by K. J. Larsen
Uncle Joey and Linda two-stepped around, topping wine glasses and passing out Ding Dongs. Aunt Fran was in charge of keeping Grandma DeLuca from wandering off and joining the circus. Nonni had been thinking a lot about gypsies lately. When she was a child, gypsy trapeze artists came to her Italian village. There were fortune tellers and clowns. Gypsy children sold candied walnuts and sticky pistachio buns. It sounded more fun than living with Aunt Izzie.
Aunt Francesca and Nonni sat with Mrs. Bonham. Friends paraded by with hugs and kind words about Billy. Aunt Fran held Mrs. Bonham’s hand and slipped her fresh tissues. She didn’t see Grandma DeLuca pinch drinks from the guests’ hands.
“I hoped Billy would marry Caterina,” Mrs. Bonham confided in a voice half the room heard.
“If only he had,” Aunt Fran bemoaned.
“Your niece has a nice young man now.”
Francesca sniffed. “You clearly don’t know who he works for.”
“Musholini,” Grandma DeLuca slurred.
“The FBI turned down my son Frankie. He was too good for them.”
Mrs. Bonham’s spine stiffened. “Cat is a daughter to me. She’s not responsible for Frankie’s screw-ups.”
You go, girl.
“Caterina insults my boy,” Aunt Fran hissed. “She spits on my face.”
Papa crossed the room. He gave his mama a cup of coffee and took the empty whiskey glass from her hand.
Rocco tilted his head. “Is Papa stepping on Fran’s foot?”
I nodded. “Grinding away.”
Aunt Fran gasped.
Papa said, “Don’t disrespect my daughter. Or the father of my future grandchildren.”
A flurry of whispers surfed the room. Caterina’s getting married? Who wudda thought?
I spun around and my forever friend, Melanie, wagged a finger.
“We’re supposed to be best friends, Cat. Your switched-at-birth sister just told me you’re pregnant with Max’s child.”
Rocco choked and ducked for cover.
My sister hates me. “Kill me now,” I said.
“Sophie heard it from Grant. How the hell does he get to know? I’m your best friend. Grant hasn’t been around since high school.”
I cradled my throbbing head.
She sniffed, all injured. “Does Savino know?”
I looked behind me and caught my breath. “Where did she go?”
“I know what you’re doing. You’re not changing the subject.”
I grabbed Melanie’s arm. “A woman just came in. Did you see her? Black dress, big sunglasses.
“It’s a Prada. I would kill for that dress.”
I shook her. “Where did she go?”
“Your diversion tactics aren’t working. Are you, or are you not naming the baby after me?”
“Arrghh!”
I made a quick search of the dining room, kitchen, and backyard. No one remembered seeing her.
Prada dress? Gucci sunglasses? Not exactly how I pictured Billy’s wife. Well, love makes us crazy. And then I remembered the things Billy and Mrs. Bonham said about Nicole. The word wasn’t crazy. It was greedy.
I nudged through the crowd and down the hallway to Billy’s bedroom. I pushed through the door.
The woman in black was trying to open Billy’s window. It was stuck. There was a large manila envelope in her hand.
“An odd exit strategy,” I said.
“It’s stuffy in here. I was getting air.”
“Give me what you have there.”
“It’s mine. It’s a picture of my cousin and me.”
Not the crazy wife after all.
“If that’s true, Mrs. Bonham will give it to you after the party. She’ll even let you go out the door.”
“Mind your own business.”
“Billy is my business. And my partner.”
Her eyes flickered something I couldn’t read.
I said, “Are you the cousin Billy went to camp with that summer?”
“That’s me.”
“That’s funny. Cuz Billy didn’t have a cousin. And he never went to camp.”
“I’m taking my picture. You can’t stop me.”
I looked her over. She was about my height. Twenty-five pounds heavier. But she didn’t have my three brothers.
I would have her for lunch.
