by K. J. Larsen
“Yeah.” Thanks to Mama.
“The guy had problems. He was reported sneaking around the neighborhood wearing a sock and his skivvies.”
“Billy wasn’t streaking. He sucks at strip poker.”
“Another hand or two and I’d have had to arrest him.”
I slammed my hands down, leaning over the desk. “Arrest Kyle Tierney.”
He stuck his face in the donut bag. “You got a Bavarian cream in here?”
“Dammit, Bob, I’ve got your killer. I’m a trained investigator.”
Bob belted a laugh and choked on his donut. “If you’re investigating Tierney, it’s because his wife has her panties in a twist.”
“That’s cold, Bob. Billy knew something about the pub murder that could cause big trouble for Tierney.”
“You’ll forgive me for being skeptical.”
“There was a witness. A bartender. She saw her boss pull the trigger. If Tierney killed Billy to silence him, he’ll go after the bartender next.”
“Tierney’s done his time. Besides, there were no witnesses. Both the FBI and the Chicago PD were unable to come up with one. But you’re telling me one of Bridgeport’s most incompetent, unscrupulous screw-ups did.”
“Bill was a private detective. He had the trench coat to prove it.”
He rummaged in a drawer and dragged out a roll of antacids.
“What was he doing in that Santa suit? He was obviously up to no good.”
I thought about Bill’s botched burglary. “You don’t know that.”
Bob cocked a brow. “When you were five, you said your baby sister was dropped off by gypsies. You still can’t lie worth a damn.”
“That thing I said about Sophie is true.”
Bob came around the desk, scooted me off my chair and nudged me to the door. “Your dad and I go way back.”
“He helped you chase Billy out of town when you caught him with your daughter.”
“Actually he kept me from killing him.” He popped a Tums in his mouth. “I’ll have a couple guys check out your story.”
“Thanks, Bob. You came through for me.”
“I said that to get you out of my office.”
He slammed the door in my face.
Chapter Eight
I cruised across Bridgeport toward Belle’s Café. I knew Billy ate his last omelet there yesterday morning. There were three omelets on the rumpled ticket I found. Two coffees and one hot chocolate. The hot chocolate would go to Halah, Cristina’s fifteen-year-old daughter. Cocoa is nice. But coffee is a lifeline. I was betting Billy’s client ate breakfast close to her hotel. And if she didn’t know Bill was gone, she could be at Belle’s now. Or at one of the hotels nearby. I had to find her before her psycho boss did.
I took a quick detour that would take me by Tierney’s Irish Pub. When we were kids, Grandpa DeLuca told stories about this once tough Chicago neighborhood, back when rich mobsters were local heroes and people went missing in the night. Bridgeport has softened since then. The meat-packing district has been converted to trendy restaurants and apartments. But as far as I was concerned, at least one monster remained.
I drove past the pub slowly while squinting in the window. It was too early for lunch. On my third sweep by, I snagged a parking spot across the street and dragged out the binoculars. Bill’s killer sat smugly at a window table with two suits and a pile of papers. Tierney’s skin was still a pasty prison white. But he’d resumed his life where he left it in handcuffs four years ago. Hardly missed a beat.
I thought of Billy laid out on the coroner’s slab. My heart hurt. I rubbed my eyes to squelch the image. It didn’t go away.
I zoomed my spy eyes on Tierney’s Varvatos suit and soft blue silk shirt. There was a platter of sweet breads, three coffees, and a bottle of Jameson Whiskey on the table. The anger swelled in me. Bitter and toxic.
And then it happened. There was an unexpected and decided disconnect between my feet and my head. Because my head was telling me to stay in the car, but my feet kicked the car door and stomped across the street. They tramped through the door and past the beefy guy who’d snagged Santa’s beard. His blackened eye twitched when he saw me. I counted the knuckles on his bruised cheek.
I’d say the longshoremen won that round.
“Wussy,” I snickered. My feet clomped to the boss’ table.
