11 Eleven On Top by Janet Evanovich Read Free Book Online Page B

take another look.
    You don't want to drive it tonight anyway. You want to open the windows and let it air out."
    He was right about the airing out part. The car reeked. And I knew he was also right about looking at the car when the light was better. Problem was, this was the only car I had. The only thing worse than driving this car would be borrowing the '53 Buick Grandma Mazur inherited from my Great Uncle Sandor.
    Been there, done that, don't want to do it again.
    And the danger involved in driving this car seemed to me to be hardly worth mentioning compared to the threat I was facing from the criminally insane stalker who set the fire.
    “I'm more worried about the arsonist than I am about the car,” I said to Morelli.
    “I haven't got a grip on the arsonist,” Morelli said. “I don't know what to do about him. The car I have some control over. Let me give you a ride home.”
    Five minutes later we were parked in front of Morelli's house.
    “Let me guess,” I said to Morelli. “Bob still misses me.”
    Morelli ran a finger along the line of my jaw. “Bob could care less. I'm the one who misses you. And I miss you bad.”
    “How bad?”
    Morelli kissed me. “Painfully bad.”
    At six-fifteen I dragged myself out of Morelli's bed and into the shower. I'd thrown my clothes in the washer and dryer the night before, and Morelli had them in the bathroom, waiting for me. I did a half-assed job of drying my hair, swiped some mascara on my lashes, and followed my nose to the kitchen, where Morelli had coffee brewing.
    Both of the men in my life looked great in the morning. They woke up clear-eyed and alert, ready to save the world. I was a befuddled mess in the morning, stumbling around until I got my caffeine fix.
    “We're running late,” Morelli said, handing me a travel mug of coffee and a toasted bagel. “I'll drop you off at the cleaner. You can check the car out after work.”
    “No. I have time. This will only take a minute. I'm sure the car is fine.”
    “I'm sure the car isn't fine,” Morelli said, nudging me out of the kitchen and down the hall to the front door. He locked the door behind us and beeped his SUV open with the remote.
    Minutes later we were at my parents' house, arguing on the front lawn.
    “You're not driving this car,” Morelli said.
    “Excuse me? Did I hear you give me an order?”
    “Cut me some slack here. You and I both know this car isn't drivable.”
    “I don't know any such thing. Okay, it's got some problems, but they're all cosmetic. I'm sure the engine is fine.” I slid behind the wheel and proved my point by rolling the engine over. “See?” I said.
    “Get out of this wreck and let me drive you to work.”
    “No.”
    “In twenty seconds I'm going to drag you out and reignite the fire until there's nothing left of this death trap but a smoking cinder.”
    “I hate when you do the macho-man thing.”
    “I hate when you're stubborn.”
    I hit the door locks and automatic windows, put the car into reverse, and screeched out of the driveway into the road. I changed gears and roared away, gagging on the odor of wet barbecued car. He was right, of course. The car was a death trap, and I was being stubborn. Problem was, I couldn't help myself.
    Morelli brought out the stubborn in me.
    Kan Klean was a small mom-and-pop dry cleaners that had been operating in the Burg for as long as I can remember. The Macaroni family owned Kan Klean. Mama Macaroni, Mario Macaroni, and Gina Macaroni were the principals, and a bunch of miscellaneous Macaronis helped out when needed.
    Mama Macaroni was a contemporary of Grandma Bella and Grandma Mazur. Mama Macaroni's fierce raptor eyes took the world in under drooping folds of parchment-thin skin. Her shrunken body, wrapped in layers of black, curved over her cane and conjured up images of mummified larvae. She had a boulder of a mole set into the roadmap of her face somewhere in the vicinity of Atlanta. Three hairs grew out of the mole. The