The Perfect Ten Boxed Set

by Dianna Love

  “I’ll help you.”

  Lucie smiled. “I know. Thank you.”

  He winked. “It’ll cost you.”

  “Yay, me. And just so you know, I’m packing.”

  Frankie, in the middle of securing his helmet, drew his eyebrows together. “Boxes?”

  What was he talking about? “Boxes?”

  “You said you’re packing. What are you packing?”

  Idiot. She smacked her hand against her messenger bag. “I’m packing. As in heat.”

  Frankie pursed his lips in that way that told her he was either about to argue, or worse, laugh. He must have decided against both because, after angling his head the way Otis did when contemplating a good poop, Frankie shook it off and pushed his scooter from the garage.

  “You’re like a cross between Mary Poppins and Rambo.”

  Once again, she patted the bag slung across her body. “Nobody is messing with Mary or Rambo today. Nobody.”

  “Do you even know how to use that stun gun?”

  She tilted her chin skyward while she secured her helmet strap. “I practiced on an eggplant.”

  “Perfect. Now that you fried the eggplant, your mom won’t have to cook it.”

  Wasn’t he just the comedian today? “Hardy-har. Make fun all you want. I’m done with these dognappers. I’m taking control. Anyone tries to steal my dogs, they’re getting zapped. Zzzzzpppp!”

  “Luce, those stun guns are dangerous.”

  The sun poured over his black dress pants and grey zip-up jacket as he sat on the scooter with his feet planted on the driveway. Damn, he somehow managed to make a scooter sexy. Even when he irritated her. “Relax. It doesn’t even generate an amp. I can’t kill anyone with it.”

  “How comforting.”

  “Darn tootin’.” Lucie hit the throttle on the scooter and zoomed by him.

  After walking the girls, they headed to Lincoln Park and Mamie, the ever-regal Labradoodle that in a truly bizarre way reminded Lucie of her mother. Mamie was one of those animals that never got flustered. The world could be collapsing around her, but she’d trot without a care.

  “Buddy is next,” Lucie said. “Joey will meet us at the downtown Rizzo’s after that for lunch. Then you can head to your office and Joey will take over.”

  “You’re keeping on schedule. Maybe you need to make your own how-to video. We’ll call it Poop on Demand.”

  Again with the humor? A regular funny man today. “All the dogs—well, Otis is a challenge—but the rest know I’m serious. When I say poop, they do it. I learned that from the guy on Discovery Channel.”

  Frankie snorted. Obviously, he found it amusing that she watched Discovery Channel.

  The sound of scooters pulling into the driveway sent Buddy, the Wheaton Terrorist—er Terrier—into a barking frenzy. His little head bobbed up and down in the back window, and Lucie cracked up. She took a moment to breathe in and enjoy the moment of peace. The dogs were always happy to see her. That alone made this job worth doing.

  She parked her scooter and held a hand to Frankie. “Let me take care of this. After your last encounter with Buddy, I don’t want him getting agitated.”

  Frankie dragged his helmet off. “All that howling he’s doing is calm?”

  “He’s a puppy. He’s energized.”

  “These pants are Calvin Klein. I’ll kill the little bastard if he goes after them.”

  Poor, poor Frankie with his designer pants. “Just stay out of his reach and you’ll be fine.”

  Lucie entered the house through the back door and took the immediate right to the laundry room, where a gate kept Buddy contained. The over-anxious puppy greeted her by diving at her feet and licking her shoes. She bent low and patted his rump. “Good boy. Yes. I know you’re hungry.”

  Then he peed on her foot.

  Urine seeped through her canvas sneakers and soaked her socks. Ew. “Outside,” she said in a loud voice. The dog flopped onto his back. Clearly, the potty training hadn’t kicked in yet. “Okay, Buddy. You just tinkled on me and that’s not a good thing.”

  With the urinating out of the way, she might as well feed him before his walk. She dumped his food into the bowl and, while he ate, she wiped up the errant pee, and pulled off her shoe and wet sock. Poop baggies sat on the dryer by his leash, so she grabbed one and stuck her wet sock in it before sliding her shoe back on. The wet shoe abraded the top of her foot and she curled her toes under to relieve her mind of puppy pee against her skin. Just, ew. She would have to stop somewhere and buy another pair, because the idea of walking around with pee on her all day gave her a rash. Literally.

