Full House (7 page)

Billie sighed. "Okay, here's the deal. We need to keep Max out of sight until the investigation is over. He can stay here."

"Are you out of your mind? We don't know that he
didn't
do it."

"Max is innocent. If I didn't believe that with all my heart I would never allow him in the same house with my children."

Nick shook his head emphatically. "I can't do that to you. I'm not going to risk it."

Billie hitched her chin a fraction. "I'm not asking your permission."

His jaw dropped. Finally, he closed his mouth and tried to think. "Damned if I know what to do."

"You need to go home and help with the investigation. If the police ask, tell them that, as far as you know, Max could be anywhere. In the meantime, all we can do is hope they find Arnie Bates before

An hour later Billie was sneaking up to Nick's house, commando-style, with Deedee on her heels, insisting that they were doing the right thing in denying the male "traditional rite of passage."

Billie motioned for Deedee to be quiet and directed her to a first-floor window.

"Holy cow," Billie said, "they're all dressed in tuxedos."

"Yeah, Frankie's a classy guy. He wouldn't give a second-rate party."

"Someone's wearing a gorilla suit."

"That's Frankie's best friend, a wrestler. They call him 'Killer.' He always wears a gorilla suit. It's his thing."

"Uh-huh."

"And see the guy wearing a gaiter belt on his head? That's Frankie's manager, Bucky."

"He looks classy."

"Yeah. He's got style."

"Oh, my Lord, would you check out the boobs on the woman serving drinks?"

"They're not real, honey. Nobody that skinny has breasts that size."

"I don't see any cake girls. We should scout around and look in the kitchen windows."

"I have a better idea," Deedee whispered. "Why don't we go home? I don't feel comfortable looking in windows."

Billie looked at her. "Is this the same woman who broke into Nick's house and set off the alarms, almost getting me arrested?"

"That was different. It involved jewelry."

Billie rolled her eyes and pulled Deedee by the hand. She very carefully crept around the corner and peeked through a door that led to an oversized laundry room. "Bingo! It's the cake girl!"

Deedee's curiosity obviously won out. "Let me see. Oh, my! I would give every single Donna Karan gown I own for that kind of muscle tone. I may have to start working out." She shuddered.

"I want to get a better look."

"Billie, don't!" Too late. Billie was already knocking on the door.

The door opened, and a drop-dead gorgeous blonde smiled wearily at them. "I wasn't expecting
two
of you."

Billie and Deedee exchanged looks. "I beg your pardon?" Billie said.

"When I called the agency they told me they couldn't find another dancer to replace me, but I'm too sick to work this gig, and none of the others will do it because they'd rather make money pushing drinks." She paused and sneezed, automatically reaching in the front of her G-string for a tissue. "I've got a temperature of a hundred and one. I need to go home and go to bed."

"Do you belong to a gym?" Deedee asked.

Billie simply stared at the woman. "I don't think

"It's nerves," Deedee said. "You just haven't gotten married enough."

Billie squinted into her foyer mirror and watched her left eye twitch. "Nerves," she repeated. "I'm going to be okay because I'm marrying a wonderful man and everything's going to be, well, wonderful. His parents, his manservant, his grandmother ... they're all coming tomorrow and I'm going to meet them, and it's going to be, uh, wonderful. And then everyone in the world, with the exception of those living in third world countries, is going to arrive on a chartered bus and that's going to be wonderful, too. It's all going to be absolutely wonderful."

If only her damn eye would stop twitching.

"Just be thankful you and I didn't have to arrange it all," Deedee said. "Nick's secretary is a jewel for doing all the work and sending out last-minute invitations. Believe me, there's a lot to attend to."

"And Deedee should know," Frankie said.

Deedee nodded. "It's going to be okay, honey."

Billie wanted to believe it. She really did. But she had this premonition of disaster. She checked her watch and looked out the front window. "Nick was supposed to be here hours ago. You don't suppose he's been in a car accident?"

"Nick is busy," Deedee said. She looked over her shoulder at Frankie. "That's why we thought we'd take you to dinner or something. Isn't that right, Frankie?"

"Yeah, Nick is busy."

