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I took the elevator to the second floor, dragged my luggage down the hall and into my apartment, and shuffled into my bedroom. It was after midnight, and I was exhausted. My vacation in Hawaii had been unique, and the flight home had been hellish.
Turbulence over the Pacific, a layover in L. I closed my eyes and tried to calm myself. I was back to work tomorrow, but for now I had to make a choice. I was completely out of clean clothes. That meant I could be a slut and sleep naked, or I could be a slob and sleep in what I was wearing.
I live in a one-bedroom, one-bath apartment in an aging three-story brick-faced apartment building located on the edge of Trenton. Grandma Mazur was at the front door when I pulled to the curb and parked. Her steel-gray hair was cut short and tightly curled on her head.
Her nails matched her bright red lipstick. Her lavender-and-white running suit hung slack on her bony shoulders. Ciak lives in the other half. Her husband has passed on, and she spends her days baking coffee cake and watching television.
Each half of the house has a postage-stamp front yard, a small covered front porch, a back stoop leading to a long narrow backyard, and a detached single-car garage. I lugged the laundry basket through the living room and dining room to the kitchen, where my mother was chopping vegetables.
Are you coming for dinner? Got plans.
How was Hawaii? Fortunately, I sat next to a guy who got off when we stopped in L.
Tall, Dark, and Handsome. I dumped it all out onto the little kitchen table and pawed through it. Granola bars, hairbrush, lip balm, hair scrunchies, notepad, wallet, socks, two magazines, a large yellow envelope, floss, mini flashlight, travel pack of tissues, three pens, and my phone. The caller was Connie Rosolli, the bail bonds office manager. Can it wait twenty minutes? I put the phone in an outside pocket, and I looked at the envelope.
No writing on it. I had no clue how it had gotten into my bag. I ripped it open and pulled a photograph out.
He was standing on a street corner, looking just past the photographer. He was possibly midthirties to early forties, and nice looking in a button- down kind of way. Short brown hair. Wearing a dark suit. Somehow on the trip home, I must have picked the envelope up by mistake—maybe when I stopped at the newsstand in the airport.
I guess I snatched it up with a magazine. Is there a name on the back? She glanced at the clock on the wall and gave up a small sigh of regret. Too early. I dropped the envelope and the photo into the trash, chugged my coffee, grabbed a bagel from the bag on the counter, and ran upstairs to change.
Twenty minutes later, I was at the bonds office.
I use the term office lightly since we were operating out of a converted motor coach parked on Hamilton Avenue directly in front of the construction site for a new brick-and-mortar office. Bounty hunter Stephanie Plum's life is set to blow sky high when international murder hits dangerously close to home, in this dynamite novel by Janet Evanovich. Before Stephanie can even step foot off Flight Hawaii to Newark, she's knee deep in trouble.
Her dream vacation turned into a nightmare, and she's flying back to New Jersey solo. Worse still, her seatmate never returned to the plane after the L.
Now he's dead, in a garbage can, waiting for curbside pickup. His killer could be anyone. And a ragtag collection of thugs and psychos, not to mention the FBI, are all looking for a photograph the dead man was supposed to be carrying.
Only one other person has seen the missing photo--Stephanie Plum. Now she's the target, and she doesn't intend to end up in a garbage can.
With the help of an FBI sketch artist Stephanie re-creates the person in the photo.