Explosive Eighteen (Stephanie Plum 18)

He turned and limped into the lot.

“Hey,” I said. “I’m not done. Stop or I’ll shoot.”

“Crazy American bitch,” he said. “Shoot me. You think I care? Shoot me again. I live for pain.”

He dragged himself into a silver Sentra and drove away.

Mr. Daly stuck his head out of his second-floor window. “What was that? Did I hear a gunshot?”

“I didn’t hear anything,” I said, looking up at Mr. Daly, dropping my gun into my bag. “Must have been someone’s t-t-television.”

I was hyperventilating and my hands were shaking when I got to my apartment, and I had to two-fist the key to unlock my door. I got inside, did some deep breathing, and went straight to the kitchen for the wine. Half a bottle left. Good enough. I poured some into a water glass and took it into the living room, where Joyce was waiting.

“The chest wasn’t in the store,” I said to her. “It wasn’t on the shelf. It wasn’t anywhere.”

“That’s impossible. It was always on the shelf.”

“When was the last time you saw it?”

“The day I was arrested. Frank said we were out of the Pink Panther business, and he wanted his key. And I told him I didn’t have it on me, not to mention he could kiss the key good-bye. I remember looking up at the chest when I said it. That was the last I was in the store. I didn’t go into the store when I came back later in the day.”

“I bet the Pink Panthers broke into the store and took the chest after they dropped you off at the junkyard.”

“That would be a real bitch,” Joyce said. “I needed that chest to bargain. At least I have the key. There are numbers on the key that go with the chest. Problem is, I don’t know how to get in touch with the Panthers without the chest.”

I looked at my wineglass. It was empty. “You could put the key up on Craigslist and see if you get any takers. And did you look to see if there’s a Pink Panthers Facebook page? Everyone has a Facebook page. Not me, of course, but everyone else.”

“Somehow I don’t think the Pink Panthers are going to have a Facebook page.”

“Did anyone come looking for me tonight?”

“Yeah, some Russian Gypsy who looked like he got run over by a front loader. I didn’t catch his name, but he was limping. He didn’t impress me as much of a good time, so I didn’t invite him in. Did he catch up with you?”

“Yeah. He was waiting downstairs.”

“And?”

“I shot him, and he left.”

“Nice. I was thinking we should put the frozen pizza in the oven. Is there any more wine?”

NINETEEN

ORDINARILY, I WAKE UP Sunday morning feeling glorious. I apologize to God for not attending Mass, and then I roll over and go back to sleep. This morning, I woke up worrying about the guy I’d shot. It hadn’t looked like a life-threatening wound, but he still would have to get the bullet dug out and make sure it didn’t get infected. The good news was he’d probably already gotten a tetanus shot from when I knifed him. And truth is, I’d be much better off if the infection killed him. He wasn’t a nice man.

Thoughts of Raz got pushed aside when I remembered Joyce Barnhardt was in my living room. I had to find a way to get her out, once and for all, the sooner the better. I pulled on sweatpants and a T-shirt and trudged into the kitchen. Joyce was already there, searching the cabinets, undoubtedly looking for smoked salmon and caviar and croissants.

“You went shopping, but I can’t find any food,” she said.

“Au contraire, I got all my favorite staples, plus my Sunday morning special treat. Strawberry Pop-Tarts.”

I got the coffee brewing, and I took a Pop-Tart out of the box.

“I’ve been thinking,?

?? I said to Joyce. “You need to leave. You should go home. I’m sure the Pink Panthers have moved on to bigger and better projects. And besides, you have a gun, right? If they get irritating, just shoot them.”

“These guys are professionals,” Joyce said. “It’s not like they’re Burg stumblebums. And by the way, you look like crap. What have you got on?”