Janet Evanovich: Lean Mean Thirteen

I'd inched my way along his wall, and I was now slightly behind him. I cleverly turned to admire the handsome desk set… and that was when I saw it. A picture of Dickie and Joyce Barnhardt. Dickie had his arm around Joyce, and they were laughing. And I knew it was recent because Dickie's forehead was unusually high in the photograph.

I sucked in some air and told myself to stay calm, but I could feel pressure building in my fingertips, and I worried my scalp might be on fire.

"Uh oh," Lula said, watching me.

"Is that J-J-Joyce?" I asked Dickie.

"Yeah," Dickie said. "We've reconnected. I had a thing with her a bunch of years ago, and I guess I never got over the attraction."

"I know exactly how many years ago. I caught you porking that pig on my dining room table fifteen minutes before I filed for divorce, you scum-sucking, dog-fucking lump of goose shit."

Joyce Barnhardt had been a fat, buck-toothed, sneaky little kid who spread rumors, picked at emotional wounds, spit on my dessert at lunchtime, and made my school years a nightmare. By the time she was twenty, the fat had all gone to the right places. She dyed her hair red, had her breasts enlarged and her lips plumped, and she set out on her chosen career of home wrecker and gold digger. Looking back on it all, I had to admit Joyce had done me a favor by being the catalyst to get me out of my marriage to Dickie. That didn't alter the fact that Joyce will never be my favorite person, though.

"That's right," Dickie said. "Now I remember. I thought I could finish up before you got home, but you came home early."

And next thing, Dickie was on the floor, my hands around his neck. He was yelling as best he could, considering I was choking him, and Lula and Connie were in the mix. By the time Lula and Connie wrestled me off him, the room was filled with clerical staff.

Dickie dragged himself up and looked at me wild-eyed. "You're all witnesses," he said to the roomful of people. "She tried to kill me. She's insane. She should be locked up in a looney bin. Call the police. Call animal control. Call my lawyer. I want a restraining order."

"You deserve Joyce," I said to Dickie. "What you don't deserve is this desk clock. It was a wedding present from my Aunt Tootsie." And I took I the clock, turned on my heel, tipped my nose up ever so slightly, and flounced out of his office, Connie and Lula right behind me.

Dickie scrambled after us. "Give me that clock! That's my clock!"

Lula whipped out her Glock and pointed it at Dickie's nose. "Were you paying attention? Her Aunt Tootsie gave her that clock. Now get your little runt ass back in your office and close the door before I put a big hole in your head."

We took the stairs for fear the elevator might be too slow, barreled out the front door, and speed-walked down the block before the police could show up and haul me off to the clink. I saw the shiny black SUV parked across the street. Tinted windows. Motor running. I paused and gave the car a thumbs-up, and the lights flashed at me. Ranger was listening to the bugs I'd just left in Dickie's pockets.

We rammed ourselves into Lula's Firebird, and Lula rocketed the ear away from the curb.

"I swear, I thought you were gonna burst into flames when you saw that picture of Dickhead and Joyce," Lula said. "It was like you had those glowing demon eyes you see in horror movies. I thought your head was gonna rotate."

"Yeah, but then a calm came over me," I said. "And I saw I had a chance to plant the bugs in Dickie's pockets."

"The calm must have come while you were squeezing his neck and banging his head against the floor," Connie said.

I blew out a sigh. "Yep. That was about the time."

We had food spread all over Connie’s desk. Meatball subs in wax paper wrappers, a big tub of coleslaw, potato chips, pickles, and diet sodas.

"This was a good idea," I said to Lula. "I was starved."

"Guess going apeshit makes you hungry," Lula said. "What's up next?"

"I thought I'd do some phone work on Simon Diggery. Maybe I can get a lead on him that'll take me someplace other than a graveyard."

Diggery was a wiry little guy in his early fifties. His brown hair was shot with gray and tied back in a ponytail. His skin looked like old leather. And he had arms like Popeye from years of hauling dirt. Most often, he worked alone, but on occasion he could be seen walking the streets at two in the morning with his brother Melvin, shovels on their shoulders like Army rifles.

"You're not going to get anywhere with phone calls," Lula said. "Those Diggerys are wily."

I pulled a previous file on Diggery and copied phone numbers and places of employment. In the past, Diggery had delivered pizzas, bagged groceries, pumped gas, and cleaned kennel cages.

"Its a place to start," I said to Lula. "Better than knocking on their doors."

The Diggerys all lived together in a raggedy double-wide in Bordentown. Simon, Melvin, Melvin's wife, Melvin's six kids, Melvin's pet python, and Uncle Bill Diggery. If you knocked on the door to the double-wide, you'd only find the python. The Diggerys were like feral cats. They scattered into the woods behind their home the minute a car stopped in the driveway.

When the weather was especially bad and the ground was frozen, grave robbing was slow work and Simon would sometimes take odd jobs. I was hoping to catch him at one of those jobs. Since the jobs were random, the only way to learn of them was to trick a family member or neighbor into giving Simon up.

"What's the charge this time?" Lula asked.

I paged through the file. "Drunk and disorderly, destruction of private property, attempted assault."

Everyone knew Diggery was Trenton 's premier grave robber, but his arrests were seldom associated with desecration of the dead. He was most often arrested for disorderly conduct and assault. When Simon Diggery got drunk, he swung a mean shovel.

I gathered my information together and stuffed it into my bag along with the clock. "I'm working at home for the rest of the day."

"I feel like working at home until July," Lula said. "I'm fed up with this weather."

I'd just gotten into my car when my mom called on my cell.

"Where are you?" she wanted to know. "Are you at the bail bonds office?"

"I was just leaving."

"I was wondering if you would stop at Giovichinni’s for me on your way home. Your father is out in the taxi all day, and my car won't start. I think I need a new battery. I want a half-pound of liverwurst, a half-pound of ham, a half-pound of olive loaf, and a half-pound of turkey. Then you can get me some Swiss cheese and some good rye. And a rump roast. And get an Entenmann's. Your grandmother likes the raspberry coffee cake."

"Sure," I said. "I'm on my way."

The bail bonds office sits with its back to downtown Trenton and its front to a small ethnic neighborhood known as the Burg. I was born and raised in the Burg, and while I now live outside Burg limits, I'm still tethered to it by family and history. Once a Burgerbit, always a Burgerbit. Giovichinni's is a small family-owned deli a short distance down on Hamilton, and it's the Burg deli of choice. It's also a hotbed of gossip, and I was certain news of my rampage was circulating through every corner of the Burg, including Giovichinni's.

I was currently driving a burgundy Crown Vic that used to be a cop car. I'd needed a car fast, and this was the only car I could afford at Crazy Iggy’s Used Car Emporium. I promised myself the Vic was temporary, put it in gear, and motored to Giovichinni's.

I hurried through the store, head down, all business, hoping no one would mention Dickie. I walked away from the butcher unscathed, rushed past Mrs. Landau and Mrs. Ruiz without saying hello, and 1 stood in line at the checkout behind Mrs. Martinelli. Thank goodness, she didn’t speak English. I looked past Mrs. Martinelli and