A/N: All characters belong to Janet Evanovich.

I decided to take a shot at apprehending Mr. Earling first, so Lula and I headed for the door.

"We're not taking the Firebird," said Lula. "I don't want his eighty-something, naked, pruney ass on my back seat. I'd have to get my baby detailed, and I don't have time for that crap."

I had to agree with Lula. I really didn't want his back side on my back seat either, but my car was by far the least appealing of the two. And realistically, it wouldn't be around much longer anyway. I have bad car karma. I'd had the tan 1998 Toyota Corolla for nearly two months, and the odds of surviving another month with me were not great.

"No problem," I said. "We'll take my car." We climbed in, buckled, and pulled the car onto Hamilton.

Fifteen minutes later, we pulled up to my apartment building and parked at the back of the lot. I live in a modest, three story yellow brick apartment building. I am currently the youngest resident in the building by at least thirty years. At times, a young couple will take residence in the building for a short time, but it's typically a brief stop somewhere between the altar and a single family home with a baby on the way. Currently, all of the residents are senior citizens who prefer spending their time reading the newspaper, attending viewings at the local funeral homes, poorly tipping waitresses, playing cards at the senior center, and walking their cats on leashes down the hall of the building. Since it was late morning, the lot was between the morning coffee rush and the senior center lunch rush. The lot was packed with the cars of residents watching the Price is Right and The Young and the Restless.

We pulled ourselves out of the car, walked to the building, and descended on Mr. Earling's apartment. I rapped twice on the door, getting no response. I knocked several more times with the same effect.

"Seems like Mr. Wrinkles-and-Bags isn't home right now," said Lula, looking uncomfortable.

"He's always home this time of the day. He never misses the Price is Right."

"I can understand that, on account of it's a great game show. But it was a hell of a lot better when that Bob Barker guy was the host," said Lula. "He was one dandy, charismatic old dude. All the ladies loved him. Now they have that Drew Carey guy on the show. He's not that bad, but his body is all saggy after all those weight loss surgeries. He's not much to look at, and those black framed glasses are downright depressing."

"I had no idea you were such a Price is Right fan," I told Lula.

"I don't get to watch it much anymore since I'm on the street fighting crime with you during the day, but back when I was a ho, I got to watch it over my lunch hour. It was a fine way to spend my lunch. One day, I'd love to be on that show. I'd wear a custom shirt with a catchy saying like, 'The Price is Right Here—Pick Me! Or maybe 'Can I Plinko You?'"

I blinked a few times before turning back to Mr. Earlings door. I tried the handle and found it unlocked. "Mr. Earling?" I shouted, pushing the door open and stepping into the small foyer that mirrored mine.

"Oh lord, help me," Lula said, looking into the apartment. "Ain't nobody got time for this. Girl, get me outta here."

Mr. Earling was naked, reclined on an extra-large blue large Lazy Boy. Sure enough, the Price is Right was broadcast on his flat screen television. The sound was blaring. He had a cup of coffee in one hand and the remote in the other. I approached him hesitantly, unsure if he'd heard us.

"Mr. Earling, how are you today?" I asked as I slid between him and his television. He looked up at me, recognition dawning on his face. "Do you remember me? My name is Stephanie Plum, and I represent your bond agent. We've met several times before. You missed your court date, and I stopped by to pick you up to reschedule."

"Right now?" croaked Mr. Earling. "I'm in the middle of my show. After my show, I've got a date with a Swanson frozen lunch. I don't want to get dressed today. It's a Wednesday. Wednesdays are a day to walk on the wild side—naked."

"How about this?" I asked. "If you come with us now, we'll swing through the Cluck in a Bucket drive through, and you can have chicken for lunch on me."

"That is an excellent idea," Lula said, swinging her purse higher on her shoulder. "I could go for a bucket of extra crispy chicken with a side of mashed potatoes and gravy."

Mr. Earling chimed in next. "You can't eat chicken without biscuits and those little apple pies. If I go, are we getting apple pies?"

I blew out a sigh of resignation. I was going to spend all the money I'd make on this capture buying chicken and sides for Mr. Earling and Lula. "Sure, why not? Everybody to my car."

We all trooped down the stairs and across the parking lot to my car. We got in and headed toward Cluck in a Bucket.

An hour later Lula and I had returned to the bonds office, and I had my body receipt. I had indigestion from the chicken, potatoes, biscuits, gravy, apple pies, and ice cream I consumed for lunch, and my throbbing headache had returned. I had almost forgotten I had a concussion.

"I think I'm going to go home to rest and take more Tylenol," I said. "I don't feel so good. My head is killing me."

"Need a ride?" Lula asked, her mouth full of apple pie.

"Thanks, but no. I'll be alright. I'll check in again later, and we'll take a try with Sharonda Blake." I grabbed my bag and walked out the door, straight into Joe Morelli.

"Easy, Cupcake. Headed somewhere in a hurry?"

I gave him my best Burg glare, crossing my arms over my chest. "It's none of your business. What are you doing here?"

"I was stopping by to check on you. Your mother seemed very concerned about you last night," Joe said, brushing an escaped brown, curly tendril behind my ear. "I was concerned about you, too."

"I'm fine, thanks," I said, side stepping to get past him. Joe took a step with me, blocking my way.

"You can't run away forever, Steph. Bob misses you. The boys miss you. I miss you," he said, his eyes sincere.

"If Bob misses me, he can come stay with me sometime. Maybe we can work out an every-other-weekend arrangement like properly divorced parents so Bob doesn't have to choose," I said, laying on the sass.

"Why are you so angry? It's been more than a month since we argued," he spat, clearly annoyed with my avoidance.

"Oh, I don't know. Why would I be angry?" I said with too much rage. "Maybe because my crazy Italian cop ex-boyfriend can't handle my career choices. I'm tired of fighting about it! I'm done!" I shouted shaking my arms angrily.

"What you have isn't a career, Cupcake. Some days, it's a television episode featuring Lucy and Ethel. Other days, it's a suicide mission. You have no financial stability. I want to fix all of that. I want you to come live with me. You can be a Burg housewife."

I stood in stunned silence for almost a full minute. When I found my voice, I asked, "Is that a proposal?"

Morelli hesitated. "I guess it is."

"You can't propose to someone you aren't even dating!" I shrieked, my head throbbing with the exertion. I hiked my messenger bag higher, held my shoulders high, and stormed in the direction of my car. Morelli followed.

"Come on, Cupcake. I really am sorry."

"Leave me alone," I warned, shoving the key into the door of my Corolla.

"Ok. I'm backing off. I'll see you tonight," said Joe, shuffling backward his SUV.

I craned my neck to face him and shrieked, "NO!"

Joe smiled a megawatts smile. "Your mother invited me to dinner. It would be rude to decline her invitation." He hauled himself into the front seat of his SUV, started the engine, and he was gone.

I stood next to my car in stupefied silence. What just happened? Did Joe just propose to me in the middle of Hamilton? I shuddered at the memory. I pushed my racing thoughts aside and slid into the Corolla. Over analysis of this experience would have to wait until I swallowed half a bottle of Tylenol. I slid my car into the mid-day traffic on Hamilton and pointed my car toward my apartment.