Explosive Eighteen

“I’ll do it if you move out today,” I said.

  “I’ll move out when you find the chest.”

  I was back to the same three options. It was Sunday and highly unlikely I could get bars instantly installed on my windows. Though killing Joyce was by far the most appealing option, I knew I wasn’t capable of carrying it out. So I was stuck with getting the chest.

  I finished my Pop-Tart and coffee, took a shower, got dressed, and left the apartment to Joyce. I drove out of the building’s parking lot and passed the Town Car parked on a side street. Lancer fell in line behind me and followed me to Morelli’s house.

  I parked and had a moment of craziness, wondering if I should call before going to the door. What if Marianne Mikulski’s in there? What if I interrupt something I don’t want to know about?

  I was sitting there debating what to do next when Morelli called on my cell phone.

  “Are you just going to hang there or are you coming in?” he asked.

  “Are you alone?”

  “Does Bob count?”

  I disconnected and went to the door. Bob came thundering across the living room and threw himself at me, almost knocking me over. I scratched his neck and made dog sounds at him.

  “Here’s my boy,” I said. “Here’s my big boy. Is he good? Has he been a good boy?” Bob was a big, shaggy red dog that on a decent hair day might resemble a golden retriever.

  “You have an escort,” Morelli said, looking out at the Lincoln.

  “Lancer and Slasher. The fake FBI guys. They’re low on the threat level.”

  “Who’s high?”

  “Razzle Dazzle. The guy in the parking garage. And Marianne Mikulski.”

  “Why is Marianne a threat?”

  “Rumor has it you’ve been seen with her.”

  “So?”

  Morelli was barefoot, wearing faded jeans and a navy T-shirt. His hair was still damp from a shower, and he smelled like fresh-baked cinnamon rolls. I was torn between wanting to rip his clothes off and wanting to lick his neck. Fortunately, I didn’t have to make a choice since I was off men.

  “Just checking,” I said.

  Morelli headed for the kitchen. “Marianne is a neighbor. She lives two doors down, and she brings her dog over to play with Bob. Who’s spreading rumors?”

  “Joyce Barnhardt.”

  Morelli poured out two mugs of coffee and handed one to me. “My mother dropped cinnamon rolls off this morning when she was on her way to church with my grandmother. They both asked about you. Conjecture out there is that I punched you in the nose.”

  I took a roll and leaned against the counter. “I got that one, too. People seem genuinely disappointed when I deny it.”

  “It’s nice to have you back in my kitchen, and I hate to ruin the moment, but I wouldn’t mind knowing when you had a chance to gossip with Joyce.”

  “She’s squatting in my apartment. I can’t get rid of her.”

  Morelli choked on his coffee. He wiped coffee off his chin with the back of his hand.

  “You want to run that by me again?”

  “Have you heard of the Pink Panthers?”

  “Are you talking about the movies or the network of jewel thieves?”

  “Jewel thieves. Joyce thinks they’re after her.”

  “Keep going,” Morelli said.

  “According to Joyce, Frank Korda was a Pink Panther. She was playing footsie with Korda, and she was helping him plan a big New York job with the Panthers. And then something went wrong, and the Panthers tried to kill them, but Joyce managed to escape.”

  “And she’s living with you, why?”

  “She doesn’t seem to have any money, and she’s afraid to go back to her condo.”

  “Because the Panthers still want to kill her?”

  “That’s the fear. And there’s a little chest she needs to find.”

  “And she wants you to find it for her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let’s start at the beginning,” Morelli said. “Korda wasn’t a Pink Panther. In fact, there’s no actual organization called the Pink Panthers. Interpol assigned that name to cover a group of diamond thieves loosely associated with one another. For the most part, they’re hardened criminals from what was once part of Yugoslavia and is now Montenegro.”

  I finished my cinnamon roll and sipped my coffee. I wasn’t completely shocked to hear this. It had all seemed pretty far-fetched.

  “Moving on,” Morelli said. “We collected enough forensic evidence from Frank Korda and the crushed Mercedes to build a case. I can’t tell you more than that because we’re still waiting on some of the tests, but I can guarantee you the killer wasn’t from Montenegro.”

