Split Second: Thirty-Two Switcheroo (Stephanie Plum) - Hardcover

Evanovich, Janet

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 1668069709 ISBN 13: 9781668069707

Publisher: Atria Books, 2026

Synopsis

Stephanie Plum’s life is never boring, not even for a split second, in the adrenaline-fueled new novel from #1 New York Times bestselling author Janet Evanovich.

In a now-or-never moment, Stephanie Plum made the decision of a lifetime. But some lifetimes are shorter than others and Stephanie will be lucky if she makes it to the end of the week.

Over the years, Trenton’s best-known bounty hunter has acquired a long list of enemies. It’s an occupational hazard as a bond enforcement agent. The problem is that she now has a mysterious enemy whose name isn’t on any list. Disturbing packages, threatening notes, and near misses are keeping Stephanie in the dark and her anonymous tormentor, who wants her dead, in the shadows.

Bond jumper Greb Tusi also wouldn’t mind getting rid of Stephanie. He’s wanted for going on a three-hour rampage—one that he swears “wasn’t his fault”—that included mugging an old lady and stealing a hearse.

And if adjusting to being newly married isn’t enough to take a few years off Stephanie’s life, working for her ex-fiancé and mentor, Ranger, might do the trick. Ranger has taken a security job for a powerful political figure, and Stephanie is in charge of babysitting one of the figure’s family members.

The clock is ticking for Stephanie to find bail-jumper Greb Tusi and the invisible stalker who is sending her increasingly menacing messages. If she lets her guard down for even a split second, her time will be up.

About this title

About the Author

Janet Evanovich has written a staggering forty-seven New York Times bestsellers over the last thirty years. In addition to her #1 New York Times bestselling Stephanie Plum novels and many other popular books, Janet is the author of the New York Times bestselling Recovery Agent series, Lizzy and Diesel series, Fox and O'Hare series, Knight and Moon series, the Alexandra Barnaby novels, and the graphic novel Troublemaker (with her daughter, Alex Evanovich).

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Chapter One CHAPTER ONE
My grandma Mazur once told me that before you marry someone, watch what they select from a bowl of Halloween candy. Plain chocolate bar: boring but dependable. Chocolate with caramel or nuts: adventurous. If he chooses the bag of assorted fruit-flavored candies, he can’t commit. Says no thank you to Halloween candy? Run! I recently married Joe Morelli without the benefit of knowing his candy preference. My name is Stephanie Plum, and when I married Morelli, I sublet my apartment to my cousin Audrey, so that my hamster, Rex, and I could move in with Morelli and his big orange dog, Bob. Morelli is a cop in Trenton, New Jersey, working crimes against persons. I’m a bail bond enforcement officer working for my cousin Vinnie. The marriage is a work in progress.

I was muddling through morning brain fog when I parked my pea-soup-green Kia SUV at the curb in front of Vincent Plum Bail Bonds and trudged into the office. Connie, the office manager, was at her desk in the small front room. Besides writing bonds and running the office, she has the joyous job of keeping thugs, unpaid bookies, and assorted crazies away from Vinnie. She keeps a loaded gun in her bottom drawer next to her can of hair spray. My sort-of-partner, Lula, was slouched on the fake leather couch that hugged the wall across from Connie’s desk. I slouched next to Lula.

“Girl, you look like you were busy all night again,” Lula said to me. “You got bags under your bloodshot eyes, and it don’t look like you took a comb to your hair. I know Morelli is a gorgeous hot hunk of Italian muscle, but it’s been almost a year now that you been coming in dragging ass. You might want to take a day off from playing hide-the-salami.”

“It has nothing to do with the salami. He gets up at four thirty in the morning. Every morning. It doesn’t matter when we go to bed. He’s up at four thirty. It’s like he doesn’t need sleep. He gets up and Bob gets up. They go into the bathroom, and I start to fall back to sleep and then he’s back. He’s showered and dressed but he has to come back to the bedroom to put his socks and shoes on. So he sits on the bed, and he puts his stupid socks and shoes on.”

“He can’t put them on in the bathroom?” Lula asked.

“He said there’s no place to sit in the bathroom. He doesn’t want to sit on the toilet and put his socks and shoes on. And he said he likes to see me in the morning before he leaves for work. It was romantic for the first week and now I’m glad my gun is downstairs in the kitchen because otherwise I might shoot him.”

“It’s not good to shoot a cop,” Lula said.

“Then he goes downstairs and I start to go back to sleep and he grinds coffee. He has to have fresh ground coffee.”

“You can hear that upstairs?”

“I can hear everything. It’s an old house. He inherited it from his aunt Rose.”

“I remember,” Lula said. “I’ve never seen it. Is it nice?”

