Explosive Eighteen

TWELVE

IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON by the time I swapped out the RAV for a four-door Chevy Colorado pickup. I don’t usually buy trucks, but the price was right, and I didn’t have a lot of choices. Apparently, a couple kids had been driving it, smoking weed, and the seat had caught fire. There wasn’t much mechanical damage, but the interior was trashed. New seats had been installed, but the smell of seriously smoked cannabis remained.

I’d removed the Rangeman tracking device from the RAV undercarriage, slipped it into the Chevy’s glove box, and called the vehicle change in to the control room. I called Morelli to tell him about the change, but he wasn’t picking up his cell. Probably, the electromagnet at the junkyard was interfering. Or maybe he saw the call was from me, and he threw his phone into the Delaware River.

I was in a bad place with Morelli. Technically, I hadn’t done anything wrong, since I wasn’t in a committed relationship with him. That fact didn’t stop my stomach from frequently turning queasy, because I had an ongoing relationship with two men I really cared about. And it was obvious Morelli was the more vulnerable of the two. Ranger accepted the limitations, took full advantage when he had the opportunity, and rolled with the rest. Morelli was capable of none of that. Morelli’s temper and libido ran in the red zone. And the truth is, while Morelli was sometimes more difficult to live with, I preferred the transparency of his emotions.

My dilemma was that I wanted Morelli to know Ranger had come to Hawaii on legitimate business, but I was afraid the conversation would lead to an ugly discussion about sleeping arrangements. And it was becoming obvious Morelli didn’t want to have that discussion any more than I did.

I drove my truck off the lot and headed for Hamilton Township. If there was anything that could partially push thoughts of Morelli aside, it was thoughts of Joyce Barnhardt.

Barnhardt was unfinished business. I’d hated her in grade school and high school, and I’d found her naked and woman-on-top on my brand-new husband on my brand-new dining room table. In the end, it had turned out she’d done me a favor, because the man was a philandering jerk. Still, her behavior hadn’t gotten better after that, so I really shouldn’t care if she was dead or alive, but it turns out I did care. Go figure.

I cruised through Joyce’s neighborhood, which was empty as usual. I idled in front of her town house. No sign of life inside. I left Mercado Mews and returned to the Burg.

The Barnhardts live on Liberty Street. Joyce’s mom teaches third grade, and her father installs air-conditioning units for Ruger Air. The Barnhardts keep their house and lawn tidy, and their lives private. Grandma says Joyce’s father is an odd duck, but I wouldn’t know personally. I’ve never had any interactions with Joyce’s father, and I learned early on to avoid Joyce’s mother. Her mother turned a blind eye to Joyce’s many shortcomings. Pleasant for Joyce, I suppose, but difficult for the kid who got Joyce boogers on her sandwich.

I checked out the Barnhardts’ house, made a U-turn, and crept past a second time. The house felt benign. At least as benign as was possible, considering Joyce had lived there. If circumstances had been different, I might have knocked on the door and questioned the Barnhardts.

Because I was in the neighborhood, I stopped to see if my mother was sober and making dinner.

“She’s sleeping it off,” Grandma said, meeting me at the door. “I ordered pizza. You’re welcome to stay. I got three extra-large pies from Pino’s, and they just got delivered.”

My father was in the living room watching television, one of the pizza boxes on his lap, a beer bottle stuck between his legs. I sat in the kitchen with Grandma and pulled off a piece with pepperoni, extra cheese.

“What’s the word on Joyce Barnhardt?” I asked.

“No one’s seen her. Grace Rizzo thinks Joyce was having an affair with the jeweler. Grace’s daughter works across the street at the nail salon, and she said Joyce would go into the jewelry store and wouldn’t come out for a long time. And once the closed sign got put up on the front door when Joyce was there.”

“Frank Korda was married. Hard to believe he’d press charges against Joyce and create controversy if he was sleeping with her.”

“I don’t know. Anyway, they released his body already,” Grandma said. “There’s a viewing scheduled at the funeral parlor for tomorrow night. It’s gonna be a full house. Not everyone gets compacted at the junkyard. I heard the TV people might even be there.”

I felt a twitch run the length of my spine. I didn’t share Grandma’s enthusiasm for viewings.

“I got an appointment to get my hair and nails done tomorrow morning, so I look good,” Grandma said.

I sat in the parking lot to my apartment building with half a pizza on the seat next to me and my motor running. I didn’t see any Scions or Town Cars, so I felt safe from two-thirds of the people who wanted to kill me. I didn’t know what kind of car Razzle Dazzle drove, and that worried me. I had a stun gun that was low on juice, and a full can of hair spray. That was pretty much my whole bag of tricks for self-defense.

I dialed Morelli, and this time he answered.

“Are you hungry?” I asked him. “I have half an extra-large Pino’s pizza.”

“Do I have to talk to you?”

“No.”

“Good, because I’m not ready to talk to you.”

“Understood. Are you still working?”

“I’m home,” Morelli said. “I had to walk Bob and give him dinner.”

“So can you come over now?”

“Yeah.”

I was going to rot in hell. Did I love Morelli? Yes. Did I miss him? Yes. Was that why I was inviting him over for pizza? No. I was inviting him over because I was afraid to go into my apartment alone. Morelli was big and strong and carried a gun that actually had bullets in it. Jeez, I was such a loser!

I cut the engine and made my way across the lot with the pizza box. I waited in the foyer until I saw Morelli’s SUV. I took the stairs and waited in the hall in front of my door. The elevator doors opened, Morelli walked out, and I smiled at him.

“Did you just get here?” he asked.

I bit into my lower lip. I couldn’t do it.

“No,” I said. “I’ve been waiting for you. I was afraid to go into my apartment.”

“So you lured me here with pizza?”

