Some Like it Hot

by K. J. Larsen

  “People change, Cleo. Today he’d happily drown me with that holy water.”

  We moved the car to the other side of the gray storage building where I had a view of the keypad that opened the gate. When the cream colored Audi appeared, I lifted my binoculars and caught the code that opened the gate.

  Cleo shot over to the ninth precinct and parked on the street. I strolled inside and poked a head into Captain Bob’s office.

  He groaned.

  I said, “I thought you should know there’s a second suspect in Billy Bonham’s murder.”

  “Was there a first?”

  “Kyle Tierney,” I said. “The Irish Pub guy.”

  “Oh yes. My men are beating a confession out of him down the hall in interview room one.”

  I ignored the jab. “The man’s name is Jay Pruitt. He’s built like an ogre. And he has a gold tooth in the front.”

  “Why?”

  “Many people underestimate the importance of flossing, Bob.”

  His face twitched. “Why do you think this guy is connected to Bonham’s homicide? And who the hell is he?”

  “Pruitt lives with the strip poker women. Billy’s Christopher necklace was in their house.”

  “What was Pruitt’s explanation when he gave you the necklace.”

  “Uh, he didn’t.”

  “You broke into his house? You stole the necklace?” Captain Bob’s voice rose with every word.

  “Seriously, Bob. Can you really steal something that doesn’t belong to that person?”

  He searched my face, counting felonies like freckles.

  I said, “I think Pruitt saw Billy in Rocco’s coaching uniform. It had to be after I dropped Billy off at his mother’s. Mrs. Bonham says he only went out once to walk the dog.”

  Captain Bob’s brow shot up in surprise. “And Jay Pruitt told you this?”

  “I uh, kind of overheard the conversation.”

  His brow lost some height. “You were stalking him.”

  “I’m a professional, dammit.”

  Bob took a bottle from his desk tossed back a swig.

  “There’s something else,” I said. “Jay Pruitt owns a .32 magnum. The same type of gun that killed Billy. It wouldn’t hurt to check it out.”

  “Who was this Pruitt talking to when he made the ‘coach’ comment?”

  I shrugged. “I only saw the back of a head. There wasn’t a lot of hair. But the comment should be enough to get a search warrant. Coming from a trusted source, that is.”

  “And you’re saying someone was with you?”

  “Ha ha.”

  “Caterina. I’m retiring next year. The missus wants to go on a cruise.”

  “Fab idea.You should go.”

  “The last time I listened to you, I almost lost my pension.”

  “C’mon Bob. That wasn’t my fault.” I stomped my foot for extra emphasis.

  “No pension, no cruise.” He shrugged. “Caterina, last spring you were hit by an exploding building.”

  “It was a vacancy sign.”

  “Well it took.” He tapped his temple with an index finger. “Scrambled eggs.”

  “C’mon, Bob. I’m bringing you something good here. Run with it and you’ll wow the big boys upstairs.”

  “You know what’s funny about retiring?”

  “Impending senility?”

  “I don’t give a shit about the guys upstairs anymore. My paygrade has peaked. My rank has peaked. I’m playing out my time. I don’t want trouble.”

  He took a swill and pushed the bottle my way. I knocked it back and slammed it down on the table.

  “Then be a hero to Mrs. Bonham. I’m a professional. I’m bringing you good intel.”

  “The last time you said that, I was almost reassigned to traffic duty.”

  “This is different. This is something you can sink your teeth into.”

  “People who lose their retirement don’t need teeth. They live on baked beans and Spam.”

  He looked me over sharply until I felt the need to confess something. Sadly nothing juicy came to mind. When you’re thirty and single, that in itself is a crime.

  “Go away, Caterina. You have given me a headache.”

  I blew an exasperated sigh. “Last chance, Bob. Are you gonna check out this gold-toothed ogre or not?”

  He pushed up from his desk and nudged me to the door. “I’ll send you a postcard from Belize.”

