Explosive Eighteen

by Janet Evanovich

  I closed and locked my door and slouched in front of the television. After an hour, I was restless. There’s a limit to how many sitcom reruns you can watch, and I was tired of Cupcake Wars on the Food Network. I was sleeping through a documentary on fire ants when my cell phone rang. It was nine o’clock, and I assumed it was Morelli.

  Turned out it was Joyce Barnhardt.

  “I need help,” Joyce said.

  “There’s a rumor going around that you’re dead.”

  “Not yet.”

  This was only marginally better than the fire ants. “What’s going on?” I asked her. “Why the big disappearance?”

  “People are looking for me.”

  “And?”

  “And I figure you can help me. If you help me out, I let you bring me in. You get your capture money. Vinnie’s happy. It’s all good.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “For starters, I need something from my town house.”

  “Your town house is locked, and you have an alarm system.”

  “I’m sure you can get around it.”

  “Only if you give me a key and your code.”

  “There’s a house key hidden in a fake rock to the right of the front door. The code is 6213.”

  “What do you need?”

  “I need a key. It looks like a little padlock key. It should be in my top dresser drawer in my bedroom.”

  “What do I do with this key if I get it?”

  “Hang on to it, and call me. You’ve got my number in your cell now.”

  “Where are you?”

  She disconnected.

  Here was a problem. I was dying to go out this very second and get the key. I’d totally had it with the fire ants, and I could use the money Joyce’s capture would bring me. Problem was getting back into my apartment. I’d already played my Morelli card, and he’d be drinking Pepto by the gallon if I asked him to help me again, much less told him I was in league with Barnhardt. If I asked Ranger for help, I’d end up naked. It had some appeal, but truth is, I was beginning to not like myself so much. The honest confusion of loving two men was giving way to something that felt a little like unhealthy self-indulgence.

  I’m not an especially introspective person. Mostly, I go day by day putting one foot in front of the other, hoping I’m moving forward. If I think weighty thoughts about life, death, and cellulite, it’s usually in the shower. And these thoughts are usually cut short by lack of hot water in my decrepit apartment building. Anyway, like it or not, I was presently caught in the throes of self-examination, and I was coming up short. And there was a voice, sounding a lot like Lula’s, in the back of my head, telling me I’d been loosey-goosey with my morals in Hawaii, and that’s what had messed up my juju.

  THIRTEEN

  I WENT TO BED EARLY, and I got up early. I showered, got dressed, and pulled my hair back into a ponytail. I swiped on mascara and laced up my Chucks. This is a new day, I told myself. I was going to start out right. I was going to have a healthy breakfast, and I was going to charge ahead with a new, positive attitude. No more boinking in closets with Ranger. No more hiding behind Morelli’s muscle. I was a woman in charge this morning.

  I was low on breakfast food and fruity things, so I made myself a sandwich and headed out. I stopped short in the parking lot, momentarily confused when I didn’t see the RAV. After a couple fast heartbeats, it all came back to me. I was driving a truck now. Appropriate, I thought. Empowering. I’d practically grown testicles.

  I drove to Mercado Mews, parked in Joyce’s driveway, and went in search of the fake rock. I found the rock, got the key to the front door, opened the door, and decoded the alarm. I went straight to Joyce’s bedroom and rifled the top drawer to her dresser. I found the small padlock key, slipped it into my jeans pocket, and left. I reset the alarm for her, locked her door, put the key back in the fake rock, and drove off. I pulled into the parking area for the model home and called Joyce. No answer. No way to leave a message.

  Forty minutes later, I eased the truck to the curb in front of the new office. A makeshift sign in the window advertised Vincent Plum Bail Bonds. Connie was at one of the two desks, and Lula was looking uncomfortable in a folding chair.

  “Who designs these things anyways?” Lula said when I walked in. “My ass don’t fit. They think everybody got some bony ass? What about us big-and-beautiful-ass people? Where are we supposed to sit? I’m gonna have an ass crease from hangin’ off this thing. And it don’t got arms or nothin’. Couldn’t you get a chair with arms? Where am I supposed to set my chicken bucket?”