“There are a dozen cops down the hall who are really pissed their friend was killed. What do you think they’ll do to the thief at his wake?”
She threw the envelope on the floor and pushed past me out the door.
I hunkered down on Billy’s bed and opened the envelope. They weren’t childhood pictures. Or even family pictures. They were surveillance photos. Billy playing Bogie. Two men in the park. One little white dog.
The big man looked like he could live at the top of a beanstalk. It was the guy from the strip poker house.
The other guy would be Billy’s client’s husband. I caught the file in Billy’s office. They were involved in a bitter custody battle over Coochie, the Bichon Frisé in the photo. Billy was stalking the husband and Coochie when he took the photographs in the envelope. The wife hired him to steal her dog back.
I stuffed the picture back in the envelope and raced after her. I tore down the front steps and out into the street.
The Prada woman in black had disappeared.
I went back to the wake but left early. It wasn’t much fun once people started stripping drinks from the pregnant woman’s hand.
***
I buzzed by Billy’s office for the little white dog’s file. Half an hour later, I was in Coochie’s living room with a martini in my hand.
Jamie Peterson was slim with lots of curly auburn hair tipped blond. Her nails were painted sapphire blue with little fake diamonds glued on. I thought they were cool. The piercings under a brow were a matter of personal taste.
“I saw you at the funeral,” Jamie said. “Someone said you were engaged to Billy.”
That would be Cleo. “It was a really long time ago.”
“I didn’t go to the wake. I don’t know Billy’s mom or anybody there. So I came home, and made my own drink to say good bye to Bill.”
I didn’t tell her how hard it was for me to get a drink at that wake.
I lifted my glass. “To Billy. One of the good guys.”
“Good bye, Billy.”
Her drink spilled a little. She’d been saying a lot of good byes since the funeral.
“He loved my martinis.”
“I’m sure he did.” Billy was an equal opportunity drinker.
Jamie slammed her drink and popped a fat olive in her mouth. I suspected a half dozen of those would be dinner.
“How long were you and Billy partners?”
“Not long.”
I thought that sounded better than ten hours.
I said, “I’ve begun going through Billy’s files. He left a few open cases. I’d like to finish them for him.”
“You should get drunk first.”
She took the martini pitcher from the table and filled our glasses. This time we got two fat olives.
I flashed the photo I snagged from the woman in black. “Billy took this picture in the park.”
She squinted. “That’s my husband and Coochie. The guy could just be someone Will met at the park. Will’s a salesman. Never met a guy he didn’t try to sell a car to.”
A light clicked on in my head. Peterson Ford. “Last year my brothers bought twin cars from your husband.”
She sniffed. “Bill was going to get Coochie back for me. She doesn’t like Will very much. She wouldn’t come when he called her.”
“So how did he get her?”
“Will’s an asshole. I kicked him out last month. And I gave him a list of the things I want in th
e divorce. He said, ‘Okay. I want Coochie.’ I said, ‘Over my dead body.’ So he comes back the next day and calls her. I call her too. For the first time ever, Coochie runs to him. He scoops her up. He runs out the door and big slices of bacon fall out of his pants.”
“Weasel,” I said.
Jamie slugged down her drink. “Coochie is all I have left. The things on the list I gave Will? Stolen. Every last thing on my list. The cops aren’t saying. But I think it was the Bridgeport Bandit.”
“That’s an extraordinary coincidence.”
My money was on the weasel husband. I’ve seen my share of nasty break-ups and disgruntled partners who’d cut off their own nose before giving up a tissue. I once had a client whose husband drove a bulldozer through their house so she wouldn’t get it in the divorce.
I reached in my bag and pulled out a card. “Billy and I were partners. Call me next week. I’ll get Coochie back for you.”
“I’ll pay whatever you say. But I gotta tell you, Will is nobody’s fool. He’s scary. He won’t give up Coochie without a fight. He’s into that martial arts crap.”
“I’ve got a scarier Special Forces guy. He can kill with his bare hands.”
