by K. J. Larsen
I paused at the dessert table, eenie-meenie-miny mo-ing my pointy finger between the pignoli pie and the tiramisu.
Papa chortled behind me. “Take one of each. It’s what I do.”
“Smart,” I agreed and did so.
Papa glanced furtively around the room saying, “Your Mama can’t hear, can she?”
She was twenty feet away consoling one of Sophie’s screaming toddlers. I couldn’t be sure. Mama has freakish ears.
“Whisper,” I said.
He glanced at Mama’s back, and she turned and waved.
I laughed. “And I thought you were faithful cuz you’re a good man.”
He grinned. “Your Mama sees to it.”
My parents adore each other. They met when Mama was a hat-check girl at the Berghoff downtown. One night a guy bowled past her and snagged Walter Payton’s leather coat. Papa was the rookie cop who responded to the call. When he got there, the thief was on the floor, all tied up in knots with Payton’s leather belt. The way Papa tells it, the hat-check girl had the most beautiful legs he’d ever seen. She was a curvy five-foot five, a hundred fifteen pounds. The thief was six feet tall and built like a refrigerator. The guy didn’t stand a chance.
Neither did Papa. He and Mama were married four months later.
“What’s up?” I said.
He winced. “I need your help. Our thirty-fifth anniversary is coming up. Your Mama wants to get married.”
“You’re not married? Jeez, Papa. Does Grandma DeLuca know?”
He made a face. “Some church busy-body told your Mama, if you’re married by a judge, then God doesn’t know you’re married.
“God’s not a fool. You have five kids. He can figure it out.”
Papa grabbed his scar. “Your Mama wants a church ceremony. With Father Timothy. She says we have to write our own vows.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, Yes, dear. I’m not a fool either.”
I laughed. “Okay. I’ll talk to her. Maybe I can help with the reception. We’ll make it fun.”
“Fun? I doubt I can drink that much alcohol. But I intend to try.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I want you to write my vows. I don’t know what to say.”
“I’ll get the cake and the booze. I’m not writing your vows.”
“Of course you are.” He kissed my cheek. “And get on it. I gotta memorize this shit.”
Chance shook off Sophie and closed in on Devin. Devin saw him coming and tried to make his escape, but Chance caught his hand and squeezed. Savino seemed to empty the blood from Devin’s hand. It went to his cheeks. His face, racked with pain, bulged a hideous red. I almost felt sorry for him.
Chance leaned in and whispered something in his ear. He released him and Devin ran to the bathroom, hand over mouth. He was going to be sick.
Mama did a little trapping of her own. She and Father Timothy had captured Savino. Now it was him I felt sorry for. Not sorry enough to save his ass, but it was close.
Father Timothy was deep in conversation about reserving the church. Mama eyes were in nonstop scan mode across the room, anxious for me to join the conversion. But I’ve known since I was five that my mama never looks under the table.
When Chance found me again, he growled in my ear. “You know, you could have saved me from your mother.”
“Who?” I gulped my fruit punch. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. By the way, whatcha say to Devin?”
He shrugged. “Guy talk.”
Jack strolled over beaming. “Great party, kids. Thanks for coming.” He turned to Chance. “I saw you over there with Devin. Whatever you said, hit home. He got all choked up.”
“It was a powerful moment, Jack,” I said. “I think they bonded.”
Jack looked a little choked himself. “Thank you.”
The cobalt blues smiled. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
Chapter Twenty-six
I woke in a sweat, chased by a giant, gold-toothed ogre in my dreams. I listened. The only sound was Inga’s snore.
The grandfather clock in the living room chimed four times. I groaned and pulled the covers over my head.
Then I sat up straight in bed. I replayed the conversation in my head.
I’m here for my friend, I said. I only care about his St. Christopher necklace.
We don’t know the guy.
Blah blah blah. I fast forwarded the conversation in my head.
Tell you what, the gold toothed ogre said. Buy his mother another St. Christopher necklace. She won’t know the difference.
I shook my partner. The snoring stopped. Inga pretended to sleep.
“I know you can hear me,” I said.
I plopped down on my back and stared up at the ceiling.
“How could he possibly know the necklace was for Billy’s mama?”
***
A few hours later, I stood outside Rocco’s door with three fru-fru coffees plus donuts.
Maria opened the door and crossed herself. “Oh no! Who died?”
“Lots of people, just nobody we know.” I pushed the bag of donuts in her hands and followed her through the door to the kitchen.
She looked in the bag. “I’m doing a maple bar before the girls get up.”
Maria is super mom. She cooks healthy meals with lots of organic produce. Her home is a sugar-free zone. A woman could crack under the pressure. Once a month we have a standing date. We sneak away for drinks and cheesecake.
“And I’ll do an apple fritter,” she added.
“Apple is a fruit,” I said.
I pulled an old-fashioned donut from the bag.
“Where’s Rocco? He’s not answering his phone.”
“He left early. Captain Bob is all over him about some case he’s on. You’ll probably find him at the station.”
“I’d like to hang around and make some plans with the girls. We have our own trouble to get into when you’re in San Francisco.”