I felt Tierney’s raw energy before his lecherous gaze traveled a long, slow line from my shoes to my murderous green eyes. I felt my fingers twitch. He had to know I’d cheerfully wring his neck.
“We open at eleven.” He smiled. “Unless you’re here for the dancing job.”
I resisted the urge to feed him a sandwich de knuckle. “Bill Bonham was my friend.”
“Bill Bonham.” He rubbed his chin. “That name, it was on the radio this morning. I don’t remember why.”
“Because he’s dead,” I spat out at him.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Why did you kill him?”
He snorted. “What are you talking about? I hadn’t heard his name until this morning.”
“Here’s a name for you. Santa.”
“This Bonham was the phantom Santa?” No attempt at surprise there. “If what you say is true, why should I kill him?”
“Because Billy knew the truth about what happened here four years ago.”
The ice-gray eyes pierced a chill through me. “Get out.”
“You’re going down, Kyle Tierney. It maybe not be today. But someday soon.”
I said it like Bogie. I did it for Billy.
Tierney returned his gaze to the suits at his table. I was dismissed.
I picked up his glass of one-hundred-dollar-a-bottle whiskey and dumped it over his head. I swear I heard Billy laugh.
The bartender came running with a towel. Tierney spit words through gritted teeth.
“Grief has clouded your judgment. I won’t see you in here again.”
The beefy guy who snagged Santa’s wig muscled his way over to me. He was huge. I realized, too late, that it took four hunky longshoremen to make him look wussy. I figured it was too late to take that back.
In one swift motion, he slung me over his shoulder, retraced my steps, and stalked out the door. A blast of cold, lake wind hit my face.
I kicked my feet and pummeled his back with my fists. “Put me down, you big-fat-piece-of-crap.”
The cock of a pistol clicked in beefy boy’s ear. “FBI, asshole. You heard the lady.”
I knew that voice. It cheered me considerably.
The guy dropped me, none too gingerly, to my feet. “This woman was harassing the customers. I removed her from the premises because she refused to leave on her own.” He shrugged. “Besides, she’s a pain in the ass.”
“Is that true?” Chance Savino said.
I kicked beefy guy hard in the shin. “Shoot this man!”
Chance smiled. “I’d say you’re even.”
I wrestled a hand in my bag and pulled out a taser.
Zzzzzzzzz.
Beefy guy dropped to his knees and groaned.
“Now we’re even,” I said.
“Police brutality.”
I dropped the stun gun in my bag. “Hey. I’m just a concerned citizen.”
“She’s freakin’ crazy!”
“Now that hurt my feelings,” I said
Savino twisted the guy’s collar and jerked him to his feet.
Chance Savino is six-feet-two of gorgeous hotness. He released the collar and beefy guy bolted into the pub. Savino chuckled and hooked an arm around my shoulder. We walked across the street to my car.
“What the hell are you doing here, Cat?”
“I’m a detective, dammit. I was gathering evidence.”
The cobalt blues smiled.
&
nbsp; “What are you doing here?” I countered. “Aren’t you testifying in that kidnapping case today?”
“On my way. Rocco told me about Bonham. And you weren’t answering your phone. I wanted to be sure you’re okay.”
“My brother’s a big fat tattletale.”
Actually, Rocco is my best friend. Except when he’s bossy. He forgets I’m a big girl now, and I don’t need him to come running every time I do something stupid.
“Rocco was afraid you’d do something crazy.”
“Crazy?” I shoved him.
“Like going after Kyle Tierney. You can’t take him down with great legs and a taser.”
“Ha! I have a gun.” I reached behind my back and whipped out my Dr. Pepper Lip Smacker. I winced. My 9mm was in a drawer at home, keeping all of Victoria’s Secrets safe.
“Oops.”
Chance shook his head. “You brought lipstick to a gun fight.”
I smeared Dr. Pepper on my lips. “You didn’t need to come, Savino. I had it handled.”
“I saw you handling the muscle when I arrived.”
“I like to be on top.”