“It’s a lot like my parents’ house. Built in the 1930s, like most of the other houses in the neighborhood. Morelli updated the kitchen and added a powder room downstairs. There are three bedrooms and a shared bathroom upstairs that’s also been renovated.”

“The 1930s was a long time ago,” Lula said. “They didn’t even have internet back then.”

“And he sings,” I said.

“Say what?”

“He sings in the morning, but he only knows parts of songs, so he sings the same thing over and over and over.”

“Why does he do that?” Lula asked.

“He’s happy,” I said.

“He’s happy at four thirty in the morning? Before coffee?”

“Yes!”

“That’s just not right,” Lula said. “There’s something wrong with him. That would be it for me. I couldn’t live with a man who was happy in the morning.”

“It gets worse,” I said.

“Worse than being happy in the morning?”

“He eats breakfast. Coffee, granola, juice, toast. Before we were married, I thought it was great. I’d stay over on weekends, and the kitchen smelled nice, like coffee and toast. And his toaster is big enough for a bagel.”

“He gets points for that,” Lula said. “I like a toasted bagel in the morning. What’s not to like?”

“The sink,” I said. “He empties his cereal bowl and juice glass into the sink.”

“And?” Lula said.

“And he doesn’t rinse the sink. By the time I get to the kitchen there’s stuff stuck to the sink like cement.”

“That’s one of them man things,” Lula said. “They don’t notice stuff like that. You can’t really blame them. Their brains aren’t set up for it. Also, they don’t notice socks and underwear on the floor or on the coffee table or in the refrigerator. You know what they notice in the refrigerator? Condiments. Condiments are important to men. You give your man his own shelf in the door of a refrigerator for his mustard and sriracha sauce and he’s a happy man. These are observations I’ve had from some past relationships. This is why I live with a parakeet and not a man. Expectations are already low for a parakeet so there’s no problem. Plus, when you want it to stop talking all you gotta do is cover its cage with a sheet.”

“When did you get a parakeet?”

“Couple weeks ago. Bought it from Tommy ‘the Tongue’ Capriolla when he was having his going-back-to-jail trunk sale out of his car,” Lula said. “It’s yellow. Name is Chardonnay.”

Lula is a former lady of the night who abandoned her corner and steady clients but kept her wardrobe and attitude and went to work for Vinnie. She has a plus-size body that makes the Kardashians look like chump change, and like the Kardashians, she somehow manages to be spectacular in all her excess. She’s a couple of inches shorter and a couple of years younger than me. Today, her hair was styled into a big Afro puffball. Caramel with splotches of pink. She was wearing a daffodil-yellow scoop neck sweater that showed about a quarter mile of cleavage, a short black skirt that had a lot of Spandex, and black Jimmy Choo–knockoff pumps with a six-inch heel.

My hair is brown and naturally curly. My eyes are blue. I have a smile that’s a notch short of Julia Roberts. My nose is my best feature. Lucky me. My job is to track down losers who don’t show up for their court appearance and wrangle them back into the system. My usual workday uniform is jeans, sneakers, a girly T-shirt, and a sweatshirt. If Lula and I were side by side in a bakery display case, we’d be a three-layer chocolate cake with colorful sprinkles next to an almond biscotti.

The back door to the office crashed open and Vinnie walked in. Vinnie is the human equivalent of a ferret in a sharkskin suit with tight pants and pointy-toed shoes. His hair is black and slicked back. He cheats at cards. He cheats on his wife. And he’s had sex with a duck. He claims it was consensual. That’s just the tip of the Vincent Plum iceberg. He’s a boil on the backside of my family, but his skill as a bail bondsman is unquestionable. His father-in-law, Harry the Hammer, owns the bail bonds agency, and he also owns Vinnie.

“Ziggy Zucker didn’t show for court yesterday,” Vinnie said to Connie. “Did you get the notice of failure to appear?”

“Not yet,” Connie said.

“He’s probably in Mexico,” Vinnie said. “I should never have bonded the little turd.”

Ziggy Zucker, also known as Double Z, Slick Z, or ZZ, is a major drug supplier with a side hustle of human trafficking. Slick Z is probably the most accurate name, because he has been accused many times of many things but has never been convicted. Witnesses die or disappear or recant statements. Evidence goes missing. Juries are hung and judges dismiss cases.

“I wouldn’t worry,” Lula said. “He probably didn’t kill off enough witnesses yet. Soon as he takes care of business he’ll show up.”

“I wish it was that simple,” Vinnie said. “He’s been charged with arson, and the evidence is supposed to be solid. He got pissed off and burned down his competitors’ warehouse. Did it personally. Ziggy and two of his lieutenants. It’s all on video and Trenton PD has the footage. Or at least, that’s what I’m told.”

