him. "That won't work with me. I grew up in the Burg. I was raised Catholic. I know guilt in and out. The first thirty years of my life were ruled by guilt. Not that guilt is an entirely bad thing. But you're not going to lay it on me. Whether you live or die is your choice. I have nothing to do with it. I'm not taking responsibility for the state of the pot roast anymore."
 
"Pot roast?"
 
"Every Friday I'm expected for dinner at my parents' house. Every Friday my mom makes pot roast. If I'm late, the pot roast cooks too long and gets dry, and it's all my fault."
 
"And?"
 
"And it's not my fault!"
 
"Of course ith it meant ruining the pot roast. Boy, you should learn some manners."
 
My cell phone rang again. It was my Grandma Mazur. She lives with my mom and dad. She moved in when Grandpa Mazur sailed off in a heaven-bound gravy boat.
 
"You're on television," she said. "I was trying to find Judge Judy, and you popped up. They said you were breaking news. Are you trying to rescue that guy on the railing, or are you trying to get him to jump?"
 
"In the beginning I was trying to rescue him," I said. "But I'm starting to change my mind."
 
"I gotta go now," Grandma said. "I gotta call Ruth Biablocki and tell her you're on television. She's always going on about her granddaughter and how she's got that good job at the bank. Well let's see her top this one. Her grandaughter don't get on television!"
 
"What are you so depressed about that you want to jump off this balcony?" I asked Pickle. "Jumping to your death is pretty severe."
 
"My life sucks! My wife left me and took everything, including my clothes and my dog. I got fired from my job and had to go to work in a shoe store. I have no money, so I had to move back home and live with my mother. And I got caught whacking off in a multiplex. Could it possibly get any worse?"
 
"You have your health."
 
"I think I'm getting a cold. I have a huge oozing cold sore!"
 
My phone rang again.
 
"Cupcake," Morelli said, "I don't like finding you in a hotel with another guy."
 
I looked down and saw Morelli standing next to Lula.
 
"He's a jumper," I told Morelli.
 
"Yeah," Morelli said. "I can see that. What's the story?"
 
"He got caught whacking off in the multiplex and doesn't want to go to jail."
 
"He won't get a lot of jail time for that," Morelli said. "Maybe a couple weekends or community service. It's not a big deal. Everyone whacks off in the multiplex."
 
I relayed the message to Pickle.
 
"It's not just jail," Pickle said. "It's me. I'm a loser."
 
Morelli was still on the phone. "Now what?"
 
"He's a loser."
 
"You're on your own with that one," Morelli said. "Are you going to need help with this?"
 
"Maybe you need . . . vitamins," I said to Pickle.
 
Pickle looked at me. Hopeful. "Do you think that could be it?"
 
"Yeah. If you get off the railing we could go to the health food store and get some."
 
"You're just saying that to get me off the railing."
 
"True. When you get off the railing, the police will probably arrest you for being a nut. You'll have to go to the station and wait for Vinnie to get there to bond you out again."
 
"I can't afford to get bonded out again. I just walked off my job. I'm probably unemployed."
 
"Oh for the love of everything holy." I peeked at my watch. I didn't have time for this. I had other fish to fry. "How about this. We need someone to do filing at the bonds office. Maybe I can get Vinnie to hire you so you can work off the fee to get bonded out."
 
"Really? You'd do that for me?"
 
Morelli was still listening in. "Okay, so far we've promised him community service, vitamins, and a job. The only thing left that he could possibly want is gorilla sex. And if you promise that to him I'm not going to be happy."
 
I disconnected Morelli and put the phone back into my pocket.
 
"About the job," Pickle said. "Vinnie wouldn't mind that I'm a . . . you know, pervert?"
 
That was pretty funny. Vinnie minding that Pickle whacked off at the multiplex. "It's probably the only thing you have going for you," I told Pickle.
 
"Okay," he said. "But you're going to have to help me get off this railing. I'm terrified to move."
 
I grabbed the back of his shirt and hauled him off the railing, and we both collapsed into a heap on the floor. The crowd reaction was mixed. Some cheers and some boos. We got to our feet, and I cuffed his hands behind his back and led him to the elevator.
 
Copyright 2006 by Evanovich, Inc.&u

Continues...

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Excerpted from Twelve Sharp
by Evanovich, Janet
Copyright © 2006 by Evanovich, Janet.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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