Janet Evanovich - Explosive Eighteen

“It might come to that, but for now I’m going home to talk to her.”

I had the door open, and I looked across the street at the Lincoln.

“Do you want me to get rid of them?” Morelli asked.

“No. I’m sort of getting used to them following me around. I think they’re mostly harmless.”

Morelli kissed me on the forehead. “You know where to find me.”

“More or less.”

I climbed into the truck, and before going back to Joyce, I decided to have one last go at Lahonka. I parked in front of her apartment and stared at the empty yard. No toys. I walked to the door and knocked, and the door swung open on jerry-rigged hinges. The apartment was empty. No furniture. No big-screen television. No Lahonka.

Lancer and Slasher had parked behind me. They were sitting quietly, taking it all in. I knocked on the door to the apartment next to Lahonka, and an older man answered.

“I’m looking for Lahonka,” I told him.

“She’s gone. She took off early this morning. Backed a truck up to her door, loaded everything into it, and took off.”

“Do you know where she went?”

“South is all she said. She has a sister in New Orleans and one in Tampa, Florida. She might have gone to one of them.”

I thanked him and returned to my truck. Once someone flees the area, the file gets moved to the back burner for me. If the bond is high enough, Connie takes over the search electronically. If she locates the skip, she can use an out-of-state bounty hunter, or she can send Vinnie or Ranger. Lahonka’s bond was marginal.

I cut across town with the Lincoln half a car length behind me. I stopped at Tasty Pastry Bakery on Hamilton and got a bag of croissants for Joyce. I would have gotten something for Lancer and Slasher, but I’d already treated them to a pizza, and it wasn’t like I was rolling in money. They followed me to the edge of my apartment building lot and parked on the side street. I backed up until I was parallel with them, and I powered my window down.

“What’s the plan?” I asked Slasher.

“We’re following you,” Slasher said. “We’re waiting for you to lead us to the photo, and then we’re gonna pounce.”

“How do you know the photo isn’t in my apartment?”

“You said you didn’t have it.”

“You believed me?”

Slasher got some color in his cheeks. “Maybe.”

I powered my window up and drove into my lot. I didn’t see Raz lurking anywhere. Even though he liked pain, I expected getting shot had slowed him down a tad.

Joyce was watching cartoons when I let myself into my apartment. I gave her the bag of croissants and shut the television off.

“News flash,” I said. “I talked to Morelli. Frank Korda wasn’t a Pink Panther. The Panthers are diamond thieves operating in Europe, and it’s not even a real organization.”

“Maybe he belonged to a different Pink Panthers,” Joyce said. “Who’s to say there’s only one?”

I had no way to argue that. “It doesn’t matter,” I told her. “You have to go. You can’t live here anymore. I don’t care if someone’s trying to kill you. If you stay here any longer, I’m going to kill you.”

Joyce stood with her bag of croissants. “I can’t take it anymore, either. I’d rather be dead than spend any more time in your bathroom. And your television sucks. I’ll make a deal. I’ll leave, but you have to promise to look for the chest tomorrow.”

“No way.”

“Promise, or I won’t go. If you can put up with that bathroom and this television, I can, too.”

Jeez Louise. “I’ll make an effort,” I said, “but I can’t promise.”

Five minutes later, Joyce and the croissants were out the door, almost out of my life. I carted Rex and his cage back into the kitchen and put him on the counter. I gave him fresh water and a chunk of Pop-Tart, and I ate the rest. I pulled my laptop out from under the mattress, put it on my dining room table, and plugged it in. I was making progress.

FRANK KORDA AND HIS WIFE, Pat, lived in a white colonial house with black shutters, a mahogany front door, and a two-car garage. It was at the end of a cul-de-sac in a middle-class residential neighborhood in Hamilton Township. Korda’s memorial service was scheduled for nine in the morning, burial was to follow, and friends and relatives were invited back to the house for refreshments. I’d driven past the house at sunrise to check it out. Everything had been quiet. No lights on. The widow wasn’t an early riser.

I wasn’t an early riser, either, but I was on a mission today. I wanted to keep Joyce out of my apartment, and I had developed a curiosity about the chest. I wanted to see the contents.

I’d called Lula and told her I needed her to stand watch for me. We were to meet at the coffee shop at eight-thirty. I suggested she dress funeral appropriate, so we didn’t look out of place should neighbors see us sneaking around. I had no idea how I was going to get into the house. Break a back window maybe. If a security alarm went off, I was out of there in a flash, and Joyce would have to live without the chest.

I was wearing my standard black funeral suit and heels, carrying a big slouchy black leather bag that would easily contain a small pirate chest.

I parked in front of the coffee shop, and Lula’s Firebird pulled in behind me. Lula got out and walked over.

“I thought you might want to take my Firebird,” she said. “It might blend in better than your truck.”

I looked back at her car. “I don’t know. It’s a toss-up. The Firebird’s really red.”

“Yeah, but my sweetie don’t fit inside your truck, and he gonna look obvious sittin’ in the back in his suit.”

“Your sweetie?”

“I thought we might need muscle, so I brought him along. I got him dressed up in a suit and everything. And I met his mama last night. She didn’t say much, but I think she liked me.”

“He can’t come,” I said to Lula. “We’re breaking into a house. It’s illegal.”

“That’s okay. He does illegal shit all the time.”

“That’s not the problem. I don’t want a witness.”

“I see what you’re saying, but I don’t know how we’ll get him out of my car.”

“Leave him in your car. We’ll take my truck. Tell him we’ll come back for him in an hour.”

Lula trotted to the Firebird, had a short conversation with Buggy, trotted back to my truck, and got in.

“It’s all set,” she said.

I pulled into traffic and Buggy followed.

“Hunh, he must have misunderstood,” Lula said, looking in the side mirror.

I wove around a few streets, but Buggy stayed close on my bumper.

“I’m losing time trying to get rid of him,” I said to Lula. “Call him on his cell phone and tell him to go away.”

“He don’t have a cell phone,” Lula said. “His mama won’t give him money for one. And he don’t make enough stealin’ purses to get one on his own. People got a misconception about purse snatchers. It’s a real hard way to make a living.”

“Then why doesn’t he get a job?”

“I guess you gotta do what you love,” Lula said. “He’s a man who follows his heart.”

I turned onto Korda’s street and the black mortuary limo glided past me going in the opposite direction. It was carrying Pat Korda to the memorial service, and that meant her house might be empty. I parked and sat watching the house for a few minutes. There were no other cars parked outside, and I didn’t see signs of activity. I’d stopped at Giovichinni’s and picked up a noodle casserole to use as cover. My story, if I needed one, was that I had misunderstood the time and arrived at the wake early.