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

question. I didn’t know the answer. “She’s just Lula,” I said. “Okay, yeah, I guess she’s my muscle.”
    Brenda dropped her brush and comb into a drawer. “Sowhat did you come here for? You want a haircut? I could do a lot better than what you got. You got no style.”
    “It’s a ponytail.”
    “Yeah, but it’s boring. You should add a piece. We got a bunch on the wall. Or you could put some color in it. Like gold streaks. Pull some of the hair out and rat it. You know, mess it up like mine. You see how much better my hair looks?”
    I glanced at her hair and bit my lip. She looked like an exploded canary. “Maybe next time,” I said. “I want to know about the photograph. Why does everyone want it?”
    “I told you why I want it. Poor dead Ritchy wanted me to have it.” She stiffened a little. “Wait a minute. What do you mean
everyone
?”
    “You. And everyone.”
    “There’s others?” she asked.
    “You didn’t know?”
    Brenda’s lips curled back and her eyes got squinty. “That sonovabitch. He’s trying to cut me out. I should have guessed.”
    “Who?” I asked her. “Who’s the sonovabitch?”
    “Boy, this really steams me.”
    “Who? Who?”
    “Never mind
who
. And you better not be dealing with him. He’s a snake in the grass. And he hasn’t got any money, either. Don’t believe him if he tells you he’s got money.”
    “Give me a clue. What does he look like? Old, young, fat?”
    “I can’t chat anymore,” Brenda said. “I got a client.”
    “Well?” Lula said when I left the shop. “How’d that go?”
    “It didn’t go anywhere.”
    “You must have learned something.”
    “Nope,” I said. “Nothing useful.” I felt my ponytail. “Do you think my hair is boring?”
    “Compared to what? It’s not as good as my hair, for instance. But it’s better than lots of other white folks’ hair.”
    We climbed into the truck, and I stuck the key in the ignition.
    “I think we should take a look at Brenda’s apartment,” I said to Lula. “Connie has it in West Windsor.”
    Why not? I thought. If for no reason other than grim curiosity.
    Lula tapped the address into her cell phone GPS. “I got it. It’s not all that far from here.”
    I drove one exit on Route 1, turned off, and followed Lula’s directions.
    “She’s renting, but not an apartment,” Lula said. “Looks to me like she’s renting a house.”
    We were winding our way through a neighborhood of small, single-story homes in varying stages of disrepair. Several were empty with FOR SALE signs planted in their small front yards. Most had curtains hanging in windows. Many had swing sets in the backyards.
    I found Brenda’s house and sat at idle, taking it in. Driveway leading to single-car attached garage. The house had beenpainted pale green with bright yellow trim. The yard was bare but neat.
    “Let’s take a look,” Lula said.
    “We can’t just walk around and look in windows. There are cars parked in some of the driveways. Probably, there are people at home in some of the houses. We’ll be noticed.”
    “Yeah, but we do that all the time,” Lula said.
    “We do it when we’re looking for a felon and they’ve waived their rights. Brenda isn’t a felon.”
    I returned to the highway, and Berger called.
    “We’d like you to work with an artist again,” he said.
    “I don’t think that’s going to accomplish anything,” I told him. “I can barely remember the photograph. And now I’ve got Tom Cruise stuck in my head.”
    “Just try, okay? There’s a lot riding on this … like my pension.”
    If I hadn’t been doing eighty, I would have banged my head against the steering wheel. “When do you want me to come in?”
    “Now.”

FOURTEEN
     
    I DROPPED LULA at the office and swung around into town. It was midday and the roads were clogged with cars. Lots were filled, street parking was nonexistent, and after ten minutes of circling several blocks, I gave up and drove into the FBI building’s underground garage. It was public parking, but there was a designated FBI area.
    I took the elevator to the sixth floor and went directly to the conference room. Berger, Gooley, and the artist were already there.
    “We thought maybe it was the last artist who was thinking about Tom Cruise,” Berger said. “So we’re starting over with Fred.”
    I took a seat and nodded at Fred. “Good luck.”
    Fred managed a tight smile that was a shade away from being a grimace. An hour