Billie looked first at Deedee and then at Frankie. "What's Nick busy doing?"

"Things," Deedee said. "He had things to do."

Frankie averted his gaze. "Probably tied up at the newspaper office."

Billie pressed a fingertip lightly over her left eyelid and hoped she wasn't forced to do the same thing walking down the aisle. "Both of you are keeping something from me. I want answers. Now."

"Nick swore me to secrecy," Deedee said.

Billie crossed her arms. "I refuse to have secrets between Nick and me."

Deedee hesitated. "You'll have to promise not to rush over there. He's dealing with a lot right now."

Billie felt a sense of dread wash over her. "What has happened?"

Deedee looked at Frankie, who shrugged as though he had no idea what to do. "Someone torched the stable," she said.

Billie's heart gave a jerk. "What!"

"It happened late this afternoon, after the stable hands went home. Nick was taking a shower, getting ready to come over here. Luckily, there are smoke alarms in the stables that connect to the house, and Nick heard them go off."

"Is he

Billie tried to act as normal as she could, even though her pulse raced so frantically she could feel it at her throat. She did not know what to believe anymore. Raoul had sounded so convincing, almost too convincing, but the Nick Kaharchek he'd described to her was not the man she had fallen in love with. Even with all the crazy things going on around them, bombs and burning stables, Billie had had no reason to believe that Nick was not who he seemed to be. He was honest and hardworking and shared the same beliefs as she.

Had she simply been so much in love with him that she'd failed to see him as he really was? If Raoul had meant to harm her, he would never have ordered her from the limo before it exploded. But how did he know the limo had a bomb in it to begin with?

"What's wrong?" Raoul said.

Billie looked up. Instinct told her to keep her mouth shut and her questions at bay for the moment. She needed answers, but she didn't even know the questions. For the time being, she would have to play along. "I was just thinking," she said. "You saved my life back there. If it weren't for you

My name is Stephanie Plum and I've got a strange man in my kitchen. He appeared out of nowhere. One minute I was sipping coffee, mentally planning out my day. And then the next minute ...
poof,
there he was.

He was over six feet, with wavy blond hair pulled into a ponytail, deep-set brown eyes, and an athlete's body. He looked to be late twenties, maybe thirty. He was dressed in jeans, boots, a grungy, white thermal shirt hanging loose over the jeans, and a beat-up, black leather jacket hanging on broad shoulders. He was sporting two days of beard growth, and he didn't look happy.

"Well, isn't this perfect," he said, clearly disgusted, hands on hips, taking me in.

My heart was tapdancing in my chest. I was at a total loss. I didn't know what to think or what to say. I didn't know who he was or how he got into my kitchen. He was frightening, but even more than that he had me flustered. It was like going to a birthday party and arriving a day early. It was like ... what the heck's going on?

"How?" I asked. "What?"

"Hey, don't ask me, lady," he said. "I'm as surprised as you are."

"How'd you get into my apartment?"

"Sweet cakes, you wouldn't believe me if I told you." He moved to the refrigerator, opened the door, and helped himself to a beer. He cracked the beer open, took a long pull, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You know how people get beamed down on
Star Trek?
It's sort of like that."

Okay, so I've got a big slob of a guy drinking beer in my kitchen, and I think he might be crazy. The only other possibility I can come up with is that I'm hallucinating and he isn't real. I smoked some pot in college but that was about it. Don't think I'd get a flashback from wacky tobacky. There were mushrooms on the pizza last night. Could that be it?

Fortunately, I work in bail bond enforcement, and I'm sort of used to scary guys showing up in closets and under beds. I inched my way across the kitchen, stack my hand into my brown bear cookie jar, and pulled out my .38 five-shot Smith & Wesson.

"Gripes," he said, "what are you gonna do, shoot me? Like that would change anything." He looked more closely at the gun and shook his head in another wave of disgust. "Honey, there aren't any bullets in that gun."

"There might be one," I said. "I might have one chambered."

"Yeah, right." He finished the beer and sauntered out of the kitchen, into the living room. He looked around and moved to the bedroom.

"Hey," I yelled. "Where do you think you're going? That's it, I'm calling the police."

