Explosive Eighteen

Bevor Stephanie Plum auch nur einen Fuss in das Flugzeug setzen kann, dass sie von Hawaii nach Newark bringen soll, steckt sie knietief in Schwierigkeiten. Ihr Traumurlaub wurde zum Albtraum, ihr Sitznachbar vom Hinflug ist tot und eine zusammengewürfelte Ansammlung von Verbrechern und Psychopathen, inklusive des FBI, sind auf der Suche nach einem Foto, das der Tote bei sich getragen haben soll. Und es gibt nur eine Person, die dieses Foto gesehen hat: Stephanie...

Informationen zum Autor Janet Evanovich Klappentext 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 127 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.A. layover. Now he's dead-and a ragtag collection of thugs and psychos! not to mention the FBI! are all looking for a photograph he was supposed to be carrying. Only one person has seen the missing photo: Stephanie Plum. Now she's the target. An FBI sketch artist helps Stephanie re-create the person in the photo! but Stephanie's descriptive skills are lacking. Until she can improve them! she'll need to watch her back. Over at the bail bonds agency things are going from bad to worse. Vinnie's temporary HQ has gone up in smoke. Stephanie's wheelman! Lula! falls for their largest skip yet. Lifetime arch nemesis Joyce Barnhardt moves into Stephanie's apartment. And everyone wants to know what happened in Hawaii? Morelli! Trenton's hottest cop! isn't talking about Hawaii. Ranger! the man of mystery! isn't talking about Hawaii. And all Stephanie is willing to say about her Hawaiian vacation is . . . It's complicated.

Auteur

Janet Evanovich

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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 127 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.A. layover. Now he's dead-and a ragtag collection of thugs and psychos, not to mention the FBI, are all looking for a photograph he was supposed to be carrying. Only one person has seen the missing photo: Stephanie Plum. Now she's the target. An FBI sketch artist helps Stephanie re-create the person in the photo, but Stephanie's descriptive skills are lacking. Until she can improve them, she'll need to watch her back. Over at the bail bonds agency things are going from bad to worse. Vinnie's temporary HQ has gone up in smoke. Stephanie's wheelman, Lula, falls for their largest skip yet. Lifetime arch nemesis Joyce Barnhardt moves into Stephanie's apartment. And everyone wants to know what happened in Hawaii? Morelli, Trenton's hottest cop, isn't talking about Hawaii. Ranger, the man of mystery, isn't talking about Hawaii. And all Stephanie is willing to say about her Hawaiian vacation is . . . It's complicated.

Résumé
Praise for Janet Evanovich

No less than her plotting, Evanovich s characterizations are models of screwball artistry. . . . The intricate plot machinery of her comic capers is fueled by inventive twists. The New York Times

[Evanovich s novels are] among the great joys of contemporary crime fiction. GQ

Échantillon de lecture
ONE

New Jersey was 40,000 feet below me, obscured by cloud cover. Heaven was above me, beyond the thin skin of the plane. And hell was sitting four rows back. Okay, maybe hell was too strong. Maybe it was just purgatory.

My name is Stephanie Plum, and I work as a bail bonds enforcer for Vincent Plum Bail Bonds in Trenton, New Jersey. I d recently inherited airline vouchers from a dead guy and used them to take a once in a lifetime Hawaiian vacation. Unfortunately the vacation didn t go as planned, and I d been forced to leave Hawaii ahead of schedule, like a thief sneaking off in the dead of night. I d abandoned two angry men in Honolulu, called my friend Lula, and asked her to pick me up at Newark Airport.

As if my life wasn t enough in the toilet, I was now on the plane home, seated four rows ahead of a guy who looked like Sasquatch and was snoring like a bear in a cave. Good thing I wasn t sitting next to him because I surely would have strangled him in his sleep by now. I was wearing airline-­distributed earphones pumped up to maximum volume, but they weren t helping. The snoring had started somewhere over Denver and got really ugly over Kansas City. After several loud passenger comments suggesting someone take the initiative and smother the guy, flight attendants confiscated all the pillows and began passing out free alcoholic beverages. Three-­quarters of the plane was now desperately drunk, and the remaining quarter was either under age or alternatively medicated. Two of the underage were screaming crying, and I was pretty sure the kid behind me had pooped in his pants.

I was among the drunk. I was wondering how I was going to walk off the plane and navigate the terminal with any sort of dignity, and I was hoping my ride was waiting for me.

Sasquatch gave an extra loud snork and I ground my teeth together. Just land this friggin plane, I thought. Land it in a cornfield, on a highway, in the ocean. Just get me out of here!

Lula pulled into my apartment building parking lot, and I thanked her for picking me up at the airport and taking me home.

No problemo, she said, dropping me at the back door to the lobby. There wasn t nothing on television, and I m between honeys, so it wasn t like I was leaving anything good behind.

I waved her off, and trudged into my apartment building. 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. Turbulance over the Pacific, a layover in L.A., and the snoring. 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.

Truth is, I m not entirely comfortable sleeping naked. I do it from time to time, but I worry that God might be watching or that my mother might find out, and I m pretty sure they both think nice girls should wear pajamas to bed.

In this case, being a slob required less effort and that s where I chose to go.

Unfortunately I was in the same wardrobe predicament when I dragged myself out of bed the next morning, so I emptied my suitcase into my laundry basket, grabbed the messenger bag that serves as a purse, and headed for my parents house. I could use my mom s washer and dryer, and I thought I had some emergency clothes left in their spare bedroom. Plus they d been babysitting my hamster Rex while I was away, and I wanted to retrieve him.

I live in a one bedroom, one bath apartment on the second floor of an aging three-­story bric