“No. I brought the pizza home for you. I just had a sort of panic attack when I drove into the lot.”

“Should I go in with gun drawn?”

“Your choice, but it might not be a bad idea.”

Morelli looked at me. “Who do you think is in there?”

“Could be most anyone, the way things are going. Could be Razzle Dazzle.”

“What’s a razzle dazzle?”

“According to Berger, he’s a killer nutcase.”

Morelli pulled his gun out, unlocked my door, and pushed it open. He did a walk-through and came back to me. “No Razzle Dazzle.” He pulled me into the apartment, closed and locked the door behind me, and holstered his gun.

“What kind of pizza is that?” he asked.

“Pepperoni with extra cheese.” I put the box on the counter and flipped the lid. “Sorry, I don’t have any beer.”

“Just as well,” Morelli said, folding a piece and biting in. “There’s a chance I’ll have to go back to work tonight.”

“You’re always working.”

“If people would stop shooting, stabbing, and compacting each other, my hours would cut back.”

“Speaking of compacting…”

“No other bodies at the junkyard. Connie’s relatives make sure there’s a fast turnover of cars. Smash ’em, and ship ’em out.”

“There’s a rumor that Joyce was doing the jeweler.”

“Joyce did everyone.”

“Did Joyce ever do you?” I asked Morelli.

“No,” he said. “She’s scary. Just so you know, you aren’t the only one looking for her. She’s wanted for questioning regarding the Korda murder.”

“Any leads?”

“No. How about you?”

“Nothing.”

Morelli took a second piece of pizza, and the doorbell rang. He moved to the door and looked out the peephole.

“It’s a woman,” Morelli said. “She’s holding a cake box.”

I sidled up next to him and looked out. It was Brenda Schwartz.

“You remember the guy who got killed and stuffed into a garbage can at LAX?”

“Richard Crick.”

“Yeah. And you know about the photograph?”

“Un-hunh.”

“And you know how there are fake FBI guys and real FBI guys and Razzle Dazzle, who all want the photograph?”

Morelli didn’t say anything, but the line of his mouth tightened ever so slightly.

“Well, this is Brenda Schwartz,” I said. “She says she’s Crick’s fiancée, and she’s another photograph hunter.”

“So she brought you a cake?”

“Possibly. There could be a bomb in the box. She seems a little unstable.”

“Anything else I should know?” Morelli asked.

“She carries a gun, but it’s not very big.”

“This is why I have acid reflux,” Morelli said. And he opened the door.

“Oh cripes,” Brenda said, looking at Morelli. “Do I have the wrong apartment? I was looking for Stephanie Plum.”

I peeked around Morelli. “You have the right apartment. This is my boyfriend.”

“Maybe,” Morelli said. “Maybe not.”

“I figured we got off on the wrong foot earlier,” Brenda said to me. “What with threatening to shoot you and everything. Anyhoo, I got you a cake. I thought we could have a girl-to-girl over it.”

“That’s nice of you, but I don’t have the photograph,” I told her.

“Yeah, but you know where it is.”

“No, I don’t know where it is.”

She pinched her lips together for a second. “Then why do certain people think you got the photograph?”

“Misinformation,” I said. “Probably originating from your fiancé.”

“Richard Crick didn’t give out misinformation,” she said. “He was a doctor. May he rest in peace.”

“Why do you want the photograph?” Morelli asked her.

“None of your beeswax,” she said. “I just do. It’s sentimental. I was his fiancée.”

“You’re not wearing an engagement ring,” Morelli said.

“Honestly,” Brenda said, rolling her eyes. “He’s dead. You don’t expect me to pine away forever, do you?” She looked back at me. “So are you going to give me the photograph, or what?”

I felt a vein start to throb in my temple. “I don’t have the photograph.”

“Fine. Have it your way,” Brenda said. “But I’m giving you warning. I’m going to get that photograph. And you’re not getting any of this cake, either.” And she turned and sashayed down the hall to the elevator.

Morelli and I retreated into my apartment and closed and locked the door.

“Tell me the truth,” he said. “Do you have the photograph?”

I smacked the heel of my hand against my forehead so hard I almost knocked myself out. “Unh!”

“Does that mean no or yes?” Morelli asked.

“It means NO! No, no, no, no, no.”

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I’m not exactly in the loop here.”

“You’re too busy to be in the loop.”

“No one could stay in the loop with you. You’re a disaster magnet. You suck it in. I used to think it was because of your job. But that’s too simple an explanation. You can’t even go on vacation without attracting killers. Not just one killer, either. You have a whole gaggle of killers after you. Is Berger any help with this?”

“They’ve had budget cuts.”

He went to my brown bear cookie jar, removed the lid, and took my gun out.

“It’s not loaded,” he said.

“You don’t really want me going around with a loaded gun, do you?”

He returned the gun to the cookie jar. “Good point. I can’t believe I’m asking this, but is Ranger watching your back?”

“He monitors my car. Beyond that, it’s hard to tell what Ranger’s doing.”

Morelli’s phone buzzed with a text message. He read the message and gave up a sigh. “I have to go. I’d like to help you, but I have no idea, short of handcuffing you to my furnace and locking the cellar door, how to keep you safe. It’s not like you’re good at accepting advice.”

“Jeez, it’s not that bad.”

“Cupcake, you gotta be careful.” He pulled me to him and kissed me. He broke from the kiss and cut his eyes to the pizza box. “Are you going to want that last piece of pizza?”

“It’s yours.”

He dropped a piece of crust into Rex’s cage and took the pizza, box and all. “Lock your door when I leave and don’t let anyone in.”

I watched Morelli walk down the hall and disappear into the elevator. This is unsettling, I thought. I had no clue where I actually stood with him. In some ways, he’d traded places with Ranger as the man of mystery.

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.