  Buddy finished his lunch, planted his butt and barked.

  “I guess we’re ready.”

  When Lucie bent low to secure his harness, Buddy, thinking it was playtime, shot to the corner of the oversized laundry room hoping for a chase.

  Lucie sighed. “Buddy, we have work to do.”

  “Erf! Erf!”

  Time to call in the big guns. She sat on the floor, stared at the ceiling and waited. Dogs hated to be ignored. The eventual tap-tap-tap of nails on tile alerted her to movement and—voila—he was at her side. Slowly, she moved her hand over his back and rubbed. “Good boy, Buddy.” She wrapped her arm around him, while continuing to tickle his belly. Gotcha.

  “You little stinker.” She slipped the harness on and secured it. “Good boy!”

  Assuming they were done, Buddy jumped on top of her and the frantic slapping of his warm tongue against her cheek made her giggle. “Off, Buddy.”

  To his credit, he planted himself on the floor and let her attach the leash.

  A minute later, he took one look at Frankie through the open door and charged. Unfortunately, he ran out of running room on the nylon leash and it snapped him to a halt.

  Wussie boy Frankie stepped back. “What took so long?”

  “He peed on my foot. I cleaned it up while he ate.”

  Frankie made an ick face. Yeah, with you on that one, pal. Just part of the job, Lucie mused as Buddy fired down the steps snarling at Frankie. He backed up another inch.

  She laughed. “You’re afraid of a three-month-old puppy?”

  “His teeth are ice picks.”

  Screeching tires from the street lurched Lucie’s heart and she spun to peer down the alley. Nothing. Too jumpy. Buddy, sensing the tension, barked and she bent low to pet him.

  “Let’s hit it,” Frankie said.

  He took two steps into the alley and a man the size of Cleveland flew from behind a tree. What the — “Watch out,” Lucie yelled, but the man landed on Frankie’s back and Buddy went insane tugging the leash to join the mêlée.

  In one fluid move, Frankie flipped the guy off him and the dog leaped and barked and growled.

  The assailant scrambled to his feet, rammed his shoulder into Frankie’s belly and tackled him. Frankie’s body moved through the air, crashed to the ground and his head—no—bounced off the pavement, the cracking sound carrying like a splitting coconut.

  Panic flicked at Lucie. She opened her mouth, but her chest froze and she stood there, gagging on trapped air. She loved this man and someone dared—dared—to put their hands on him. Bastard. She had to fight. Had to help Frankie.

  The redheaded attacker looked no older than thirty years old. He was big, not fat big, but his frame carried extra weight in every available spot.

  He could crush her.

  A howling inside her head hammered. The bad guy stepped toward her just as Buddy lunged for the leg of his pants. Oh, no. Not the dog.

  “No, Buddy.” The puppy clamped onto the guy’s calf.

  “Argh! Get this dog off me.” He reached down and sent his beefy hand across the dog’s back. Buddy yelped. An immediate spewing of hate consumed Lucie. How could he hurt a defenseless puppy?

  Buddy came surging back. The idiot attacker didn’t realize Buddy thought this was some sort of twisted game.

  Frankie rolled to his side and levered himself
up. Still on all fours, he kept his head low.

  Stun gun.

  Lucie reached into her bag for the device and flipped the juice switch.

  The attacker hollered when Buddy clamped onto his hand.

  That had to hurt. The feisty puppy wasn’t giving up. She only had a few seconds before the attacker struck Buddy again. But if she shot from this distance, the probes from the gun might hit the dog. She moved closer. God, please don’t let me miss.

  She glanced at Frankie, about to stand tall. The attacker could have killed him. Anger swelled inside her and a guttural roar flew from her throat.

  She jammed the device into the attacker’s back and pressed the trigger. The probes flew, but her hand stayed still. No recoil or kick. Amazing. A rat-a-tat-tat clacking noise filled the air and she flinched from the shock of it, but held tight to the gun.

  The attacker arched back, his face a mass of agony. “AGGGHHHHHH!”