  ***

  Cleo was sitting on the Camry’s hood when I walked back to the car. She saw the expression on my face and winced.

  “Did Captain Bob drown you with holy water?”

  “He wanted to waterboard me. Luckily there were other DeLucas in the building.”

  “Did you ask him to get a warrant?”

  “Of course. He’s picking himself laughing off the floor about now.” I blew a sigh. “We need to get inside that storage locker.”

  “C’mon, I have to show you something.” She jumped off the hood, scooted around and opened the trunk. I stared at a black duffle bag.

  “You should make me a partner. I got something Inga doesn’t.”

  “An insane number of weapons for one human being?”

  “Tools of the trade, girlfriend.”

  She unzipped the bag and removed the items one by one.

  Hook and pick set. Handcuffs. An ankle knife and sheath. Rope, tape, latex gloves. Flashlights. Eighteen inch wrecking bar. Ninja grappling hook. Tazor. Mace. Blow gun, a skull crashing baton.

  “Geesh,” I said. “A blow torch?”

  “Too much?” She shrugged. “Someday we might need a confession.”

  “Take this.” She gave me the knife and ankle sheath. “You never know when you’re gonna run out of bullets.”

  “I’ll use it to cut an apple.”

  Cleo tossed me the key. “You drive. You know where you’re going.”

  I slid behind the wheel with a bad feeling about the storage unit. The kind of feeling you get when you know you’re doing something stupid. I wracked my brain, but I was fresh out of smart.

  “Where to, girlfriend?”

  “Straight to hell,” I said. “But I refuse to go there hungry.”

  Cleo nodded. “When taking down dealers, you can work up an appetite.”

  Twenty minutes later, we were in the heart of China Town at the Triple Crown. We ordered the dim sum and then I rang Mama.

  For once, Mama believed the caller ID. “My precious Caterina!” she said.

  “Gee, Mama. The last time you called me that, was when I told you I was getting married.”

  “It’s good you remember how to make me happy.”

  “That happiness didn’t end so well for me.”

  “Next time will be different.” She laughed giddily. “I just got off the phone with Father Timothy.”

  Mama was up to something. Something she wasn’t telling me. I almost asked her, but then I decided to be pissed off later.

  “I’m wondering if you can keep Inga again tonight? I may be working late.”

  “What’s to ask? She has her own little pillow and she sleeps between Papa and my legs.”

  “And that’s okay with Papa?”

  “Who do you think bought the pillow?”

  “It’s not natural to laugh when you talk about your priest,” I told Cleo after I hung up. “Father Timothy isn’t that much fun.”

  “Your mother seems to think so.”

  “That’s cuz she keeps him entertained by confessing all my indiscretions.”

  “My mother hasn’t been to church in twenty years. Trust me. If she thought she could confess my sins, she’d never miss a service.”

  It was mid-afternoon when we left the Triple Crown. We motored back to the self-storage building, cha
nged our license plates a block away, pulled up to the gate, and entered the code. The gate opened and we cruised inside.

  “Betcha we got a drug lab here,” Cleo said.

  We drove around to the far side where we eavesdropped on Pruitt and Co. earlier.

  “This is it,” I said braking at the second door down. “This is the storage locker. Okay, where is my floppy hat?”

  “Here it is! I am putting together my own little box of tricks.” Cleo pulled two identical hats from a box in the backseat.

  “Zebra striped? This so doesn’t match my outfit.”

  The large garage-type door was secured with a padlock that opened easily with a key. Or a lock and pick with an extra twist or two. We stepped outside, pulled out the latex gloves, and Voila! The lock was off.

  Cleo’s a bit of a drama queen. “Drumroll please.” She swept a hand over her head and down to the ground. Her fingers gripped the handle.

  “Jay Pruitt’s drug business exposed,” she announced.

  The door lifted and Cleo gave a disapproving snort. There was, in a word, furniture.

  “Crap,” she said. “This is the wrong door. We should open a couple more.”

