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

beer.”
    “Just as well,” Morelli said, folding a piece and biting in. “There’s a chance I’ll have to go back to work tonight.”
    “You’re always working.”
    “If people would stop shooting, stabbing, and compacting each other, my hours would cut back.”
    “Speaking of compacting …”
    “No other bodies at the junkyard. Connie’s relatives makesure there’s a fast turnover of cars. Smash ’em, and ship ’em out.”
    “There’s a rumor that Joyce was doing the jeweler.”
    “Joyce did everyone.”
    “Did Joyce ever do you?” I asked Morelli.
    “No,” he said. “She’s scary. Just so you know, you aren’t the only one looking for her. She’s wanted for questioning regarding the Korda murder.”
    “Any leads?”
    “No. How about you?”
    “Nothing.”
    Morelli took a second piece of pizza, and the doorbell rang. He moved to the door and looked out the peephole.
    “It’s a woman,” Morelli said. “She’s holding a cake box.”
    I sidled up next to him and looked out. It was Brenda Schwartz.
    “You remember the guy who got killed and stuffed into a garbage can at LAX?”
    “Richard Crick.”
    “Yeah. And you know about the photograph?”
    “Un-hunh.”
    “And you know how there are fake FBI guys and real FBI guys and Razzle Dazzle, who all want the photograph?”
    Morelli didn’t say anything, but the line of his mouth tightened ever so slightly.
    “Well, this is Brenda Schwartz,” I said. “She says she’s Crick’s fiancée, and she’s another photograph hunter.”
    “So she brought you a cake?”
    “Possibly. There could be a bomb in the box. She seems a little unstable.”
    “Anything else I should know?” Morelli asked.
    “She carries a gun, but it’s not very big.”
    “This is why I have acid reflux,” Morelli said. And he opened the door.
    “Oh cripes,” Brenda said, looking at Morelli. “Do I have the wrong apartment? I was looking for Stephanie Plum.”
    I peeked around Morelli. “You have the right apartment. This is my boyfriend.”
    “Maybe,” Morelli said. “Maybe not.”
    “I figured we got off on the wrong foot earlier,” Brenda said to me. “What with threatening to shoot you and everything. Anyhoo, I got you a cake. I thought we could have a girl-to-girl over it.”
    “That’s nice of you, but I don’t have the photograph,” I told her.
    “Yeah, but you know where it is.”
    “No, I don’t know where it is.”
    She pinched her lips together for a second. “Then why do certain people think you got the photograph?”
    “Misinformation,” I said. “Probably originating from your fiancé.”
    “Richard Crick didn’t give out misinformation,” she said. “He was a
doctor
. May he rest in peace.”
    “Why do you want the photograph?” Morelli asked her.
    “None of your beeswax,” she said. “I just do. It’s sentimental. I was his fiancée.”
    “You’re not wearing an engagement ring,” Morelli said.
    “Honestly,” Brenda said, rolling her eyes. “He’s dead. You don’t expect me to pine away forever, do you?” She looked back at me. “So are you going to give me the photograph, or what?”
    I felt a vein start to throb in my temple. “I
don’t
have the photograph.”
    “Fine. Have it your way,” Brenda said. “But I’m giving you warning. I’m going to get that photograph. And you’re not getting any of this cake, either.” And she turned and sashayed down the hall to the elevator.
    Morelli and I retreated into my apartment and closed and locked the door.
    “Tell me the truth,” he said. “Do you have the photograph?”
    I smacked the heel of my hand against my forehead so hard I almost knocked myself out. “
Unh
!”
    “Does that mean
no
or
yes
?” Morelli asked.
    “It means NO! No, no, no, no, no.”
    “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I’m not exactly in the loop here.”
    “You’re too busy to be in the loop.”
    “No one could stay in the loop with you. You’re a disaster magnet. You suck it in. I used to think it was because of your job. But that’s too simple an explanation. You can’t even go on vacation without attracting killers. Not just one killer, either.You have a whole gaggle of killers after you. Is Berger any help with this?”
    “They’ve had budget cuts.”
    He went to my brown bear cookie jar, removed the lid, and took my gun out.
    “It’s not loaded,” he said.
    “You don’t really want me going around with a loaded gun, do you?”
    He returned the