I opened my bag and gave her two tickets for the Bears/Giants game. “For Rocco’s birthday. I thought you might want to surprise him.”
“Rocco said the game was sold out.”
“Not for Uncle Joey.”
“Wow.” She stared at the tickets in her hand. “I hate football.”
***
Captain Bob frowned when I walked into the Ninth Precinct. I should’ve brought lemon crèmes.
“What are you doing here, Caterina?”
“That hurts, Bob. I’m a professional detective. We’re practically colleagues in law enforcement.”
A snicker ruptured among some of my colleagues.
“I saw you at the funeral yesterday,” Captain Bob said.
“Did you?”
“You walked by and stomped on my foot. And then you kicked your papa on the leg.”
“I blame BilIy. I seem to be channeling him a lot.”
A voice barked from the back. “911. This is Pants On Fire. What is your emergency.”
A howl erupted.
“Nice, Leo,” I said. “When your wife calls, she’s getting a freebie.”
“Leo’s wife ain’t callin’,” someone said. “The fire burned out of his pants a long time ago.”
“All right, guys,” Bob said. “Show’s over. Back to work.”
I turned to Captain Bob. “Have you found Billy’s killer yet?”
“No.”
“Because I have the address.”
The twitch was back. “Let it go, Caterina. Tierney’s not the guy.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he has no motive and an airtight alibi.”
“What if I told you Billy was hot on the trail of a sting that involved Marilyn Monroe and a pair of diamond earrings.”
&nb
sp; “Oh Jesus. You got hit in the head again, didn’t you?”
“Twice.”
“For the love of God, see a doctor.” He walked away shaking his head.
I called after him. “Be nice, Bob. Or I’ll cut you out of my baby pictures.”
I wandered over to Rocco’s desk and spun around in his chair. Someone said he and Jackson had stepped out on official police business. The guys were back in five minutes with a white bakery bag.
Rocco hugged me. “That was an insane entrance at the funeral yesterday.”
“At least I got Billy’s St. Christopher necklace back for his mama.”
“How’d you convince the women to give it to you?”
“I didn’t.”
“In and out?”
“Like a ninja.”
Rocco picked a jelly donut from the bag and offered me one.
“I’m good. I dropped by your house this morning. Maria said you left early.”
Rocco thumped the file on his desk with a fist. “More kicks and giggles from the Bridgeport Bandit. I’m glad you’re not working with these guys. We’d never find them.”
“What have you got?”
Jackson said, “It’s possible the Bridgeport Bandit isn’t local. He drives in from Wisconsin, loads up, and goes home.”
“That’s Jackson’s theory,” Rocco said.
“Based on hard evidence,” Jackson said.
Rocco said, “A Brewers baseball ticket was found on the floor in one of the houses they hit. Owner said it wasn’t his.”
Jackson said, “It’s more than a theory. A guy lives in Chicago, he’s a Cubs or Sox fan.”
Rocco grunted. “Like I said, it’s a theory. What brings you by?”
“It’s about the St. Christopher. When I went to the strip poker house, I didn’t even say Billy’s name. They said they didn’t know him.”
“They’re covering their butts,” Rocco said.
I grabbed a tissue and wiped a blob of jelly from my brother’s white shirt. “The guy said I should buy my friend’s mama another necklace. She wouldn’t know the difference.”
“And you think she would,” Jackson said.
Jackson wasn’t paying attention. He placed donuts on a paper plate, practically fondling each one. His eyes had a sugary glaze. I decided I never want to see Savino look at another woman that way.
I said, “How did he know the necklace was for Billy’s mama?”
Rocco shrugged. “It’s no secret Billy’s dead.”
“Then why not say, buy another St. Christopher for his family. Or the parents. I’m telling you, the guy knew it was for Billy’s mother.”
“So Billy told the women he lives with his mother.”
“Really? Billy’s hitting on two gorgeous women and talking about his mama?”
Jackson cut in. “You’re making too much of this. Two women drink too much. They pick up Billy and take him home for a threesome.”
“This is already hard to swallow,” Rocco said.
“Okay,” Jackson said, “The husband comes home. The women have sobered up enough to remember one of ’em is married. They panic and throw Billy out the window.”
“Except they’re not married. Two women, one man, separate bedrooms.”
Rocco said, “I checked for any police or incident reports associated with that address. Zip. Nada. Billy’s the only one.”
“Only what?” I said.
“The only guy who came out of that house in a sock and his shorts.”
“And your point?”
Rocco shrugged. “This is a case of booze, sex, and a blatant lack of good sense. Nothing more. I’m sorry, sis. But that was Billy’s M.O.”
“You’re talking about the last time you saw Billy. Eleven years ago. That’s the M.O. of every nineteen-year-old guy.”
Rocco clearly remembers being nineteen. He didn’t argue. “Okay. The two women and the guy. I’ll run their names. Maybe something will come up.”
“Uh, I don’t have names.”
“Their license plates?”
I winced. “That’s another big zip.”
Jackson grinned. “Let me get this straight, Sherlock. You broke into their house, you wandered around, maybe made yourself a sandwich, and you didn’t get names or anything for identification?”
“I’ll get back to you on that.”