  “Joyce?”

  “Unlikely, but she’s not ruled out.”

  “I know she’s a primo liar, but she seemed to believe the Pink Panther thing.”

  “Maybe Korda was conning her,” Morelli said.

  “For what reason?”

  Morelli shrugged. “Not for sex. You could buy Joyce with beads from the Dollar Store.”

  I didn’t want to get into the treasure chest thing. In light of the information Morelli just gave me, the treasure chest story made no sense. Still, on the very slim chance I would go after the chest and break into the Korda home, I didn’t want to involve Morelli in the crime. Mostly because I was afraid he’d choose the law over me and turn me in.

  Morelli ran a finger along the neckline of my T-shirt. “Speaking of sex, I have some beads upstairs, if you’re interested.”

  “Are you equating me with Joyce?”

  “No. I wouldn’t offer my beads to Joyce.”

  “It’s an attractive offer, but I’m off men.”

  “All men?” Morelli asked.

  “Yes.”

  “As long as it’s all men, I guess I can deal. Let me know when the policy changes.”

  I hiked my bag onto my shoulder. “Places to go. Things to do.”

  Morelli grabbed me and dragged me up against him. He kissed me with enough tongue to make me reconsider the beads, and I felt the heat curl through my stomach.

  “Mmmmm,” I said.

  “Too bad you can’t stay. I could sweeten the bead deal by throwing in another cinnamon roll.”

  “It was a really great cinnamon roll.”

  An hour later, I was back at Morelli’s front door. “I can’t believe I did that,” I said to Morelli.

  “Does this count as our make-up sex? Or do we still have make-up sex coming to us?”

  “I was supposed to be off men. And I didn’t get any beads.”

  “Yeah, I lied about the beads, but you can have another cinnamon roll if you want.”

  “I’ll take a rain check,” I told him.

  “Do you need help getting Joyce out of your apartment? I could physically remove her.”

  “I’ve done that. She comes back in through the fire escape.”

  “I can put better locks on your windows. I can install an alarm. I can arrange to have security screening or bars.”

  “It might come to that, but for now I’m going home to talk to her.”

  I had the door open, and I looked across the street at the Lincoln.

  “Do you want me to get rid of them?” Morelli asked.

  “No. I’m sort of getting used to them following me around. I think they’re mostly harmless.”

  Morelli kissed me on the forehead. “You know where to find me.”

  “More or less.”

  • • •

  I climbed into the truck, and before going back to Joyce, I decided to have one last go at Lahonka. I parked in front of her apartment and stared at the empty yard. No toys. I walked to the door and knocked, and the door swung open on jerry-rigged hinges. The apartment was empty. No furniture. No big-screen television. No Lahonka.

  Lancer and Slasher had parked behind me. They were sitting quietly, taking it all in. I knocked on the door to the apartment next to Lahonka, and an older man answered.

  “
I’m looking for Lahonka,” I told him.

  “She’s gone. She took off early this morning. Backed a truck up to her door, loaded everything into it, and took off.”

  “Do you know where she went?”

  “South is all she said. She has a sister in New Orleans and one in Tampa, Florida. She might have gone to one of them.”

  I thanked him and returned to my truck. Once someone flees the area, the file gets moved to the back burner for me. If the bond is high enough, Connie takes over the search electronically. If she locates the skip, she can use an out-of-state bounty hunter, or she can send Vinnie or Ranger. Lahonka’s bond was marginal.

  I cut across town with the Lincoln half a car length behind me. I stopped at Tasty Pastry Bakery on Hamilton and got a bag of croissants for Joyce. I would have gotten something for Lancer and Slasher, but I’d already treated them to a pizza, and it wasn’t like I was rolling in money. They followed me to the edge of my apartment building lot and parked on the side street. I backed up until I was parallel with them, and I powered my window down.

  “What’s the plan?” I asked Slasher.

  “We’re following you,” Slasher said. “We’re waiting for you to lead us to the photo, and then we’re gonna pounce.”

  “How do you know the photo isn’t in my apartment?”

