Janet Evanovich - Explosive Eighteen

“There’s always been true love, but in my day, you either talked yourself into thinking you had it, or you talked yourself into thinking you didn’t need it.”

I took Grandma home, but I didn’t go in. It had been a long day, and I was looking forward to my quiet apartment. I did the usual bad guy car search in my lot, parked the truck, and crossed to the apartment building’s back door with one hand wrapped around the Glock. I took the elevator to my floor and walked down the hall thinking I should probably learn how to shoot. I knew the basics. Lula, Morelli, and Ranger all carried semiautomatics. So I had a lot of exposure, but my actual use was limited.

I let myself into my apartment, still holding the Glock. I stepped into the small foyer and realized the television was on. I was thinking Ranger or Morelli, but it turned out to be Joyce Barnhardt.

“Hey, girlfriend,” Joyce said.

“What the heck are you doing here? And I’m not your girlfriend. I’ve never been your friend. I will never want to be your friend.”

“Gee, that hurts.”

“How did you get in?”

“I climbed up the fire escape and jimmied your window.”

I raised the Glock. “I guess I should be thanking you. This makes everything easy for me.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m not going anywhere, especially not to jail.”

“I have an arrest agreement, and I have a gun aimed at you.”

“Honestly,” Joyce said, “put the gun down. You’re not going to shoot me. For one thing, I’d bleed all over your carpet. Not that it’s all that great. And I’m unarmed. Just think of the paperwork, not to mention you’d probably get charged with assault with a deadly weapon. That carries a decent amount of time in an orange jumpsuit.”

“I hate you.”

“Blah, blah, blah,” Joyce said. “Get over it. Besides, I’m an entirely new person.”

“You don’t lie?”

“Well, of course I lie. Everyone lies.”

“You don’t steal husbands?”

“Okay, once in a while I steal a husband. I don’t see what the big deal is. They all turn out to be losers anyway.”

“So how are you new?”

“For one thing, I have blond streaks in my hair. What do you think?”

Joyce dyed her hair flame red, so the blond streaks were icing on the cake. Some of the hair was real, and some of it was fake, and when you put it all together there was a lot of it. She wore it teased up, exploding out into big curls and waves, like Farrah Fawcett’s hair on steroids.

I looked more closely at the color. “I like it. It’s flattering to your skin tone.” Good grief, I thought, now I was complimenting her hair. This was absolutely wrong.

“It wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to do some sprucing up,” Joyce said. “You don’t ever look wonderful, but you look worse than usual. You get into a fight with Morelli?”

“I slipped and fell in a parking garage.”

“Yeah, right. That’s how you got the busted-up face. What, do I look stupid today?”

“Why are you here?”

“I was going to come get my key, and then I realized this was the perfect place to hide out. No one would ever think to look for me here.”

“Hide out? Here?” I vigorously shook my head. “No. No, no, no. No way.”

“Deal with it,” Joyce said. “I’m not leaving.”

Keep your eye on the prize, I told myself. Go with a capture plan. Let her stay here, and when she falls asleep, sneak up on her, zap her with the monster stun gun, and cuff her. Then drag her ass back to jail and collect the money.

“Did you kill Frank Korda?” I asked her.

“No, but if he wasn’t already dead, I’d consider it. The asshole lied to me.”

“Despicable.”

“No shit.” Joyce was on the couch surfing television channels. “I can’t believe you’ve just got the basic package. You don’t get anything on this crappy television. It’s going to be a real hardship for me to live here.”

Eye on the prize, I repeated to myself. Don’t go goofy and shoot her just for the fun of it. She’s right about the bloodstain on the rug. Blood is a bitch to get out.

“I usually watch the Cooking Channel,” I said.

“Jesus, that’s friggin’ domestic. Can you cook?”

“No. I like watching other people cook.”

“Kinky.”

I took the key out of my purse and gave it to Joyce. “What’s the key all about?”

“It’s the key to the treasure chest.”

Oh boy, the treasure chest. Best not to ask, I decided. I probably didn’t want to know.

“I looked all through your apartment,” Joyce said. “I couldn’t find any wine. For that matter, I couldn’t find much of anything. It looks to me like you’re one step away from making hamster stew. I don’t know how you tolerate this spartan existence.”

After I zap her and cuff her, I might shave her head, I thought. That would be fun. I could shave her eyebrows off, too.

“Gosh, I’m sure enjoying all this girl talk,” I said, “but I’m beat. I’m going to turn in.”

“I suppose I have to sleep on the couch,” Joyce said.

“Yeah, the Queen of England is using my guest suite.”

I brought Rex and my laptop into the bedroom with me. I wasn’t leaving them out there with the spawn of Satan. I threw a pillow and an extra quilt out to Joyce, and locked my bedroom door. I laid my cuffs, stun gun, and Glock out on my bureau. Mise en place . I learned that from the Cooking Channel. Everything in its place for efficiency of use.

I changed from my dressy funeral home skirt and sweater to T-shirt and sweatpants. I turned my lights down and brought my laptop to bed with me. It was still early, and like most rodents, Joyce was nocturnal. So my plan was to do some research on my computer and check on Joyce after midnight.

At midnight, I dragged myself out of bed, carefully opened my door, and peeked out. Joyce was watching a movie.

“What’s up?” she said.

“Not much. Everything okay out here?”

“As good as it could be, considering I’m in deprivation central.”

I closed and locked my door again. Damn. I couldn’t keep my eyes open. Especially the one that was black-and-blue and swollen. I set my alarm on low for four o’clock, turned my light out, and crawled under the covers.

IT WAS DARK when I woke up. The alarm hadn’t gone off. I had to pee. I stumbled out of bed, unlocked my door, and squinted out into the black apartment. Joyce had finally gone to sleep. Good deal. I could quietly pee, and then I could zap Joyce.

I tiptoed into the bathroom, where I’d left a dim nightlight burning. I felt my foot brush against something furry, and I jumped away. I ran back to my bedroom with my heart racing, got the Glock, and ran back to the bathroom door.

I saw the animal backed into the corner. Too big for Rex. Rat, I thought. Big rat! I could see its tail and hideous fat body. I drilled about ten holes into it. It wasn’t moving. I flipped the light on and looked at the carnage. It took a couple beats for me to figure it out. It was Joyce’s hairpiece.

“What the hell?” Joyce said, standing behind me. “You just killed my piece.”

“I thought it was a rat.”

“You ever see a redheaded rat? I paid big bucks for that piece. It was real hair.”

“I’m sorry. It was dark.”

“I don’t know why I’m living with you,” Joyce said. “You’re such a loser.”

“Be careful,” I told her. “I’ve still got the gun in my hand. And I’m caring less about my rug.”

I looked at Joyce and realized she was naked.

“You’re naked,” I said. “What’s with that?”

“That’s how I sleep.”