  The shattering wail resembled a bad Chewbacca audition and he collapsed to the ground. Buddy, clearly wanting to join the fun, clamped onto his leg again.

  Lucie slammed her eyes shut as the screaming inside her head raged on. No. She couldn’t waste time. The probe only lasted thirty seconds. She needed to move.

  She opened her eyes. “Off, Buddy.” The dog backed away, tilting his adorable little head at her and she scooped him up. She swiveled to Frankie, now moving toward her with the steel-edged look of a warrior on the hunt. “In the house,” she yelled.

  But Frankie beelined for the Chewie wannabe.

  Lucie jumped between Frankie and Chewie. “Forget him. You’re hurt. Get in the house.”

  Chewie grabbed her ankle, and Frankie gave him a solid kick to the ribs. “Hit him with the stun gun again.”

  She still had the gun in hand, but she hadn’t reloaded the cartridge and didn’t want to take the time. “No. In the house.”

  Frankie, being Frankie, gave the guy another kick. “Stay away from her. Got it?”

  Grabbing his shirtsleeve, Lucie pulled him toward the house before Chewie got his second wind. Buddy yelped with glee over the excitement and nipped at her chin. “Stop, Buddy. No biting.”

  With her heart banging around inside her, Lucie slammed the door behind them, threw the bolt and sent Frankie through the laundry room so she could barricade the dog.

  Frankie rubbed the back of his head. “Call 9-1-1.”

  She glanced out the door and saw the man get to his feet and take off down the alley. “Forget it. He’s already down the street.”

  “Dammit.”

  Lucie held up two fingers. “How many?”

  He focused on her fingers, but said nothing.

  “Wrong answer. You’re going to the hospital.”

  “I’ll be fine. It’ll be another concussion.”

  “Yeah, and what about all those people that don’t go to the hospital and wind up dead from one of those hematoma things?”

  “It’s an epidural hematoma. Bleeding between the brain and the inside of the skull. Trust me. I know.”

  “Yeah, well. You’re going to the hospital.”

  ***

  “She blasted him?” Joey stood next to Frankie’s hospital bed doing his damndest to hide a smile. But when he looked over at her, Lucie saw the mischief in his eyes. Maybe, Lucie thought, she wasn’t a goodie-two-shoes after all.

  Frankie nodded. Very slowly. “Fried him good.”

  Despite her best efforts, she grinned. Why not? She’d done well today. Gave that dognapper something to think about. “I zapped him once. Knocked him on his butt.”

  Anticipating the ER doc’s return with Frankie’s CAT scan results, Lucie checked her watch. “You sure the dogs had a long enough walk?” she asked Joey.

  “Everyone took a dump. Even Otis.”

  “Really?”

  “I’ve got the touch with him.”

  Frankie scoffed.

  “It’s true,” Lucie said. “I can spend an hour trying to get him to poop and Joey steps up and—boom—he just goes. It’s crazy. Even Mrs. Lutz is surprised.”

  Joey shrugged. “It’s a dominance thing.”

  Frankie laughed, but immediately brought his hand to his head. She kissed his forehead. “Just rest.”

  The neckline of his hospital gown slipped and she gave it a light tug into place. She flattened her palm against his chest, felt the heat of his body through the gown and suddenly wanted to curl into bed with him, nurse him to health in her own way.

  What was wrong with her? The poor man was injured and her mind was sliding into the gutter. But having him back in her life affected her, made her realize how much she’d missed him during their break-up and how much she didn’t want to lose him again. Somehow, they had to make it work.

  She cleared her throat.

  “Was Buddy wearing one of your collars?” Frankie asked.

  He just wouldn’t give up. “Don’t worry about it now. You need rest.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Dug in. She knew it. Might as well not aggravate him. “No. He has one, but he didn’t have it on.”

  “And yet, they still tried to boost him.”

  Joey shrugged. “Seems to me these guys know who your accessory clients are. They’re picking them off one by one.”

  How very comforting. “I think the dognappers took that spreadsheet that’s missing. That’s how they know my clients. They’re four for four with picking the right targets.”

  She turned to Joey, her movements halted.

  Equipped with excellent instincts, her brother drew his eyebrows together. “What?”