“Let it go, sis. It’s over. Billy’s gone.”
“It’ll be over when you arrest Kyle Tierney. And I want to be there. If you let me put the cuffs on him, I’ll do your laundry for a year.”
“You gotta do better than that. Maria already does my laundry.”
“You can do my laundry,” Jackson winked.
Rocco hung an arm around me and half pushed me outside. I had a feeling he was trying to get rid of me.
“Cat, we’ve been over this before. You do realize you can’t arrest people, don’t you? We’re not technically colleagues in law enforcement.”
“So what are you saying, Rocco?”
“Go home. Catch yourself some cheaters. No one is better at it. Take your pictures. Sweeten some divorce settlements.”
I stomped a foot. “I’m not a hootchie stalker. I’m a detective, dammit.”
“I know. But leave the arrests and the handcuffing to us. Jackson and I will handle the murder investigation. We’ll shoot the bad guys.”
“Are you going to shoot Tierney?”
“No.”
I kissed his cheek. “Well, then what good are you?”
Chapter Twenty-seven
The obituary for Alan Mitchell was in the Chicago Sun Times archives. It took less than five minutes to bring it up.
Mitchell was thirty years old when he was murdered. Graduating from Lake View High School in Ravenswood; he attended night classes at Truman College. He was mostly known by his stage name, Alekazzam the Magnificent. He amazed children and adults with his magic acts.
Unfortunately his last act was less than amazing. It got him killed.
I skimmed past the list of family survived bys and proceeded in death by. The Benson Family Funeral Home made the arrangements. The service was held at Ravenswood Covenant Church where Mitchell once sang in the choir. The body was interred at Mt. Carmel Cemetery.
That’s what I wanted to know.
I looked at Inga and she bolted off for her leash. I grabbed my bag and keys and opened the door.
“Let’s find some flowers.” And I swung by the Flower Cottage on West 31st.
I bought a fat bouquet of roses, delphinium, and lilies. Then I browsed around the reflective metal yard art section. With apologies to St. Francis, I picked up a cheesy likeness of the saint with a bird blinking on his shoulder. I hit the Dan Ryan, cut over to the Ike, exiting left toward the West Suburbs to 1400 South Wolf Road. Home to Al Capone, Machine Gun Jack, Bloody Angelo, and a slew of other Chicago gangsters. The home to archbishops, cardinals, and priests. Sinners and saints.
And to Alan Mitchell. Like the rest of us, he was a little bit of both.
We rolled through the iron gate past a couple guys digging a fresh grave. The sod layer had been removed and set aside. A backhoe had done the grunt work. The guys were finishing it off with shovels.
I followed signs to a Chapel and adjoining office. A man who’d outlived most of the residents gave me a map and directions to Mitchell’s grave.
I said a prayer for Alan and placed the flowers on his grave. Then I anchored Rudolph St. Francis in the ground. With a little luck, the flashing bird would go unnoticed until we returned later that night.
Cemeteries have rules that protect the dignity of their guests.
***
I must’ve been inspired by the cemetery’s gorgeous gardens. When I got home, I hung up the new birdfeeder, hoping to attract cardi
nals. It was certain to fatten the squirrels. I did some weeding in the backyard, cut back the rose bush, and covered the flower beds with a soft bed of mulch for winter.
I was finishing up when Inga bayed out a sound that said, Alarm! Alarm!
That could mean anything. Being late for dinner can send panic through a beagle.
I glanced at my watch. Mama gave her an early afternoon snack about now.
I said, “Are you hungry, girl?”
She screamed again, hair up on her back.
“Me too. Let’s find something to eat.”
I scooped my tools in the bucket and hopped on the porch behind Inga. I grabbed the door knob. It wouldn’t turn. The door was locked, bolted from the inside. Someone was inside my house.
I grasped for my phone. I needed to call any DeLuca with a badge and a gun that wasn’t defending underwear. My hand trembled and came up empty. The cell was in my bag on the little table by the door.
Did I lock the front door when I came in? I didn’t remember. But apparently an alarm doesn’t go off if you don’t set it.
I pressed my face to the window. A flash of tall and skinny wooshed down the hall in a black face mask.
Devin!
I would wring his scrawny neck.
I was too mad to be scared. I seized my garden hoe and broke a small glass window pane on the door. I reached my hand inside and unlocked the dead bolt. That was too easy. Instead of replacing the broken one, I made a mental note to replace every pane with unbreakable glass.
I told Inga to wait outside. I didn’t want her to see me clobber her new best sausage-friend.
I turned the knob and kicked the door open like Rambo.
“I saw you, Devin, you weasely little man. Come out before I call the cops.”
I stomped through the kitchen and down the hall to my bedroom.
“I’m getting my gun, Devin,” I yelled. “If you’re smart you’ll be gone before I—”
My hand jerked open the drawer, ruffling Victoria’s Secrets. There was a sound behind me.
I whirled to face the black mask, pistol cocked, silk and lace entwined in my fingers.
Fifty-thousand volts went through me. My legs dissolved to Jell-o. I crashed. The nightstand broke my fall. When I opened my eyes again, my forehead had a sticky new bump. My hand clutched the panties.