Plum Boxed Set 1, Books 1-3 Stephanie Plum Novels) by Janet Evanovich Read Free Book Online

over 6’ tall. His voice was silky, his lips curved into a dreamy smile. The overall effect was eerie, the voice and the smile at odds to the stealthy, calculating eyes.
    I crossed the room and extended my hand. “Stephanie Plum.”
    “Benito Ramirez.”
    His grasp was too gentle, too lingering. More of a caress than a handshake and unpleasantly sensual. I stared into his hooded, close-set eyes and wondered about prizefighters. Until this moment, I’d assumed boxing was a sport of skill and aggression, directed toward winning the match, not necessarily toward maiming the opponent. Ramirez looked like he’d enjoy the kill. There was something about the density of his eyes, black holes where everything gets sucked in and nothing comes out, that suggested a hiding place for evil. And the smile, a little goofy, a little sick in its sweetness, hinting of insanity. I wondered if this was a contrived image, designed to spook opponents before the bell. Contrived or not, it was creepy as hell.
    I made an attempt to free my hand, and his grip tightened.
    “So, Stephanie Plum,” he said in his velvet voice. “What can I do for you?”
    As a buyer for E.E. Martin, I’d dealt with my share of slime. I’d learned how to assert myself and still be pleasant and professional. My face and voice told Ramirez I was friendly. My words were more to the point. “You can release my hand, so I can give you my card,” I said.
    His smile stayed fixed in place, more amiable and inquisitive now than crazy. I gave him my card and watched him read it.
    “Fugitive apprehension agent,” he said, obviously amused. “That’s a big title for a little girl.”
    I’d never thought of myself as little until I’d stood alongside Ramirez. I’m 5’ 7” and rawboned from the Mazur’s good Hungarian peasant stock. Perfectly constructed for laboring in the paprika fields, pulling plows, and dropping babies out like bird’s eggs. I ran and periodically starved to keep the fat off, but I still weighed in at 130. Not heavy, but not dainty, either. “I’m looking for Joe Morelli. Have you seen him?”
    Ramirez shook his head. “I don’t know Joe Morelli. I only know he shot Ziggy.” He looked around at the rest of the men. “Any of you seen that guy Morelli?”
    No one responded.
    “I’ve been told there was a witness to the shooting and that the witness has disappeared,” I said. “Do you have any idea who that witness might be?”
    Again, no response.
    I pushed on. “How about Carmen Sanchez? Do you know Carmen? Did Ziggy ever speak of her?”
    “You ask a lot of questions,” Ramirez said.
    We were standing close to the big old-fashioned windows in the front of the room, and for no reason other than instinct, I shifted my attention to the building across the street. Again, the shadowy figure in the same third-floor window. A man, I thought. I couldn’t tell if he was black or white. Not that it mattered.
    Ramirez stroked my jacket sleeve. “Would you like a Coke? We got a Coke machine here. I could buy you a soda.”
    “Thanks for the offer, but I have a busy morning, and I really should be moving along. If you spot Morelli, I’d appreciate a call.”
    “Most girls think it’s a treat for the champ to buy them a soda.”
    Not this girl, I thought. This girl thought the champ was possibly missing a few marbles. And this girl didn’t like the climate of the gym.
    “I’d really love to stay and have a soda,” I said, “but I have an early lunch date.” With a box of Fig Newtons.
    “It’s not good to go rushing around. You should stay and relax a little. Your date won’t mind.”
    I shifted my weight, trying to inch away while I enhanced the lie. “Actually, it’s a business luncheon with Sergeant Gazarra.”
    “I don’t believe you,” Ramirez said. His smile had turned tight, and the civility had slipped from his voice. “I think you’re lying about lunch.”
    I felt tendrils of panic curl into my stomach, and I