18 Explosive Eighteen Read Online Free PDF Page A

dopey guy just stole my car,” I said to Ranger. “And he has my bag. And he’s FTA.”
    “No problem. We have your car on the screen.” Ranger has this habit of instal ing tracking devices on my cars when I’m not looking. In the beginning, I found the invasion of privacy to be intolerable, but I’ve gotten used to it over the years, and there are times when it’s come in handy … like now.
    “I’l send someone out to get your car,” Ranger said. “What do you want us to do with the big dopey guy?”
    “How about if you cuff him, cram him into the backseat, and drive him to the bonds bus. I’l take it from there.”
    “And you?”
    “I’m good. Lula’s on her way to pick me up.”
    “Babe,” Ranger said. And he disconnected.
    Okay, so I fibbed to Ranger about Lula. Truth is, I wasn’t ready to face him. Especial y since he sounded a tiny bit exasperated. I looked down at my naked ring finger, grimaced, and cal ed Lula.
    FOUR
    “YOU GOT SOFT IN HAWAI ,” Lula said. “You lost your edge. That’s what happens when you go on vacation and do whatever the heck it is that you did.
    Which, by the way, I don’t even care about no more.” Lula had picked me up at Buggy’s house, and we were on our way to the bonds office.
    “I didn’t go soft in Hawaii,” I said. “I never had an edge.”
    “That could be true about the edge, but you’ve been out after two felons now, and they both whupped your butt. So I thought maybe it was on account of being distracted by whatever it is you’re distracted by. Not that I care what it is. And notice what a good friend I am, even though you don’t care to confide in me and I disturbed my nap to rescue you.”
    “I’m not distracted. You can attribute both whuppings to pure incompetence.”
    “Wel , aren’t you little Miss Down-on-Yourself. I could fix that. You need a doughnut.”
    “I need more than a doughnut.”
    “What, like chicken? Fries? Maybe one of them giant two-pounder bacon burgers?”
    “I wasn’t talking about food,” I said to Lula. “You can’t solve al your problems with food.”
    “Since when?”
    “I’m thinking about taking a self-defense class.
    Maybe learn kickboxing.”
    “I don’t need no self-defense class,” Lula said. “I rely on my animal instincts to beat the bejeezus out of an offending moron.”
    That didn’t always work for me. I wasn’t al that great at beating the bejeezus out of people. My fight-or-flight instinct ran more toward flight.
    “Now that I’m up from my nap, I’m in a mood to go after the big one,” Lula said. “I want to bag Joyce.
    Where’s she living? Is she stil in that hotel-size colonial by Vinnie?”
    “No. The bond agreement lists her address as Stil er Street in Hamilton Township.” So far as I know, Joyce is currently single.
    Although that might be yesterday’s news. It’s hard to keep up with Joyce. She’s a serial divorcée, working her way up the matrimonial ladder, kicking used-up husbands to the curb while negotiating lucrative settlements. She left her last marriage with a net gain of an E-class Mercedes and half of a $1.5
    mil ion house. Rumor has it he got the guinea pig.
    Might as wel have a look at Joyce’s house, I thought. Make a fast run out to Hamilton Township, and by the time I got back, hopeful y, my car would be parked behind the bonds bus.
    Twenty minutes later, we were rol ing down Stil er.
    “This clump of houses is brand new,” Lula said. “I didn’t even know this was here. This was a cornfield last week.”
    The clump of attached town houses was cal ed Mercado Mews, and it looked not only brand new but expensive. Joyce lived in an end unit with a two-car garage. Everything looked fresh and spiffy. No activity anywhere. No cars parked on the street. No traffic. No one tending the azalea bushes. No one walking a dog or pushing a strol er.
    “Looks to me like lots of these houses aren’t sold yet,” Lula said. “They look empty. ’Course,