Janet Evanovich - Hard eight

Stephanie Plum 08:

By Janet Evanovich

Fugitive Apprehension Agent Stephanie Plum has a big problem an her hands: Seven-year-oldAnnie Soder and her mother, Evelyn, have disappeared. Evelyns estranged husband, Steven, ashady owner of a seedy bar, is not at all happy. During the divorce proceedings, he and Evelynsigned a child custody bond, and Steven is demanding the money guaranteed by the bond tofind Annie. The money was secured by a mortgage on Evelyns grandmothers house, and theTrue Blue Bonds Bail Agency wants to take possession of the house.Finding a kidnapped child is not an assignment for a bounty hunter. But Evelynsgrandmother lives next door to Stephanies parents, and Stephanies mother and grandmotherare not about to see their neighbor lose her house because of the abduction.Even though Stephanies plate is full with miscreants who missed their court dates, includingold nemesis and violent drunk Andy Bender and an elusive little old lady accused of grandtheft auto, she cant disappoint Grandma Mazur! So she follows the trail left by Annie andEvelynand finds a lot more than she bargained for. Steven is somehow linked with a veryscary Eddie Abruzzi. Trenton cop and on-again, off-again fianc Joe Morelli and Stephaniesmentor and tormentor, Ranger, warn Stephanie about Abruzzi, but its Abruzzis eyes andmannerisms that frighten Stephanie most. Stephanie needs Rangers savvy and expertise, andshes willing to accept his help to find Annie even though it might mean getting too involvedwith Ranger.

Stephanie, Ranger, Lula (whos not going to miss riding with Ranger), and Evelynslawyer/Laundromat manager set out to find Annie. The search turns out to be a race amongStephanies posse, the True Blue Bonds agent, a Rangerette known as Jeanne Ellen Burrows,and the Abruzzi crew. Not to mention the fact that theres a killer rabbit on the loose!

Strap on your helmet and get ready for the ride of your life. Hard Eight. The world ofStephanie Plum has never been wilder.

LATELY, IVE 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 crapola and theres a last ditch effort to hog-tie a big, dumb bad guy possessing a congenitally defective frontal lobe. My name is Stephanie Plum, and Im in the fugitive apprehension business bond enforcement, to be exact, working for my cousin Vincent Plum. It wouldnt be such a bad job except the direct result of bond enforcement is usually incarcerationand 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 wasnt most of the time. Martin Paulson, weighing in at 297

pounds and standing five feet, eight inches 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 hadnt been too hard to find. Martin had, in fact, been at home engaged in what he does best stealing merchandise off the Internet. Id managed to get Martin into cuffs and leg shackles and into my car. Id 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 tipped over and was now rolling around 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 Id be the brunt of cop humor for days. I could unlock the cuffs or ankle shackles, but I didnt 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 forklift wasnt 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. Hes a bunch of years older than me and about a foot taller. Juniaks second cousin, Ziggy, is married to my cousin-in-law Gloria Jean. So were sort of family in a remote way.

The drivers side window slid down, and Juniak grinned at me, cutting his eyes to Paulson. Is he yours?

Yep.

Hes illegally parked. His ass is over the white line.

I toed Paulson, causing him to start rocking again. Hes stuck.

Juniak got out of his car and hauled Paulson up by his armpits. You dont 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 were almost related.

Not gonna help you, cutie. Cops live for stuff like this.

Youre not a cop anymore.

Once a cop, always a cop.

Paulson and I watched Juniak get back into his car and drive away.

I cant walk in these things, Paulson said, looking down at the shackles. Im gonna fall over again. I havent got a good sense of balance.

Have you ever heard the bounty hunter slogan, Bring em backdead or alive?

Sure.

Dont 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 wasnt 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 didnt figure into my budget. Still, the point was, I didnt want to be here in this stupid parking lot with Paulson.

You probably dont even have a gun, Paulson said.

Hey, give me a break. I havent got all day for this. I have other things to do.

Like what?

None of your business.

Hah! You havent 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 Id be home for dinner at six.

Paulson burst out laughing. Thats pathetic. Thats 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.

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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 blonde Meg-shag persists. Valeries 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.