  “You said you didn’t have it.”

  “You believed me?”

  Slasher got some color in his cheeks. “Maybe.”

  I powered my window up and drove into my lot. I didn’t see Raz lurking anywhere. Even though he liked pain, I expected getting shot had slowed him down a tad.

  Joyce was watching cartoons when I let myself into my apartment. I gave her the bag of croissants and shut the television off.

  “News flash,” I said. “I talked to Morelli. Frank Korda wasn’t a Pink Panther. The Panthers are diamond thieves operating in Europe, and it’s not even a real organization.”

  “Maybe he belonged to a different Pink Panthers,” Joyce said. “Who’s to say there’s only one?”

  I had no way to argue that. “It doesn’t matter,” I told her. “You have to go. You can’t live here anymore. I don’t care if someone’s trying to kill you. If you stay here any longer, I’m going to kill you.”

  Joyce stood with her bag of croissants. “I can’t take it anymore, either. I’d rather be dead than spend any more time in your bathroom. And your television sucks. I’ll make a deal. I’ll leave, but you have to promise to look for the chest tomorrow.”

  “No way.”

  “Promise, or I won’t go. If you can put up with that bathroom and this television, I can, too.”

  Jeez Louise. “I’ll make an effort,” I said, “but I can’t promise.”

  Five minutes later, Joyce and the croissants were out the door, almost out of my life. I carted Rex and his cage back into the kitchen and put him on the counter. I gave him fresh water and a chunk of Pop-Tart, and I ate the rest. I pulled my laptop out from under the mattress, put it on my dining room table, and plugged it in. I was making progress.

  TWENTY

  FRANK KORDA AND HIS WIFE, Pat, lived in a white colonial house with black shutters, a mahogany front door, and a two-car garage. It was at the end of a cul-de-sac in a middle-class residential neighborhood in Hamilton Township. Korda’s memorial service was scheduled for nine in the morning, burial was to follow, and friends and relatives were invited back to the house for refreshments. I’d driven past the house at sunrise to check it out. Everything had been quiet. No lights on. The widow wasn’t an early riser.

  I wasn’t an early riser, either, but I was on a mission today. I wanted to keep Joyce out of my apartment, and I had developed a curiosity about the chest. I wanted to see the contents.

  I’d called Lula and told her I needed her to stand watch for me. We were to meet at the coffee shop at eight-thirty. I suggested she dress funeral appropriate, so we didn’t look out of place should neighbors see us sneaking around. I had no idea how I was going to get into the house. Break a back window maybe. If a security alarm went off, I was out of there in a flash, and Joyce would have to live without the chest.

  I was wearing my standard black funeral suit and heels, carrying a big slouchy black leather bag that would easily contain a small pirate chest.

  I parked in front of the coffee shop, and Lula’s Firebird pulled in behind me. Lula got out and walked over.

  “I thought you might want to take my Firebird,” she said. “It might blend in better than your truck.”

  I looked back at her car. “I don’t know. It’s a toss-up. The Firebird’s really red.”

  “Yeah, but my sweetie don’t fit inside your truck, and he gonna look obvious sittin’ in the back in his suit.”

  “Your sweetie?”

  “I thought we might need muscle, so I brought him along. I got him dressed up in a suit and everything. And I met his mama last night. She didn’t say much, but I think she liked me.”

  “He can’t come,” I said to Lula. “We’re breaking into a house. It’s illegal.”

  “That’s okay. He does illegal shit all the time.”

  “That’s not the problem. I don’t want a witness.”

  “I see what you’re saying, but I don’t know how we’ll get him out of my car.”

  “Leave him in your car. We’ll take my truck. Tell him we’ll come back for him in an hour.”

  Lula trotted to the Firebird, had a short conversation with Buggy, trotted back to my truck, and got in.

  “It’s all set,” she said.

  I pulled into traffic and Buggy followed.

  “Hunh, he must have misunderstood,” Lula said, looking in the side mirror.

  I wove around a few streets, but Buggy stayed close on my bumper.