  God, how to do this. He might tear the place apart, but she had to ask. “Remember I asked you about the spreadsheet?”

  “So?”

  “Did you have any friends over that would have taken it?”

  Frankie blew out a breath and eased his head against the bed. He knew what was coming. He just didn’t have the strength to get into the middle of a Lucie-Joey smackdown.

  “No.”

  Joey’s big body filled the room with an energy that became cold and hateful and made her feel small, so small.

  Frankie lifted his head. “She’s only asking.”

  “Yeah, because my friends are the losers who would steal a dog to get a collar.”

  “Knock it off,” Frankie said, getting a little loud.

  “Why don’t you ask your boyfriend if he took the spreadsheet? He’s my friend. You trust him, but not your own brother? After I’ve busted my butt to help you? Well, find someone else to clean up your messes.”

  “I was only asking. Anyone could have walked into the house and picked up that spreadsheet. Mom never turns the alarm on during the day.”

  “That’s a thought,” Frankie added. “With your dad locked up, people are bound to cross the line. Nobody would have the balls to do this if your dad was out, but since he’s not, what’s gonna happen?”

  Joey scoffed. “He could still fix this.”

  “Yeah, but some of these lower level guys aren’t geniuses. They’re cocky and don’t give the respect the older guys do.”

  Joey’s shoulder shrug indicated it wasn’t completely out of the question. “I’ll poke around. Maybe I’ll run up to see Dad one day, see if I can get anything out of him.”

  “Don’t tell him about all this. He only knows about the first incident.” Lucie turned to Frankie. “You didn’t tell your father anything else, did you?”

  “I told him about the Sammy Spaniel theft. That was the last thing. “

  “Okay. So we know he wouldn’t have told my dad about the diamond, right?”

  “It wouldn’t do him any good. He promised your father he’d take care of you. You having a stolen diamond doesn’t exactly leave a good impression.”

  Joey immediately raised his hands. “I won’t let on. I’m not stupid.”

  “I think my missing spreadsheet is part of the answer. Someone had to have taken it from the house. If we find that someone, we
find the dognappers. I’m sure of it.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  A loud scrape jolted Frankie from sleep and his breath came in one shuddering gasp. What the hell? He opened his eyes. Moonlight squeezed through the closed blinds and threw an angular shadow against the far wall. The ceiling fan spun in slow circles while the screech against his bedroom window blasted through his already battered head. He needed to trim that pain-in-the-ass tree before the wind sent one of the branches into his bed.

  He inhaled and ever so slowly turned toward the bedside clock. Four-thirty. Way too early for any normal person to be awake. At least in his opinion.

  The throbbing in his head went ballistic and his vision blurred. He needed a few more hours of sleep and then he’d get with his father about the dognapping problem. Lucie would skin him, but he’d live with it. His father had all sorts of connections and, even if someone close to Joey were behind swiping that spreadsheet, his father or Jimmy would have heard about it.

  Wait.

  Could his father have mentioned to Jimmy that Lucie found the diamond? What about Lemon? If Jimmy knew, so did Lemon. A sickness unrelated to Frankie’s pounding head whirled in his stomach.

  If Jimmy and Lemon knew about the diamond, could they be trusted to keep it quiet? Hell, they could have told any number of lowlifes.

  Frankie shifted sideways and dry heaved into the bucket by his bed. Dammit. He could be the cause of all this.

  He rolled out of bed, made his way to the bathroom, raised his forearm over his eyes and flipped the light. After a second, he lowered his arms and pried one eye open to locate his painkillers.

  Two hours. That’s what he needed to kill. By then his father would be up and reading the morning paper, perusing the sports section and checking out Frankie’s column, as he always did. Frankie swallowed two pills, looked in the mirror and scared the crap out of himself. His eyes held that shiny, unfocused look that came with concussions.

  Rest. That’s what he needed now. Maybe the meds would kick in and by six, he’d be moving enough to get the four blocks to his folks’ house.

  A sleepy Lucie stumbled into the bathroom. She’d insisted on sleeping on the couch. “Are you okay?”

  “Needed the painkillers. Go back to sleep.” He eyed her in his beat up Cubs shirt. “In my bed.”