Explosive Eighteen: A Stephanie Plum Novel (Stephanie Plum Novels)

marked the area of destruction. Beyond the cones lay the smoldering, blackened cadaver of twisted metal and stinking charred upholstery that used to be the bonds bus. I parked across the street, behind Vinnie’s Cadillac, Lula’s Firebird, and Connie’s Hyundai. DeAngelo’s Mercedes was noticeably missing. Vinnie, Lula, and Connie were on the sidewalk, eyes glazed, aimlessly staring at the mess.
    “I’m thinkin’ lightning,” Lula said. “This here looks like a natural disaster. I’m thinkin’ the lightning came in through the fan in the crapper and snaked around inside until it found the microwave, and then
BANG
.”
    “There was no lightning last night,” Connie said. “It hasn’t rained in days.”
    “Well then, my next theory is terrorist,” Lula said. “A suicide bomber.”
    “Why would a suicide bomber blow up the bonds bus?” Connie asked.
    “They don’t need a reason,” Lula said. “They just be walkingaround with bombs stuck up their butt, and when they feel like pushin’ the button—
KABOOM
—there’s terrorist guts everywhere. Maybe one of them walked by the bus and smelled doughnuts, so he went in, ate a doughnut, and blew himself up.”
    I was pretty sure it wasn’t a terrorist who destroyed the bus. I was pretty sure it was DeAngelo, and I knew Connie was thinking the same thing. Neither of us was saying anything because we didn’t want to set Vinnie off on a screaming rampage. Although it seemed unlikely, as he was currently one shade from comatose.
    “Terrorist,” Vinnie said. “Yeah, that makes sense.”
    “Lucille must have fed him a Valium smoothie this morning,” I said to Connie.
    Connie looked over at Vinnie. “He’s been here since three this morning. He’s as fried as the bus.”
    “Can we still operate?” I asked her.
    “Yes. We lost the bus but not much else. I’ve been working off my laptop, and it travels with me. We lost a lot of files in the fire that took out the original office, but we didn’t lose anything with
this
fire. It’s all electronic now.”
    I glanced at Lula. She was dressed in black. Black faux lizard-skin cowboy boots, black jeans that looked like they were painted on her, black tank top with an acre of boob squishing out. Pink hair.
    My curiosity was raised. “What’s with the black?” I wanted to know. “You never wear all black.”
    “I told you yesterday, I’m gettin’ serious. I’m not takin’ this job lightly no more. I’m channeling my inner Ranger, and I’m wearing black like him. I figure he’s on to something with the black deal.”
    “He wears black so he doesn’t have to match socks in the morning.”
    “See, that’s what I’m sayin’. It’s about being efficient. Get the job done.
Wham
. That’s gonna be my new motto.
Wham
. Now that I’m in black, I’m thinking I could catch Joyce Barnhardt. No problemo.”
    “It might not be that easy,” I said. “There’s a rumor going around that Barnhardt’s been compacted.”
    “Darn,” Lula said. “That would take all the fun out of capturing her.”
    “I heard the same rumor,” Connie said.
    “Too bad,” Lula said. “I was ready to be all over Barnhardt. I was ready to
wham
her.”
    “I need to talk to a couple guys downtown this morning,” I said to Lula. “It shouldn’t take long. I’ll pick you up when I’m done, and we’ll go to the junkyard.”
    “Being that we don’t have a bonds bus no more, I’ll be at the coffee shop,” Lula said. “I’m thinking about having one of them cinnamon rolls. What would Ranger eat?”
    “He’d have half a bagel with a small amount of cream cheese and some smoked salmon.”
    Lula shook her head. “That man don’t know much about eating.”

SIX
     
    I LEFT THE FIRE SCENE, drove down Hamilton, and spotted the tail when I turned onto Broad. Black Lincoln two cars back. Most likely they were with me when I left my apartment, and I hadn’t been paying attention. The FBI had offices in a building in the center of the city. There was underground parking, but I chose not to use it. Even when security cameras were in play, I felt vulnerable in a parking garage. I found on-street parking half a block away, locked up, and walked to the FBI building. I waved at the Lincoln as it rolled past, but no one waved back or beeped the horn. Guess Lancer and Slasher were busy thinking up a new cover, since FBI was obviously out.
    Berger’s office was on the sixth floor. He had a small cubby with a desk and