Janet Evanovich - Explosive Eighteen

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.”