Jamie smiled through an alcohol-induced haze. “For that I will pay extra.”
***
I swung home and picked up my partner. She rode shotgun, head out the window, ears flapping in the wind. She was on the hunt for a guy who stuffs bacon in his pants.
Peterson Ford is about fifteen minutes north of Bridgeport on Dayton. I’d never met Will Peterson but, like many Chi-Towners, I could pick him out in a crowd. Peterson advertises his cars on late night TV. He wears a plaid sports coat and loud ties. But what sets him apart from all other late night car salesmen is his nose. It’s a colossal honker.
I pulled into the car lot and two salesmen fought each other to get to me first. I wrestled them off and browsed around on my own.
The building was lots of glass and steel. Inga and I walked outside long enough to find Will Peterson’s office through the window. He was alone at his desk. Jamie’s little white Bichon Frisé was curled up in a dog bed by the door. I nudged my partner. Then we walked inside.
“Bacon,” I whispered and dropped Inga’s leash.
She was off to the races.
I skipped into the office. “Mr. Peterson, I’m so sorry.” I gushed and stopped. “Inga?”
The beagle was sitting on his lap. Staring at his nose like it was a sausage. I forced my own eyes away. He was freakin’ Pinocchio.
“She likes me.”
He let her down, and the dogs did their butt sniffing ritual. He smoothed his plaid coat and shook my hand.
“Call me Will.”
“Cat DeLuca. You have a beautiful girl. What’s her name?”
“Coochie. She’s good company. What do you call your beagle?”
“Her name is Inga. I haven’t had her long,” I lied. “She belonged to my ex.”
“Really? Coochie was my wife’s dog. We’re still getting to know each other.”
“Us too.”
He winked. “Let me guess. You took the dog cuz your ex took your car. And you’re here looking for a new one.”
I willed my eyes away from his nose. “How did you know? Oh. Is that what happened to you too? You had to take the dog cuz she took everything else?”
He tapped his head and winked. “Not if you’re smart. There are ways to almost have it all.”
I took his arm in a chummy gesture. “Do tell.”
He laughed and his hand covered mine. “Come along, kids. I want to show Cat some cars.”
***
I punched Savino’s number on my phone and heard voices in the background. He was at FBI headquarters, hard at work catching bad guys.
“How was the funeral, babe?” Chance asked. “I wish I could’ve been there.”
“I am glad it’s over. I caught up with some old friends. It was like a mini high school reunion.”
“Sounds like Billy would’ve liked it.”
“Yeah, you’re right. So, you hungry?”
“I’m starving. I was just thinking about ordering a sandwich. It’s not looking like I’m not getting out of here anytime soon.”
Dammit. “Oh well.”
“There’s that new Ethiopian restaurant not far from the office. I could escape the office for a quick dinner with the most beautiful woman in Bridgeport.”
“Well, I don’t know about her, but I have a thing.”
“What kind of a thing?”
“It’s just a thing.”
“Does this have anything to do with the break-in Rocco told me about?”
Rocco has such a big mouth! “My brother embellishes.”
“When were you going to tell me about it, DeLucky?”
“At the thing,” I lied. “It’s at the Moose Lodge.”
“Is your mama cooking?”
“You know she is.”
“I’m on my way.”
I was waiting outside the Moose Lodge when Chance drove up in his Toyota Highlander Hybrid. Somebody had hung a huge banner over the doorway. DEVIN’S SOBRIETY PARTY. YAY!
Savino kissed me. “You didn’t tell me Devin was home.”
“Didn’t I?”
“What’s it been?” He counted his fingers. “Five months sober?”
I looked at my watch. “More like five minutes.”
He watched my eyes. “Has he bothered you?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
I put my arms around his waist. “Do you see the white Lincoln parked across the street. Greasy guy behind the wheel?”
“Hmmm. Who is he?”