  “I’m losing time trying to get rid of him,” I said to Lula. “Call him on his cell phone and tell him to go away.”

  “He don’t have a cell phone,” Lula said. “His mama won’t give him money for one. And he don’t make enough stealin’ purses to get one on his own. People got a misconception about purse snatchers. It’s a real hard way to make a living.”

  “Then why doesn’t he get a job?”

  “I guess you gotta do what you love,” Lula said. “He’s a man who follows his heart.”

  I turned onto Korda’s street and the black mortuary limo glided past me going in the opposite direction. It was carrying Pat Korda to the memorial service, and that meant her house might be empty. I parked and sat watching the house for a few minutes. There were no other cars parked outside, and I didn’t see signs of activity. I’d stopped at Giovichinni’s and picked up a noodle casserole to use as cover. My story, if I needed one, was that I had misunderstood the time and arrived at the wake early.

  I carried the casserole to the door and rang the bell. No answer. I listened carefully for sounds inside the house. The house was silent.

  Lula and Buggy were close behind me. Lancer and Slasher were parked behind the Firebird. Lula was wearing a black spandex miniskirt, a black silky spandex wrap shirt, and a fake leopard jacket that had been designed for a much smaller woman. She was in black four-inch spike-heeled shoes, and her hair was sunflower yellow for the occasion. Buggy looked like Shamu in a Russian-made secondhand suit.

  “You want my sweetie to kick the door in now?” Lula asked.

  “No!”

  “How about we go around back and break a window?”

  “No. I don’t want to see any property damage.”

  “Well then, how we supposed to get in?” Lula asked.

  “I’m going in,” Buggy said, pushing me aside. “I’m tired of waiting.”

  And he opened the door. It hadn’t been locked.

  I tiptoed in and looked around. “They have the buffet set out,” I said to Lula. “DO NOT let Buggy eat anything.”

  “You hear that, Sweetums?” Lula said to Buggy. “We aren’t going to eat any of the funeral food. When we’re done here, I’ll take you out
for breakfast.”

  “I like breakfast,” Buggy said.

  I found the kitchen and set my casserole on the counter. There were several other casseroles there, plus bags of bakery rolls, and a couple coffee cakes. A professional coffee urn was ready to go and a full bar was set up next to the urn. I did a fast scan of the kitchen, moved through the dining room, and into the living room.

  “What are we looking for?” Lula followed.

  “A little chest. A pirate chest.”

  “You mean like that chest on the fireplace mantel?” she asked.

  Holy cow, it was the chest. It was exactly as Joyce had described it.

  Lula took the chest off the mantel and examined it. “What’s so special about this chest? What’s in it?” She turned it upside down and looked at the bottom. “It says ‘Miss Kitty R.I.P.’ ”

  The top to the chest dropped open, and ashes flew out at Lula and scattered across the living-room rug.

  “What the heck?” Lula said.

  I clapped my hand over my mouth. I wasn’t sure if I was going to laugh, gag, or shriek. “I think Miss Kitty was cremated, and those are her ashes.”

  Lula stared down at herself. “Are you shitting me? I’m allergic to cat. I feel my throat closing up. I can’t breathe. I’m makin’ snot. Somebody do something! Call 911!”

  She ran into the kitchen, grabbed the DustBuster off the wall by the pantry, and sucked the ash off herself.

  “Freakin’ cats,” she said.

  So much for Miss Kitty’s final resting place.

  Lula felt her face. “Do I got hives?”

  “No, you haven’t got hives,” I said. “You can’t be allergic to cat ashes. They’re sterile. There’s no dander.”

  “I feel like I have hives. I’m pretty sure I feel some popping out.”

  “It’s all in your head,” I told her.

  “I’m very impressionable,” Lula said. “My family’s prone to hysteria.”

  I examined the chest, looking for a false bottom or secret message. I didn’t find either, so I carefully placed the chest back on the mantel.

  “Do I get breakfast now?” Buggy asked.

  “I want to make a fast run through the house to make sure there aren’t any more chests,” I told Lula. “Keep your eyes open for visitors, and maybe you can DustBuster up what’s left of Miss Kitty.”