“So, he has incentive to disappear,” I said.

“I didn’t know about the video when I bonded him out,” Vinnie said. “Usually, he’s easy money. They set a high bond and he always shows.” He turned to Connie. “Draw up the paperwork for Stephanie. I don’t care if we have to extradite him from China. I want him brought in.”

Connie printed out permission-to-capture papers plus three pages of background information.

“Check out his houses and places of business,” Connie said to me. “I’ll do some phone work.”

“What about the guys who were with Ziggy when he torched the warehouse?” I asked Connie.

“Vinnie didn’t write their bond. They both have later court dates.”

Lula followed me out to my car. “Do you know what this guy looks like?”

I got behind the wheel and handed her the paperwork. “Only from his photos.”

Lula paged through the file. “He looks like Cartman on South Park, except Cartman has little legs, and this guy looks like he’s got regular legs.”

“Give me an address.”

“Do you want to go to his house or his business?”

“His house.”

“He’s got a beach house in Costa Rica and a regular house in North Trenton.”

“Let’s start with North Trenton.”

“If you say so. It’s on Grasso Avenue,” Lula said. “That’s a nice neighborhood. The houses aren’t fancy but they’re a good size. There’s a nice mix of respectable felons and slumlords living there. Remember Buzz Corker? Last year we found him hiding in his granny’s attic. Her house was on Grasso.”

Twenty minutes later I cruised down Grasso and parked in front of number 605. It was a large two-story house probably built in the 1950s. The small front yard was neat. A pot of red geraniums sat on the front porch. It was in the middle of the block, and its plot of land was only slightly larger than the house. I knew from past experience that there would be a garage behind the house, opening to a single-lane alley.

“Do you think Ziggy is in there?” Lula asked.

“No. Do you?”

“No. I think if he has half a brain, he’s in Brazil.”

We walked to the house, I rang the doorbell, and a slim blonde answered the door. She had a wedding band on her finger and a diamond that was too big to be real. I gave her my card and introduced myself.

“I’m looking for Ziggy,” I said. “He missed his court date, and I would like to help him reschedule.”

“He isn’t here,” she said. “He had business to attend to elsewhere.”

“Do you know where I might find him?”

“Not exactly,” she said. “He doesn’t discuss business with me.”

“Are you Mrs. Ziggy?” Lula asked. “That’s an impressive sparkler you got on your finger.”

The blonde was all smiles at this. “Yes,” she said, giving Lula a closer look at the ring. “It’s new. It was a short engagement and now I’m Mrs. Ziggy. I’m a newlywed!”

“Congrats on that,” Lula said.

“So sorry I can’t be more helpful,” Mrs. Ziggy said. “I’ll be sure to tell him you were looking for him when I eventually hear from him.”

“That sounds like you aren’t expecting to see him any time soon,” I said.

Mrs. Ziggy did a little pout. “He’s on a business trip… but he calls all the time.”

Lula and I returned to my car.

“If it was me, I wouldn’t be pouty to see Ziggy go off on a business trip,” Lula said. “He’s got a head like a bowling ball. And I’m guessing the rest of him isn’t all that attractive either.”

“What kind of business addresses do we have?”

“He owns an apartment building on Burdett Street. Looks like it’s got a Korean grocery on the ground floor. And he owns a funeral home and crematorium that’s right next door. Bet he gets a lot of use out of that. Then he owns a building on Spring Street. Enzo’s Tats on the ground floor and Zucker Enterprises on the second floor.”

I called Connie. “Do you have any details on Ziggy’s apartment building?”

“Hold on.” A couple minutes later she was back on the phone. “There’s a grocery on the ground floor. Access to the apartments is through a door alongside the grocery. There are two floors of apartments. Four small apartments on each floor.”

“Do you have any information on tenants?”

“Only that all units seem to be rented. So far, I haven’t found any indication that Ziggy’s left the country, but my sources are limited.”

I drove to Burdett Street and nabbed a parking space across from Ziggy’s building. The door leading to the apartments was unlocked. There was a bank of mailboxes on one wall and stairs leading up on the opposite wall. No elevator.

“This is a pretty nice apartment building,” Lula said, following me to the second floor. “It don’t smell like burrito or like someone took a leak in the stairwell. How are we doing this? You going door to door? Are we from the Census Bureau?”

“I thought I’d ring the bell and ask for Ziggy.”

“Yeah, that might work.”

Ten minutes later we were back on the sidewalk in front of the grocery.

“Well, that didn’t work,” Lula said.

“Yeah. Eight apartments and nobody home.”

“Or nobody wants to answer their door.”

“If we don’t get information from any of the other addresses, we can go back tonight and do the pizza delivery bit.”