Chance smiled and our eyes held a moment. Then he pulled up his sleeve and checked his watch. It was a Mickey Mouse Rolex. A gift from his parents. Savino’s parents are ex-hippies and tree-hugging vegetarians. They belong to Green Peace and Amnesty International. Papa would suspect they are dope-smoking Communists. Mama thinks PETA is a condiment. They both suck a meat bone dry. As God is my witness, our parents will never meet.
“I’m late for court.” He wrapped his arms around me. “Stay away from Tierney. Give me a day or two to check him out. And keep Cleo with you.”
“I have Inga.”
Chance pulled me close, tracing his finger over my lips. “Your beagle is likely to eat the evidence. But Cleo’s quick with a firearm. And she’s not afraid to use it.
Chapter Nine
I jammed across Bridgeport, then slowed to cruise past the Belle Café twice before snagging a parking spot. No California plates on the street. I scooted through the door and checked out the customers.
Belle’s catered to the local senior crowd. The day’s specials were written on a chalkboard and involved a lot of gravy. I scanned the tables for a mother/daughter team and found just one. They were both collecting Social Security. I ordered a hot chocolate with extra whipped cream to go and a hamburger patty for my partner.
Inga ate her hamburger, and I hunkered down behind the wheel with my cocoa and smartphone. I called every cheap, marginally clean hotel in a five mile radius of the café. Cristina wasn’t registered at any of them. But then I wasn’t even sure that’s the name she would give.
I was running out of ideas. If I struck out at the hotels, I had one last chance to find them at Taqueria La Mexicana. Billy said he was meeting his client there at eleven. I checked my watch. Two hours away. Two whole hours for Cristina to not turn on the radio and zoom full-speed to the Pacific Ocean. I knew the Taqueria makes a mean margarita. I had a sick feeling I’d be drinking my lunch alone.
I poured two fresh waters and tossed the beagle one of Tino’s sausages. Then I hauled out Mama’s Tupperware and breathed in the gooey pastry. Two cannoli were missing. They were sitting in Billy’s stomach in the morgue. I blinked hard and tucked the cannoli away. I fired up the engine.
I was on the lookout for a woman and teenage daughter with California tans. For kicks, I drove by a couple hotels on my list. The buildings were old and worn. They weren’t the sort of hotels you’d book on Expedia. And they weren’t places Tierney would expect to find his exbartender. They were places you’d bring large quantities of Lysol to. These hotels didn’t advertise in the Yellow Pages. They offered weekly and monthly rates. I was guessing some guests never checked out.
I talked to a half dozen desk clerks and struck out. I decided to hit one more sleazy hotel before taking a table at Taquiera’s. I flipped a coin and got the Marco Polo Hotel on 26th and Halsted. It wasn’t the roughest part of Bridgeport, but I wouldn’t stroll down these streets without a big-ass can of pepper spray after dark either.
The Marco Polo was three levels of white brick and stucco. It was built in the sixties and appeared to have resisted updating. I approached the large tinted glass windows and the hair rose on the back of my neck. Something wasn’t right. My subconscious connected with something my brain wasn’t picking up.
I cut my eyes to the property around the Marco Polo. The street was quiet. Cars crammed for space in the small parking lot. And then I saw it. A big black Lexus sedan, parked on the street in front of the hotel. Inside, two super-sized guys watched the hotel. A cigarette bobbed from the one guy’s mouth. The other sucked on a black licorice. I didn’t recognize the driver. But I knew beefy boy. He would cheerfully have me for lunch. And I knew the Lexus. It was parked at Tierney’s Pub this morning.
I hadn’t found Cristina’s hotel but Tierney’s men had. They had ransacked Bill’s office and taken his file. Unwittingly, Bill put Cristina’s life in danger. An experienced investigator wouldn’t drop a trail of crumbs leading to his client. I blamed his stupid online course for not covering that detail.
I held my breath and drove by the Lexus unnoticed. I turned a hard right at the corner and circled the block. I flipped the cell out of my pocket and punched in my own muscle’s number.
“Tino’s Deli.”
My heart was racing and my voice sounded breathless. “Two of Tierney’s men are outside the Marco Polo Hotel. They’re waiting for Cristina and her daughter.”