  I shook my head. “It’s the one.”

  “But—this is, you know, just stuff.”

  I walked around, Actually, it was just nice stuff. This antique Tuscan coffee table. The Howard Miller grandfather clock.

  I said, “There’s a lot of money in here.”

  “So he’s the ebay king.”

  “Maybe he does auctions. It could explain how he’s in and out every time I break in his house.”

  “Annoying, isn’t it.”

  Cleo snooped through drawers and a steamer trunk for a hidden meth lab or a couple Columbian drug lords setting up shop.

  She stomped a foot. “Dammit. He was supposed to be a drug dealer.”

  “Admit it, girlfriend. You suck at codes.”

  I browsed around and one piece caught my eye. I picked up a mermaid. It was about eight inches tall and it was, in a word, magnificent. I checked out the bottom. It’s signed by the artist. “I’d love to buy this.”

  “You’ll have to leave him a note the next time you break into his house.”

  Tires scratched the gravel parking lot.

  Cleo reached for the door. “Gotta run,” she said.

  I gave the unit a final sweep and my eyes froze on the smallest surveillance camera, high in the right corner.

  Smile. We’re on candid camera.

  “Coming?” Cleo pulled me out the door.

  We locked up fast, zipped around back, and drove up to the gate. A young couple in a U-Haul truck waved.

  I didn’t tell Cleo about the camera. I figured with nothing missing, fingers crossed, they’d have no reason to run the tape.

  We cruised home without a lot to say. Cleo was annoyed that Pruitt probably wasn’t the bad-ass drug dealer she made him out to be. My head hurt. The aspirin had worn off, but the bump behind my hideous bangs hadn’t. My pocket felt warm where the photo of Billy was. A picture of someone stalking Billy stalking someone. We private dicks and janes are a surly lot.

  I parked the Camry in front of my house and turned off the engine.

  “Comin’ in?” I asked. “I’ll make tea.”

  “No thanks. I got stuff to do.”

  She grinned ear to ear and opened her coat. She pulled out the Vincenzo Bertolotti ceramic of a mermaid resting in a shell and slapped it in my hands.

  “From Billy,” she said.

  I groaned. “You stole this?”

  “They owe it to Billy. They took his brand new Chicago Bears jacket. Besides, there’s so much stuff in there they won’t notice.”

  “Trust me, they’ll notice.”

  “Let them.” Cleo grinned even wider. “They can’t possibly know we were there, can they?”

  I felt like I was gonna be sick.

  I went inside and made ginger tea. The house was lonely without Inga to talk to.

  I took my tea and the Bridgeport News into the living room. I put the Vincenzo Bertolotti ceramic on the mantle and sat across from it in the recliner. I might as well enjoy it. I’d have to return it tonight.

  I sipped the ginger tea and checked out the Bridgeport social calendar news. The Italian American Club was having a Veteran’s Memorial Brick Program. The Moose Club Fish Fry on Friday was not to be missed. The Catholic Church is having their annual Bingo-a-thon and bake sale. You know Mama will be there. Last year she won fifty dollars. She’s a high roller now. She’s been talking about taking a trip to Vegas ever since.

  I skimmed down the page and Rocco’s name caught my eye. Some dirt-bag reporter wrote a piece on a recent string of burglaries. The journalist slammed Rocco and Jackson. She dubbed them the Dubious Duo.

  The article was totally bogus. The guys had been working their bums off on this case, interviewing victims, searching for a common denominator. The bandit was clever. He didn’t leave a fingerprint or DNA behind. He’d mess up sooner or later. Until then, the ninth precinct was taking heat. And this commentary would not be lost on the brass upstairs.

  For an added cherry on the throwing pie assault, an editor’s blurb reported the Bridgeport Bandit struck again last night.

  I called Rocco.

  He skipped the Yo. “You saw the article,” he said.

  “It’s crap.”

  “The guy’s an asshat. He struck again last night.”

