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

of his soup can, looking like he wanted a treat, so I got the box of crackers from the cupboard and shared one with him.
    Someone rapped on my front door, and I opened the door a crack, leaving the security chain attached. Two men dressed in bureaucrat-level gray suits peeked in at me. Their dress shirts were long past crisp. Their striped ties were loosened at the neck. Their hair was receding. They looked to be late forties. One was around five foot ten. The other was in the five-foot-seven range. I suspected they liked their double bacon cheeseburgers.
    “FBI,” the big guy said, flashing me an ID, then returning it to his pocket. “Can we come in?”
    “No,” I told him.
    “But we’re the FBI.”
    “Maybe,” I said to the big guy. “Maybe not. I didn’t catch your name.”
    “Lance Lancer.” He gestured at his partner. “This is agent Sly Slasher.”
    “Lance Lancer and Sly Slasher? Are you kidding me? Those can’t be real names.”
    “It’s right here on our badges,” Lancer said. “We’re looking for an envelope you might have inadvertently picked up.”
    “What kind of envelope?”
    “A large yellow envelope. It contained a photograph of a man we’re looking for in conjunction with a murder.”
    “Wouldn’t that be a job for the local police?”
    “It was an international murder. And there was a kidnapping involved. Do you have the envelope?”
    “No.” And that was the truth. I suspected they were looking for the envelope I’d thrown away at my parents’ house.
    “I think you’re fibbing,” Lancer said. “We have it on good authority you were given the envelope.”
    “If I find it, I’ll give it to the FBI,” I said.
    I closed and locked my door, and put my eye to the peephole. Lancer and Slasher were standing, hands on hips, looking mildly pissed, not sure what to do next.
    I went to the kitchen and dialed Morelli’s cell phone. “Where are you?” I asked him.
    “I’m home. I just got in.”
    “I need to check on two guys who claim they’re FBI. Lance Lancer and Sly Slasher.”
    “I’ll be a laughingstock if I plug those names into the system. This is a joke, right?”
    “Those are the names they gave. They had badges and everything.”
    “How fast do you need this?”
    “How fast can you get it?”
    Morelli grunted and hung up.
    I imagined Morelli staring down at his shoe, shaking his head, wishing he hadn’t answered his phone.
    I dialed my parents’ house, and my mother answered.
    “I need you to do something for me,” I said. “I need the photo and the envelope I threw away when I was in the kitchen this morning. I tossed it in the trash.”
    “Your grandmother emptied the trash right after you left. Today was garbage pickup. I can look out back, but I think it’s gone.”
    So it appeared I was out of the FBI evidence supply business.
    Fine by me. I had better, more important things to do, like taking a nap. I kicked my shoes off and flopped onto my bed. I’d barely closed my eyes and the doorbell bonged. I heaved myself out of bed, padded to my door, and looked out the peephole. Two more men in cheap gray suits.
    I cracked the door, leaving the security chain in place, and looked out. “Now what?” I said.
    The guy standing closest to the door badged me. “FBI. We’d like to talk to you.”
    “Names?”
    “Bill Berger, and my partner, Chuck Gooley.”
    Bill Berger was slim, average height, and in his early fifties. Salt-and-pepper hair cut short. Bloodshot brown eyes. Probably, his contacts were killing him. Chuck was my age. Not fat but a chunky body. An inch or two shorter than Berger. His suit pants had a lot of crotch wrinkles, and he was wearing ratty running shoes.
    “And you’d like to talk to me about what?” I said.
    “Can we come in?”
    “No.”
    Berger went hands to hips, exposing the gun clipped to his belt. Hard to tell if it was an unconscious gesture or if he was trying to intimidate me. Either way, I wasn’t opening my door any wider.
    “We have reason to believe you are in possession of a photograph that’s part of a crime investigation.”
    My phone rang, and I excused myself to answer it.
    “You’ve been home less than twenty-four hours, and you’re already in some kind of a mess,” Morelli said. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
    “Sure, but I’ve got guests right now. More FBI.”
    “Are they in your apartment?”
    “No. They’re in the hall.”
    “That’s where you want them to stay. As far as