Tino’s voice tightened. “What are they driving?”
I told him.
“We’re fifteen minutes away. Stay in your car. And don’t do anything.”
I parked on the street behind the Lexus, with three cars and a wide white van between us. The van blocked the driver’s side mirror. I scooted undetected around to the trunk where I pulled out my box of tricks. Flinging the box on the passenger seat, I climbed in after it. I pulled out a plum sheath dress, wig, coat, and chocolate kitten heels.
I glanced around. No one in sight. I shoved the seat back, scrunched low, and changed into a blond with my hair cropped short, donning a burgundy double-breasted trench coat. I made the switch before you could say there’s a naked woman in that car. I polished the look with a pair of dark-rimmed Ferragamo glasses and plum-perfect lipstick. Then I told Inga to guard the car. I threw back my head, tromped past the black Lexus sedan, and proceeded through the doors of the Marco Polo Hotel.
***
The young woman at the registration desk buffed her nails, smacked her gum, and pretended not to notice me. Her hair was jet black, face powdered white, and she wore enough black eyeliner to keep Maybelline in business. With her lipstick choice being blood red, I was beginning to wonder if her late night habits involved sucking blood out of unsuspecting strangers when her nasal voice snapped me back.
“What?” she demanded when she figured out I wasn’t going away.
“I’m supposed to meet Cristina McTigue for lunch, and I don’t remember her room number.”
“You called me twenty minutes ago.” Her eyes dropped to her nails. “Go away.”
I wanted to jump over the counter and get the information for myself, but I dropped a fifty on the counter instead. She glanced up and her eyes glazed. She palmed the money.
“The lady still ain’t here.”
“Maybe I don’t know her married name. She has a daughter, about fifteen. I think the girl’s name is Halah.”
“Room 125.” She picked up the phone and punched in the number.
“A woman is in da lobby’s askin’ ’bout you.”
“I’m Bill Bonham’s friend. Tell her I’m Bill’s—”
Goth girl hung up. “I ain’t your social secretary. Tell her yourself.”
I trolled over to the window and
waited for my A-Team. Six minutes later Tino and Max rolled by like a couple gangstas. Four minutes early. The meatheads didn’t glance up. Big bufah.
At the end of the street, Max hopped out and began walking back toward the Lexus. Tino circled the block again. The Buick swung onto Halsted again. It barreled down on the Lexus and braked hard, dead even with the driver’s door. Tino spilled out and Max timed a fist in the passenger’s face with Tino’s elbow in the driver’s head. A crescendo of thumps and punches followed. When they were finished, the ex-spies tumbled back into the Buick and drove away. I suspected they’d done this dance before.
I didn’t hear the women sneak up behind me. By the time Jimmy Choo perfume clicked in my brain, it was too late. I spun around. The California girls were armed and dangerous. The daughter jetted my face with pepper spray. Her mother nailed me with her lethal brick bag. I went down like a heap of pudding, cradling my head, eyes on fire. I couldn’t see, but I heard footsteps running out the door.
And I heard goth-girl smacking her gum.
Chapter Ten
When I opened my eyes, two blurred faces hung over me. I touched the knot on my head and groaned.
“Take her to the hospital. She needs a doctor.”
It was Tino’s voice.
I sat up and my head exploded. “No doctors. I’m fine.” My voice was a squeak.
“Like hell you are.”
Tino said, “How much pepper spray hit your eyes? I have a solution in the car to flush them.”
Max lifted me in his arms and carried me out the door. A bitter wind off the lake blasted my face. My vision was blurred but I saw, with implicit clarity, two knocked-out-down-for-the-count bullies in a black Lexus sedan.
“They don’t look so good,” Max said.
“They look great. Is that what they taught you in spy-school?”
Tino smiled. “It was a lucky punch. I’m a humble sausage maker.”
“Okay, sure.” I said.
Tino barked a laugh. “I’m parked around the corner. You’ll drive my car until this blows over. I’m taking yours to the deli.”