Janet Evanovich - Explosive Eighteen

I pulled a file out of my bag. “Maybe we want to try the purse snatcher next.”

“I don’t think that’s a good plan,” Lula said. “Purse snatchers are runners. That’s what makes them good purse snatchers. And I just had two Clucky Burgers. I’ll get a cramp if I gotta chase after some skinny, baggy-pants idiot now. Don’t we have a bad guy who lives by the mall? Macy’s is having a shoe sale.”

I checked the addresses. No one lived by the mall.

“I might need a nap after all that chicken,” Lula said.

A nap sounded like a good idea. I hadn’t gotten much sleep on the plane ride home. For that matter, I hadn’t gotten much sleep the whole time I was in Hawaii, what with all the nighttime activity. And tonight I was seeing Morelli, and I suspected that wouldn’t lead to a lot of sleep. Morelli and I had things to discuss.

I have a long history with Morelli. We played choo choo when I was six years old. He relieved me of my virginity when I was sixteen. I ran him down with a Buick when I was nineteen. And now that we’re both adults, more or less, I sort of have a relationship with him… although I’d be hard-pressed to define the relationship at this moment. He’s a Trenton cop working plainclothes, crimes against persons. He’s six foot tall with wavy black hair, a lean, hard-muscled body, and a world-class libido. He’s movie-star handsome in jeans and a T-shirt. If you put him in a suit, he looks like a hit man.

“Are we talking about a catnap or a full-on afternoon nap?” I asked Lula.

“It might be a major nap. And then I got a date tonight with a guy who could be Mr. Good Enough. So I’m gonna need some time to make wardrobe decisions.”

“In other words, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah. I’ll be here at eight sharp, and we could get an early start.”

“You’re never here that early.”

“Well, I’m gonna be motivated to be a excellent bounty hunter assistant. I can feel it coming on. And I’ll be ready to go first thing in the morning after a satisfying night of doing… you know. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

LULA DROPPED ME at my car, and I took a fast assessment of the surroundings. Work was continuing on the new office. The bus wasn’t in flames. DeAngelo’s Mercedes was gone, and Vinnie’s Caddy was still parked. All good things.

I thought about checking in with Connie, but decided against it. I hadn’t made any captures, and a conversation with Vinnie might include a lot of unpleasant nagging about catching Joyce Barnhardt. I’d get her eventually, but I wasn’t up to it right now, so I jumped into my RAV and took off for my parents’ house.

An hour later, I was in my apartment building, lugging my basket of clean clothes, plus my hamster cage, down the hall. I unlocked my door, pushed it open with a hip, and staggered into the kitchen, arms full. I set the laundry basket on the floor, and the hamster cage on my kitchen counter.

“Here you are, back home,” I said to Rex. “Did you have fun with Grandmom?”

Rex was out of his soup can, looking like he wanted a treat, so I got the box of crackers from the cupboard and shared one with him.

Someone rapped on my front door, and I opened the door a crack, leaving the security chain attached. Two men dressed in bureaucrat-level gray suits peeked in at me. Their dress shirts were long past crisp. Their striped ties were loosened at the neck. Their hair was receding. They looked to be late forties. One was around five foot ten. The other was in the five-foot-seven range. I suspected they liked their double bacon cheeseburgers.

“FBI,” the big guy said, flashing me an ID, then returning it to his pocket. “Can we come in?”

“No,” I told him.

“But we’re the FBI.”

“Maybe,” I said to the big guy. “Maybe not. I didn’t catch your name.”

“Lance Lancer.” He gestured at his partner. “This is agent Sly Slasher.”

“Lance Lancer and Sly Slasher? Are you kidding me? Those can’t be real names.”

“It’s right here on our badges,” Lancer said. “We’re looking for an envelope you might have inadvertently picked up.”

“What kind of envelope?”

“A large yellow envelope. It contained a photograph of a man we’re looking for in conjunction with a murder.”

“Wouldn’t that be a job for the local police?”

“It was an international murder. And there was a kidnapping involved. Do you have the envelope?”

“No.” And that was the truth. I suspected they were looking for the envelope I’d thrown away at my parents’ house.

“I think you’re fibbing,” Lancer said. “We have it on good authority you were given the envelope.”

“If I find it, I’ll give it to the FBI,” I said.

I closed and locked my door, and put my eye to the peephole. Lancer and Slasher were standing, hands on hips, looking mildly pissed, not sure what to do next.

I went to the kitchen and dialed Morelli’s cell phone. “Where are you?” I asked him.

“I’m home. I just got in.”

“I need to check on two guys who claim they’re FBI. Lance Lancer and Sly Slasher.”

“I’ll be a laughingstock if I plug those names into the system. This is a joke, right?”

“Those are the names they gave. They had badges and everything.”

“How fast do you need this?”

“How fast can you get it?”

Morelli grunted and hung up.

I imagined Morelli staring down at his shoe, shaking his head, wishing he hadn’t answered his phone.

I dialed my parents’ house, and my mother answered.

“I need you to do something for me,” I said. “I need the photo and the envelope I threw away when I was in the kitchen this morning. I tossed it in the trash.”

“Your grandmother emptied the trash right after you left. Today was garbage pickup. I can look out back, but I think it’s gone.”

So it appeared I was out of the FBI evidence supply business.

Fine by me. I had better, more important things to do, like taking a nap. I kicked my shoes off and flopped onto my bed. I’d barely closed my eyes and the doorbell bonged. I heaved myself out of bed, padded to my door, and looked out the peephole. Two more men in cheap gray suits.

I cracked the door, leaving the security chain in place, and looked out. “Now what?” I said.

The guy standing closest to the door badged me. “FBI. We’d like to talk to you.”

“Names?”

“Bill Berger, and my partner, Chuck Gooley.”

Bill Berger was slim, average height, and in his early fifties. Salt-and-pepper hair cut short. Bloodshot brown eyes. Probably, his contacts were killing him. Chuck was my age. Not fat but a chunky body. An inch or two shorter than Berger. His suit pants had a lot of crotch wrinkles, and he was wearing ratty running shoes.

“And you’d like to talk to me about what?” I said.

“Can we come in?”

“No.”

Berger went hands to hips, exposing the gun clipped to his belt. Hard to tell if it was an unconscious gesture or if he was trying to intimidate me. Either way, I wasn’t opening my door any wider.

“We have reason to believe you are in possession of a photograph that’s part of a crime investigation.”

My phone rang, and I excused myself to answer it.

“You’ve been home less than twenty-four hours, and you’re already in some kind of a mess,” Morelli said. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Sure, but I’ve got guests right now. More FBI.”

“Are they in your apartment?”

“No. They’re in the hall.”

“That’s where you want them to stay. As far as I can tell, the first two guys aren’t with the Bureau. There are no Lance Lancers or Sly Slashers on active duty. Big surprise. So who have you got in your hall now?” Morelli asked.