"Give me a break," he said. "I'm having a really shitty day." He kicked his boots off and flopped onto my bed. He scoped out the room from his prone position. "Where's the television?"

"In the living room."

"Oh man, you don't even have a television in your bedroom. Someone's really sticking it to me."

I cautiously moved closer to the bed, and I reached out and touched him.

"Yeah, I'm real," he said. "Sort of. And all my equipment works." He smiled for the first time. It was a knock-your-socks-off smile. Dazzling white teeth and good-humored eyes that crinkled at the corners. "In case you're interested."

The smile was good. The news was bad. I didn't know what
sort of real
meant. And I wasn't sure I liked the idea that his equipment worked. All in all, it didn't do a lot to help my heart rate. Truth is, I'm pretty much a chickenshit bounty hunter. Still, while I'm not the world's bravest person, I can bluff with the best of them, so I did an eye-roll. "Get a grip."

"You'll come around," he said. "They always do."

"They?"

"Women. Women love me," he said.

Good thing I didn't have a bullet chambered as threatened because I'd definitely shoot this guy. "Do you have a name?"

"Diesel."

"Is that your first name or your last name?"

"That's my whole name. Who are
you?"

"Stephanie Plum."

"You live here alone?"

"No."

"That's a big fib," he said. "You have
living alone
written all over you."

I narrowed my eyes. "Excuse me?"

"You're not exactly a sex goddess," he said. "Hair from hell. Baggy sweatpants. No make-up. Lousy personality. Not that there isn't some potential. You have an okay shape. What are you, 34B? And you've got a good mouth. Nice pouty lips." He threw me another smile. "A guy could get ideas looking at those lips."

Great. The nutcase who somehow got into my apartment was getting ideas about my lips. Thoughts of serial rapists and sex killings went racing through my mind. My mother's warnings echoed in my ears.
Watch out for strangers. Keep your door locked.
Yes, but it's not my fault, I reasoned. He's a crazy alien. How do you keep aliens out?

I took his boots, carried them to the front door, and threw them into the hall. "Your boots are in the hall," I yelled. "If you don't come get them, I'm pitching them down the trash chute."

My neighbor, Mr. Wolesky, stepped out of the elevator with his arms loaded up with bags. "Five days to Christmas and the stores are picked clean," he said. "And they all say everything's on sale but I know they jack up the prices. They always gotta gouge you at Christmas. There should be a law. Somebody should look into it."

Mr. Wolesky unlocked his door, slid inside, and slammed the door after himself. The door lock clicked into place, and I heard Mr. Wolesky's television go on.

Diesel elbowed me aside, went into the hall, and retrieved his boots. "You know, you have a real attitude problem," he said.

"Attitude this," I told him, closing my door, locking him out of the apartment.

The bolt shot back, the lock tumbled, and Diesel opened the door, walked to the couch, and sat down to put his boots on.

Hard to pick an emotion here. Confused and astounded would be high on the list. Scared bonkers wasn't far behind. "How'd you do that?" I said, squeaky-voiced and breathless. "How'd you unlock my door?"

"I don't know. It's just one of those things we can do."

Goosebumps prickled on my forearms. "Now I'm really creeped out."

"Relax. I'm not going to hurt you. Hell, I'm supposed to make your life better." He gave a snort and another bark of laughter at that. "Yeah, right," he said.

Deep breath, Stephanie. Not a terrific time to hyperventilate. If I passed out from lack of oxygen, God knows what would happen. Suppose he was from outer space, and he conducted an anal probe while I was unconscious? A shiver ripped through me. Yuck! "What are we looking at here?" I asked him. "Ghost? Vampire? Space alien?"

He slouched back into the couch and zapped the television on. "You're in the ballpark."

I was at a loss. How do you get rid of someone who can unlock locks? You can't even have him arrested by the police. And even if I decided to call the police, what would I say? I have a
sort of real
guy in my apartment?

"Suppose I cuffed you and chained you to something. What then?"

He was channel-surfing, concentrating on the television. "I could get loose."

"Suppose I shot you."

"I'd be pissed off. And it's not smart to piss me off."