Explosive Eighteen (Stephanie Plum 18)

“Get in fast, before he takes off without you,” I said to Lula.

“He wouldn’t do that,” Lula said. “He’s my big honey.”

The big honey rammed himself behind the wheel and took off.

“Hey!” Lula said. “Wait for me.”

“Get in the truck,” I told her. “I’ll catch him.”

Three blocks later, Buggy was stopped in traffic. Lula jumped out, ran to the Firebird, wrenched the passenger-side door open, and got in. Mission accomplished, as far as I was concerned.

I stopped at the supermarket and got a couple bags of groceries. Bread, milk, juice, peanut butter, olives, bag of chips, a frozen pizza, Vienna Fingers cookies, a bucket of assorted fried chicken parts, strawberry Pop-Tarts. I made one more stop and got a six-pack of beer and a bottle of red wine. I was going to have a feast tonight. I was going to have fried chicken, beer, and Vienna Fingers. Tomorrow, I’d have pizza and wine. No men. No Joyce. No Apple Dumpling. Just me and Rex and the TV.

I lugged the bags up to my apartment, set them on the kitchen counter, and a chill ran down my spine. The television was on. I grabbed the Glock and peeked into the living room. It was Joyce. “What the heck?”

“That was really shitty,” Joyce said. “You dumped me out in the hall. If I had any other place to go, I’d be there.”

“How did you get back into my apartment?”

“I had to climb up the stupid fire escape again. It’s getting old.” She came into the kitchen and looked at the food I was unpacking. “Where’s my chicken salad and wine?”

“I didn’t get chicken salad. I didn’t think you’d be here. But here’s the good news. The charges have been dropped against you.”

“Big deal. The charges were bogus. I was never worried about the charges.”

“What are you worried about?”

“There’s nothing green here,” Joyce said.

“Olives.”

“Olives are a fruit. Look at this mess. You haven’t got a single vegetable.”

“There’s tomato sauce on the pizza.”

“Another fruit.”

As if my life wasn’t enough in the toilet, Joyce Barnhardt was now smarter and obviously ate better than me.

“You didn’t answer my question,” I said. “What are you worried about?”

Joyce selected a mystery piece from the fried chicken bucket. “You ever hear of the Pink Panthers?”

“The movies?”

“No, the organization. Interpol has assigned the name Pink Panthers to an international jewel thief network. Interpol took the name from the movies.”

“The movies are great.”

“Focus,” Joyce said. “We’re talking about the network. Frank Korda was part of the network. I know it’s hard to believe that there’s this nebbish guy in Trenton associated with the Pink Panthers. I mean, the Pink Panthers are big. They’re HUGE! They stole a $27 million diamond necklace one time from a store in Tokyo. Anyway, somehow Korda connected with these guys.”

“What’s the advantage?”

“According to Korda, the Panthers have the ability to fence the stolen jewelry. Korda said it’s not hard to steal jewelry, but it’s risky to try to sell it.”

“Korda was stealing jewelry?”

“Big-time. He’d get the real thing into his store, sell it at a profit, and send the customer home with a knockoff. Plus, he’d shop around and lift and replace.”