  “You haven’t got a chicken bucket,” Connie said.

  “Yeah, but I’m gonna,” Lula told her. “And where am I gonna set it?”

  The office was beyond bare bones. Voices echoed in the empty room. The walls were army-surplus khaki. The floor was liquidation linoleum. It was lit by light from the storefront window and an overhead forty-watt bulb.

  “This is sort of depressing,” I said to Connie.

  “This is nothing,” Connie said. “Wait until it rains. You’ll want to eat a bullet.”

  I saw Vinnie’s Caddy angle in behind my truck. Vinnie literally sprang out and skipped into the office.

  “I don’t know what he’s on, but I want some,” Lula said.

  Vinnie stopped in the middle of the room, stuffed his hands into his pants pockets, and rocked back on his heels. He was grinning and snorting with happiness. “I did it,” he said. “I fixed DeAngelo good. You don’t mess with Vincent Plum. No way. You pay the price.” And Vinnie did one of those spike-the-ball things you see football players do when they make a touchdown. “Yeah, baby,” he said. “Yeah!”

  “What did you do?” Lula asked.

  “I filled his Mercedes with horse shit,” Vinnie said. “I know this guy who has horses, and I got him to take his dung pile and dump it into DeAngelo’s Mercedes last night. Filled that Mercedes from the floor to the roof. Had to break a window to get it all in. DeAngelo blew up my bus, so I filled his car with shit. Genius, right?”

  “DeAngelo didn’t blow up the bus,” Connie said. “I just got the report from the fire marshal. The coffeemaker shorted out and started the fire.”

  Some of the color left Vinnie’s face. “Say what?”

  “Oh man,” Lula said. “DeAngelo is gonna be pissed. Least he won’t know who did it.”

  “I left a note,” Vinnie said.

  Lula gave a hoot of laughter and fell off her chair.

  “But we all thought he did it,” Vinnie said.

  “This could be bad,” Connie said. “DeAngelo is connected. And I don’t think he has a sense of humor.”

  I caught a flash of black on the street and saw an Escalade double-park.

  “Uh-oh,” I said. “I think this is DeAngelo.”

  Vinnie dove for cover under Connie’s desk.

  The front door banged open, and DeAngelo stormed in, red-faced and crazy-eyed.

  “Where is he? I know he’s here,” DeAngelo said. “Perverted, slimy little weasel.”

  Lula stood. “Hey, look who’s here. It’s Spanky.”

  DeAngelo looked over at Lula. “Your asshole boss filled my car with horse shit.”

  Lula brushed herself off and adjusted her girls. “That car was all wrong for you anyways,” Lula said. “You should be driving something hot, like a Ferrari or one of them Lamborghinis. Or maybe some big ol’ muscle car. You just don’t belong in that plain-ass Mercedes. He did you a favor. You’d get a lot more complimentary BJs if you was driving a Ferrari.”

  “You’re right,” DeAngelo said. “Tell your boss if he delivers on a Ferrari, I won’t kill him.”

  DeAngelo turned on his heel, left the office, and was whisked away in the Escalade.

  “That went pretty good,” Lula said.

  Vinnie crawled out from under the desk. “Where am I going to get a Ferrari? Do you have any idea what a Ferrari costs? It costs more than my house.”

  • • �
�

  “That was fun,” Lula said. “What are we gonna do next? I’m in a mood to wham somebody.”

  “We need to pay another visit to Lahonka Goudge,” I said.

  Lula hiked her bag onto her shoulder. “I’m up for that.”

  We took my truck, and I drove into the projects and crept past Lahonka’s unit.

  “We gonna be sneaky, or we just gonna bust in?” Lula asked.

  “We’re going to ring her doorbell and politely but firmly reason with her.”

  “Oh yeah,” Lula said. “That always works. How about I just wait in the truck.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Wait in the truck. This won’t take long, because I have a positive attitude this morning, and I’m going to get the job done. I’m changing my juju.”

  “Good for you,” Lula said. “Only you’d change your juju faster if you sneak up on her, put a pillowcase over her head, and hit her with a big stick. WHAM!”

  I parked, and we both got out of the truck.

