Explosive Eighteen (Stephanie Plum 18)

“Is one of you Stephanie Plum?” she asked.

I raised my hand.

“I’m Brenda Schwartz, Ritchy’s fiancée. I just talked to you on the phone. Could we go outside?”

She was about 5'5? and excessively curvy. She had a lot of overprocessed blond hair piled on top of her head in a messy upsweep. Her makeup was close to drag queen. She was wearing platform heels, a tight black skirt, and a red scoop-neck sweater that showed a lot of boob enhanced with spray-on tan. Hard to tell exactly what was under the makeup, but I was guessing she was in her forties.

I followed her out, and she immediately lit up. She sucked the smoke in all the way down to her toes and blew it out her nose.

“This cigarette tastes like ass,” she said.

I wasn’t sure what ass tasted like, but she looked like she would know, so I was willing to take her word for it.

She took another hit. “I’m trying to get off menthol, and it’s a real bitch. I swear, I’m just inches away from trying one o

f those electronic things.”

“You wanted to see me about Richard Crick?”

“Yeah. Poor Ritchy. It’s so sad.” She squinted at me through the smoke haze. “The worst part is he was bringing me a picture. He said it was a special present for me, but they didn’t find it when they dug him out of the garbage can. So I was wondering if you knew anything about it, because it would be real sentimental for me. It would help with the pain of losing Ritchy.”

“What kind of picture are we talking about?”

“A picture of a person.”

“Man or woman?”

“This is sort of embarrassing, but poor Ritchy didn’t say.”

“And it’s important, why?”

“Because Ritchy took the photo. And it was, like, his last wish that I have it. And now he’s dead.” She sniffed and contorted her face like she might cry. “I just want something to remember Ritchy. Something he did for me, you know?”

“Ritchy must have been a sweet guy.”

“Yeah, and he liked photography. He was always taking pictures.”

“I’d love to help you out,” I said, “but I don’t have the photograph.”

“Maybe you have it stuffed somewhere, and you don’t even know it. Like, have you emptied all your suitcases and bags?”

“Yes. I don’t have it.”

“Okay, here’s the thing. Ritchy called me from LAX, and he said he might have misplaced the photo, and he was sitting next to you, and he was pretty sure he might have accidentally put it in your bag.”

“Why didn’t Ritchy just get back on the plane?”

“He wasn’t feeling good. And then he was … you know, dead.”

“Jeez.”

“Shit happens,” Brenda said. “So where’s the photograph?”

“Don’t know. Don’t have it.”

Her lips compressed. “You want money, right? How much?”

“I don’t want money. I don’t have the stupid photograph.”