That’s Freddy the Fence. He owns a pawn shop on West Cermark Road. Devin stiffed him on some merchandise he had promised him last spring. So now his latest hobby is stalking Devin. It’s scaring the shit out of him.”
“Let me make sure I have this right. He’s leaning on Devin for the Australian diamonds. And Devin thinks you still have them?”
“It’s a vicious circle, isn’t it?”
Savino crossed the street to the white Lincoln. The driver saw him coming and slid down in his seat. Chance tapped on the window and flashed his badge. I tiptoed across the street and ducked behind the guy’s bumper. I was all ears.
“Sir, step out of the car please.”
Freddy the Fence was a short box-shaped man with lego-shaped hair and weasel-shaped facial features. He wore an expensive suit to impress, but instead mimicked too many bad gangster movies.
“The FBI wants to know what your interest is in Devin Rivera.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Rivera is currently under surveillance. We’re monitoring his activities and his associates.”
“The name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“I checked you out, Freddy. Captain Maxfield from the Ninth Precinct tells me you’re being investigated for trafficking stolen goods.”
Freddy the Fence’s throat sounded parched. “I run a legitimate business.”
“Of course you do.”
“Hey. You have me confused with somebody else.”
“Rivera claims he has merchandise he, in fact, does not have. Last week, a shooting over this fantasy merchandise resulted in the death of an undercover agent.”
“That sucks.”
“Be assured, Devin Rivera is going down, Freddy. You do not want to have any connection with him that we will trace. Is that understood?”
“There’s no connection.” He sputtered a nervous laugh. “My car died. That’s why I stopped here.”
“We’re watching you.” Savino handed him a card. “Start it.”
“Excuse me?”
“Start the car.”
Freddy the Fence crammed his squatty fr
ame behind the wheel and reluctantly turned the key. The engine purred.
His brow lifted. “Go figure.”
“It’s a bloody miracle,” Savino said.
As I watched Freddy the Fence burn rubber, I got up and glanced across the street. Devin pulled back from the window. He was watching the whole time. Damn.
I wrapped my arms around Chance’s neck and kissed his lips. “You know, you’re totally gorgeoulicious when you’re bad ass.”
Savino laughed a deep throaty laugh in my ear, hooked his arm around my waist, and we joined the party.
There was a good turn out. A lot of people sipped iced tea and thought of getting a beer on the way home. Pink Floyd pumped through clumsy, outdated speakers. A large table was lined up with soft drinks and all things non-alcoholic. There were pizzas from Tino’s Deli and Mama made meatballs and pasta and antipasto. At the center of the table, a chocolate fudge cake from Bridgeport Bakery on Archer Avenue said WE’RE PROUD OF YOU, DEVIN. It was decorated with lots of gooey frosting and tiny models of really cool cars. Like the ones Devin likes to cut up in his chop shop.
Across the room, Mama held Devin’s face in her hands. She said something that made him smile. I suspected she told us the same things when we got in trouble. Then she patted his cheek and stuffed a heaping plate of food in his hands.
Papa walked over and slapped Devin on the back. I think he knocked the air out of him. Devin looked like he wanted to bolt.
The last time Papa saw Devin was the night Devin assaulted me. Papa crushed his fingers and stood on his face. The next day Devin went into treatment.
“What’s your dad saying?” Savino asked.
“He’s rubbing his scar,” I said. “He is saying, ‘We all have our battles. I’m proud of ya, son. But touch my daughter again, and I will whack ya.’’’ And then Papa smacked him again.
Devin’s eyes darted around the room. They rested on the studalicious guy beside me who could dismember him without working up a sweat. His eyes flashed terror.
“I think he got the message,” Chance said.
“I’m not sure. He’s a special kind of stupid.”
Chance kissed my cheek and began working his way across the room. Halfway there, my switched-at-birth sister Sophie grabbed his hand and dragged him away. I hung out at the buffet table and filled two paper plates with fettuccine carbonara, mediterranean green salad, and big crusty rolls.