Read Online Plum Boxed Set 1, Books 1-3 Stephanie Plum Novels) by Janet Evanovich - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Janet Evanovich
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prisoner by my imagination gone berserk, I’d lay in bed, barely breathing, waiting to levitate. I must admit, it would be a comfort not to have to wait alone although, aside from Bill Murray, what good would another mortal be in the face of a spook attack, anyway? Fortunately, I’ve never done a total head rotation, been beamed up, or had an Elvis visitation. And the closest I’ve come to an out-of-body experience was when Joe Morelli took his mouth to me fourteen years ago, behind the éclair case.
Ramirez’s voice cut through the door. “Don’t like having unfinished business with a woman, Stephanie Plum. Don’t like when a woman run away from the champ.”
He tried the doorknob, and for a gut-cramping moment my heart leapt to my throat. The door held, and my pulse dropped down to prestroke level.
I did some deep breathing and decided the best course of action was simply to ignore him. I didn’t want to get into a shouting match. And I didn’t want to make things worse than they already were. I shut and locked my living room windows and drew the drapes tight. I hurried to my bedroom and debated using the fire escape to go for help. It felt foolish, somehow, lending more weight to the threat than I was willing to concede. This is no big deal, I told myself. Nothing to worry about. I rolled my eyes. Nothing to worry about … only a criminally insane, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man standing in my hall, calling me names.
I clapped a hand to my mouth to squelch a hysterical whine. Not to panic, I told myself. It wouldn’t be long before my neighbors would begin to investigate, and Ramirez would be forced to leave.
I got my gun out of my pocketbook and went back to the door for another look. The peephole was uncovered, and the hallway seemed empty. I put my ear to the door and listened. Nothing. I slid the bolt and cracked the door, leaving my mega-chain firmly attached and my gun at the ready. No Ramirez in sight. I unhooked the chain and peeked out into the hall. Very peaceful. He was definitely gone.
A splot of some noxious substance sliding down the front of my door caught my eye. I was pretty sure it wasn’t tapioca. I gagged, closed the door, and locked and chained it. Wonderful. Two days on the job and a world-class psycho had just jerked off on my door.
Things like this had never happened to me when I’d worked for E.E. Martin. Once a street person had urinated on my foot, and every now and then a man would drop his pants in the train station, but these were things you expected when you worked in Newark. I’d learned not to take them personally. This business with Ramirez was a whole other matter. This was very scary.
I yelped when a window opened and closed above me. Mrs. Delgado letting her cat out for the night, I told myself. Get a grip. I needed to get my mind off Ramirez, so I busied myself finding hockables. There wasn’t much left. A Walkman, an iron, pearl earrings from my wedding, a kitchen clock that looked like a chicken, a framed Ansel Adams poster, and two bean-pot table lamps. I hoped it was enough to pay my phone bill and get myself reconnected. I didn’t want a repeat performance of being trapped in my apartment, not able to call for help.
I returned Rex to his cage, brushed my teeth, changed into a nightshirt, and crawled into bed with every light in the apartment blazing away.
T HE FIRST THING I DID ON WAKING the following morning was to check my peephole. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, so I took a fast shower and dressed. Rex was sound asleep in his soup can after a tough night of running on his wheel. I gave him fresh water and filled his cup with the dreaded hamster nuggets. A cup of coffee would have tasted great. Unfortunately, there was no coffee in the house.
I went to my living room window and scoped out the parking lot for Ramirez, and returned to the door and doubled-checked the peephole. I slid the bolt and opened my door with the chain in place. I put my
Ramirez’s voice cut through the door. “Don’t like having unfinished business with a woman, Stephanie Plum. Don’t like when a woman run away from the champ.”
He tried the doorknob, and for a gut-cramping moment my heart leapt to my throat. The door held, and my pulse dropped down to prestroke level.
I did some deep breathing and decided the best course of action was simply to ignore him. I didn’t want to get into a shouting match. And I didn’t want to make things worse than they already were. I shut and locked my living room windows and drew the drapes tight. I hurried to my bedroom and debated using the fire escape to go for help. It felt foolish, somehow, lending more weight to the threat than I was willing to concede. This is no big deal, I told myself. Nothing to worry about. I rolled my eyes. Nothing to worry about … only a criminally insane, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man standing in my hall, calling me names.
I clapped a hand to my mouth to squelch a hysterical whine. Not to panic, I told myself. It wouldn’t be long before my neighbors would begin to investigate, and Ramirez would be forced to leave.
I got my gun out of my pocketbook and went back to the door for another look. The peephole was uncovered, and the hallway seemed empty. I put my ear to the door and listened. Nothing. I slid the bolt and cracked the door, leaving my mega-chain firmly attached and my gun at the ready. No Ramirez in sight. I unhooked the chain and peeked out into the hall. Very peaceful. He was definitely gone.
A splot of some noxious substance sliding down the front of my door caught my eye. I was pretty sure it wasn’t tapioca. I gagged, closed the door, and locked and chained it. Wonderful. Two days on the job and a world-class psycho had just jerked off on my door.
Things like this had never happened to me when I’d worked for E.E. Martin. Once a street person had urinated on my foot, and every now and then a man would drop his pants in the train station, but these were things you expected when you worked in Newark. I’d learned not to take them personally. This business with Ramirez was a whole other matter. This was very scary.
I yelped when a window opened and closed above me. Mrs. Delgado letting her cat out for the night, I told myself. Get a grip. I needed to get my mind off Ramirez, so I busied myself finding hockables. There wasn’t much left. A Walkman, an iron, pearl earrings from my wedding, a kitchen clock that looked like a chicken, a framed Ansel Adams poster, and two bean-pot table lamps. I hoped it was enough to pay my phone bill and get myself reconnected. I didn’t want a repeat performance of being trapped in my apartment, not able to call for help.
I returned Rex to his cage, brushed my teeth, changed into a nightshirt, and crawled into bed with every light in the apartment blazing away.
T HE FIRST THING I DID ON WAKING the following morning was to check my peephole. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, so I took a fast shower and dressed. Rex was sound asleep in his soup can after a tough night of running on his wheel. I gave him fresh water and filled his cup with the dreaded hamster nuggets. A cup of coffee would have tasted great. Unfortunately, there was no coffee in the house.
I went to my living room window and scoped out the parking lot for Ramirez, and returned to the door and doubled-checked the peephole. I slid the bolt and opened my door with the chain in place. I put my
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