  “I thought you were staying behind,” I said.

  “I don’t want to miss the juju-changing moment,” Lula said.

  “Scoff all you want, but you’ll see. I’m turning this around.”

  “I’m not scoffin’,” Lula said. “Do I look like I’m scoffin’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, okay, maybe I’m scoffin’ a little.”

  We threaded our way through the kids’ toys littering the sidewalk, and I rang Lahonka’s doorbell.

  “Go away!” Lahonka yelled through the door.

  “I want to talk.”

  “I’m busy. Come back next year.”

  “How about this,” Lula said. “How about you open this door, or I’ll shoot it full of holes.”

  “You can’t do that,” Lahonka said. “This here’s public housing. That’s a taxpayer door. Us taxpayers put in good money for that door.”

  “You pay taxes?” Lula asked.

  “Not me personally,” she said. “I don’t give money. I just get money. I’m on the good side of that coin.”

  “Stand back,” Lula said. “I’m shooting.”

  “No! No shooting.” Lahonka opened the door. “Do you have any idea how long it takes to get a new door in public housing? And all kinds of vermin could climb in through those holes. Last time someone shot a hole in my door, I got a vampire bat in here.”

  Lula looked through the open door. “You do pretty good for not paying taxes. You got a big flat-screen television and nice furniture. And is that your Mercedes at the curb?”

  “I’m a entrepreneur,” Lahonka said. “I’m the American dream.”

  “More like the American nightmare,” Lula said.

  “Back to business,” I said to Lahonka. “We need to take you downtown to get rebonded. You missed your court date.”

  “I know I missed my court date. You already told me that. I’m electing not to participate in the judicial system.”

  “You don’t want your kids growing up thinking you’re a scofflaw, do you?” Lula said.

  “I don’t know what the heck scofflaw means. Is that Russian?” Lahonka pulled some credit cards out of her pocket. “I can see you two ladies are no dummies. So I’ll make a deal with you. You can each have your pick of all these credit cards if you forget this whole thing.”

  “Are you tryin’ to bribe us?” Lula asked. “Because we don’t take no bribes. We got honor. We got integrity coming out our ass.” She looked down at the cards. “Holy smoke. Is that a platinum American Express card? And a Tiffany card? Where’d you get a Tiffany card?”

  “Is that the one you want?” Lahonka asked. “You want the Tiffany? That’s a real good choice.”

  “I guess I could use a Tiffany card,” Lula said. “Don’t see no harm in taking a Tiffany card. It’s not like I’d have to use it, but it would class up my wallet.”

  “She doesn’t want the Tiffany card,” I said to Lahonka. “You’re going to have to come downtown with us.”

  She stepped back, slammed the door shut, and locked it. “Bite me!” she yelled through the door.

  “Shoot the door,” I said to Lula.

  “What about the politely reasoning shit?” Lula asked.

  “Just shoot the damn door.”

  “You can’t shoot it,” Lahonka yelled. “I’m standing right here behind it, and if you shoot the door, you’ll shoot me. And I’m a unarmed woman.”

  “No problem,” Lula said, hauling her Glock out of her purse. “I’ll shoot low.” And Lula squeezed one off.

  “YOW!” Lahonka shrieked. “You shot me. You sonovabitch, you shot me in my foot. I’m gonna die. I’m gonna bleed to death. I don’t got no insurance, either. And what about my kids? Who’s gonna take care of my kids when I’m dead? I’m willin’ them to you. You deserve them, you sonovabitch. Let’s see you buy new sneakers every time their goddamn feet grow.”

  “Do you think she’s really shot?” I asked Lula.

  Lula shrugged. “I didn’t think the bullet would go through the door, but looks like that’s one of them cheapskate hollow jobs. There should be a law against those doors.”

  Lahonka ripped the door open. “Of course I’m shot, you moron. What the hell’s wrong with you, shooting a unarmed woman? I’m feelin’ faint. Everything’s goin’ black.”

  And Lahonka crashed to the floor.

  Lula looked down at Lahonka’s foot. “Yep, she’s shot all right.”