“That’s okay with me, but you aren’t thinking about going next door to see the mortuary and crematorium, are you? Because I’m not in favor of that. Death isn’t my favorite thing.”

“No stone unturned,” I said.

“Okay, but I’m not getting anywhere near the oven. I was traumatized at an early age by Hansel and Gretel almost getting roasted.”

The sign on the mortuary door said BY APPOINTMENT OR INVITATION ONLY. I took a picture of the director’s name and number, and Lula and I returned to my car.

“Ziggy’s office is on Spring Street,” Lula said. “You can turn right at the next corner and you’ll be on Spring. I visited the tattoo parlor once a couple years ago, but I decided my skin was a work of art all by itself and a tattoo would be a desecration.”

I parked across the street and a couple doors down from the building. Road traffic was moderate. Foot traffic was zero.

“All I see is the tattoo parlor,” Lula said. “I don’t see anything going to an office.”

We crossed the street and went into the tattoo parlor. The waiting room was small with four uncomfortable chairs, a two-seater couch, and a receptionist desk by the door. A bell tinkled when we entered, and a man came out from a back room.

“Can I help you ladies?” he asked. “Are you needing a tattoo?”

“Do I look like I need a tattoo?” Lula said.

The guy shrugged. “Everyone needs a tattoo.”

“I’m looking for Ziggy,” I said. “I was told he had an office here.”

“Yeah,” he said. “The door’s around the corner, but Ziggy isn’t there. Ziggy’s never there.”

“Why’s he got an office if he’s never there?” Lula asked.

This got another shrug. “Don’t know.”

“Do you know where I might find him?” I asked.

“Don’t know that either.”

“You don’t know much,” Lula said.

“I know I could tattoo a rose on your ass and once you could sit down without screaming in pain, you’d be real happy you got a rose on your ass.”

“If you ever got to look at my ass, you’d know I don’t need a rose because my ass is perfect as it is,” Lula said. “And now we’re gonna leave before you get any ideas about defacing any other parts of my body.”

“How about you?” he asked me. “You want a rose on your ass?”

“I’ll have to think about it,” I said.

“This is going nowhere fast,” Lula said when we were back in my car. “I vote that we reorganize over lunch. I’m in the mood for a chili dog with a side of everything.”

“I have to go home for lunch,” I said. “Morelli is in the middle of a homicide and can’t get away, so I’m going home to walk Bob. You can come with me if you want.”

“Gonna pass on that. I have my mind set on the chili dog, and I can’t get excited about Bob walking.”

I dropped Lula at the office and drove the short distance to Morelli’s house. I reminded myself that it was my house too. My bed, my television, my dog, my toaster. My Morelli. I got a warm feeling about all of that. I liked sharing the house, the bed, the dog, and the toaster with Morelli. I liked coming home to Bob, and I liked having a quiet lunch in Morelli’s kitchen.

I parked in front of the house and let myself in. I paused in front of the closed door, waiting for Bob to come galloping at me. There was no Bob, and the house was eerily silent. I walked out of the small foyer, through the living room, and into the dining room. I froze at the sight in front of me. Morelli’s grandma Bella was sitting at the head of the table, staring at me. Bob was in the kitchen, looking terrified, peeking at me from around a corner.

Bella had been a young woman when she left Sicily and settled in Trenton. I’m not sure what she looked like when she immigrated, but as long as I’ve known her, she’s looked and sounded like an extra in a Godfather movie. Steel-gray hair pulled back into a knot. Shapeless black dress, black stockings, black old-lady shoes. She was batshit crazy, and she lived a quarter mile away with Morelli’s widowed mom.

“I come for lunch,” Bella said. “Nobody home in my house. You make me lunch. You make me something good or I give you the eye.”

From what I could tell, the eye was some Sicilian voodoo thing. Bella would put her finger to her lower eyelid, pull it down, and lay a curse on whoever annoyed her. I’m inclined to believe it’s a lot of baloney, but people have been known to come down with boils, hemorrhoids, explosive diarrhea, swollen private parts, and full-body rashes after getting the eye from Bella.

I went to the kitchen and looked through the cupboards and refrigerator. Not a lot there. The best I could come up with was peanut butter on a stale hot dog bun.

I brought it to Bella with a glass of water.

Bella looked down at the plate. “This it? This what you give an old lady to eat?”

“I have to go shopping,” I said. “We’re a little low on groceries.”

“You a failure. You married to my favorite grandson, and you know nothing. I’m going to teach you to be good wife. I’m going to get you fixed up or I give you the eye and get rid of you for good.”

Edition details

• Publisher: Atria Books
• Publication date: 2026
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 1668069709
• ISBN 13: 9781668069707
• Binding: Hardcover
• Number of pages: 320