  “This is going to mean a lot of paperwork,” I said to Lula.

  “You told me to shoot her. Wasn’t my idea,” Lula said. “I was just following orders. Hell, I’m not even a real bounty hunter. You’re the bounty hunter in charge, and I’m just a bounty hunter helper.”

  I had a twitch in my left eye. I put my finger to it and took a couple deep breaths. “We need to take her to the emergency room. Help me drag her out to the truck.”

  “Good thinking that you got a truck,” Lula said. “We can lay her out in the back, and you don’t even have to worry about her bleeding all over the place.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I pulled into the hospital emergency drive-thru. I stopped in front of the entrance, and Lula and I ran around to get Lahonka.

  “Uh-oh,” Lula said. “There’s no Lahonka here. She must have jumped out at a light or something.”

  We retraced our steps to make sure Lahonka wasn’t road-kill, toes cocked in the gutter.

  • • •

  “I didn’t even see no blood trails,” Lula said when I parked in front of the office. “I thought I shot her good enough to at least draw blood.”

  “You’ve got to stop shooting people,” I said. “It’s against the law.”

  “That wasn’t my fault,” Lula said, pushing through the front door to the office. “That was your fault. It’s your juju. It sucks. It’s getting frightening just being next to you.”

  “Oh God, now what?” Connie said.

  “No big deal,” Lula said. “We just can’t catch anyone.”

  “As long as you didn’t shoot anyone,” Connie said. “You didn’t shoot anyone, did you?”

  Lula’s eyes got big. “Why do you ask? Did you hear something?”

  Connie put her hands over her ears. “I don’t want to know. Don’t tell me.”

  “Fine by me,” Lula said. “I don’t want to talk about it, either. Wasn’t exactly a gratifying experience. Not that it was my fault.”

  “Anything new come in?” I asked Connie.

  “No. It’s been slow,” Connie said. “Moving the office around isn’t helping business.”

  I stepped outside and tried Joyce again, but she still wasn’t picking up. While I was standing on the sidewalk a gray Camry parked behind my truck and Berger and Gooley got out.

  “I liked the last office location,” Gooley said. “One-stop shopping. You could get bonded out and buy a black-and-white cookie all at the same time.”

  “We have the finished sketch,” Berger said to me. “We wanted you to take a
last look at it before we send it up the line.” He pulled the sketch out of a folder and handed it to me. “Is this the guy in the photograph?”

  “I can barely remember the photograph,” I told him, “but this guy looks familiar.”

  Lula swung out of the office and looked over my shoulder. “I know this guy,” she said. “It’s Tom Cruise.”

  I looked back at the photograph. Lula was right. It was Tom Cruise. No wonder he looked familiar.

  Connie wandered out. “What’s going on?”

  Lula showed the sketch to Connie. “Who is this?”

  “Tom Cruise,” Connie said.

  Gooley gave a snort of laughter, and Berger closed his eyes and pinched his nose between thumb and index finger, indicating an approaching migraine. They turned on their heels, retreated to the Camry, and drove off.

  “What were they doing with a picture of Tom Cruise?” Lula was excited. “Is he in the area? Is he making a movie here? I wouldn’t mind seeing Tom Cruise. I hear he’s short, but I wouldn’t hold that against him.”

  “It was supposed to be a sketch of the guy in the photograph,” I said, “but I guess I was thinking of Tom Cruise when I gave the description to the FBI artist.”

  “Or maybe the guy in the photograph was Tom Cruise,” Lula said.

  I shook my head. “He wasn’t Tom Cruise, but I think there were similarities. His hair and the shape of his face.”

  “I say we go proactive,” Lula said. “What we gotta do is root out the bad guys. We gotta get to the bottom of this. This is like one of them intrigue things. If we just knew what this story was, I bet it could be a television show. They’re always looking for good shit like this.”

  “I don’t want to be a television show,” I said.

  “Okay, but you don’t want to be dead, either. I don’t see those FBI idiots doing anything for you. I say we take charge and figure out what’s going on. WHAM! And then if you don’t want to sell it to television, we could sell it to one of them book publishers. We could even write the book ourself. How hard could it be?”