  “What did he take?”

  “The usual. Jewelry. A laptop, still in the box. Some mermaid laying in a shell. Flat-screen TV.”

  “What?”

  “What— what?”

  I laughed. “You’d better come over, bro. You’re gonna blow Captain Bob’s socks off.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I think the mermaid’s on my mantle.”

  “Five minutes later the back door bell rang.

  “How’d you get here so fast?” I said swinging the door wide.

  Jay Pruitt stared at me. He had company. It was the Fence outside in the car at Devin’s party. The bald guy with the voice I couldn’t remember. It was all coming back to me now. And I sure as hell remembered something else. Freddy the Fence is a creepy, scary guy.

  Jay said, “Can we come in?”

  “No!” I tried to slam the door shut, but he had a foot in it.

  Freddy said, “She’s expecting someone.”

  His mouth twisted and the gold tooth glittered. “Whoever it is, they are gonna have to wait for a long, long time.”

  “ROCCO!” I screamed, knowing he couldn’t hear.

  I fought with all that was in me. I delivered a couple good punches and kicks that I knew I would pay for later. One jerked my hair back. The other duct-taped my mouth. Then he struck me in the back of my head, between the bottom of my ear and spine.

  Everything went black.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  I woke in a dark place that smelled like funeral flowers. Hundreds of fragrance spewing, oxygen sucking funeral flowers. I wondered if I was dead. I tried to pinch myself, but my hands were tied behind me. My feet were bound and my chest strapped to a chair. I wasn’t dead. I was pissed. And I was in the garden of hell.

  I was pretty sure I could hear rats. The pattering of their little filthy feet, coming to climb up my legs and feast on my eyes. The sound got louder and faster. I couldn’t breathe. My breaths came in short desperate snivels. I nearly blacked out again before I realized I was listening to my heart.

  I did a mental head-smack. Willing my nostrils to take slooow, deeeep snivels. Captain Bob always said I piss people off. Jack, my smart-ass mechanic, said people wanted to kill me. Okay. So they were both right.

  What do they want? A freaking cookie?

  I decided if I get throug
h this alive, I’m going to run that half-marathon with Max. I’m going to take Grandma DeLuca to a gypsy circus—even if it’s in Italy. And I’m going to make arrangements to be cremated. Cuz if my big mouth kills me on any other day, I want my ashes thrown at Bob and Jack.

  Planning my future—or even pretending I had one—helped me pull it together. First I would have to find a way out of here. Then I’d go home and have a meltdown with Ben, Jerry, and Captain Morgan.

  I stretched low to the side, twisted my legs, and grappled Cleo’s knife from my ankle. I breathed a thanks to the yoga gods and opened the blade.

  On the upside, Rocco knew I was in trouble. He’d be looking for me. Every DeLuca in Chicago and every ninth precinct cop would come for me. I just had to stay alive until they figured out where I was.

  A door shot open. Light from the doorway threw a long, ogre-like shadow at my feet. Creepy.

  “You’re back. Good. I told Freddy not to hit you so hard.”

  Pruitt was framed by flowers. Rows and rows of blue and yellow and red blossoms on the other side of the door. I was held hostage at a nursery. If I made it out, I’d bring Mama a big colorful bouquet. If I didn’t, she’d buy flowers for my funeral. My heart beat pounded in my head.

  Pruitt hit a switch and I scrunched my eyes, adjusting to the light. I looked around. Okay. No rats.

  The room was painted pink and gray. The chairs screamed seventies. There was a large desk with drawers on one side and a door on the other. My friend Melanie’s parents had one just like it. When we were kids, we’d climb through the door and hide in the desk. I saw piles of green tissue paper, baby’s breath, gift cards, scissors, and tape on a table used for wrapping flowers. And I saw my 9mm Glock.

  He pulled a chair up beside me. All cozy, like we were friends. Then he ripped the duct tape from my face. It hurt like hell. My eyes stung, but I didn’t flinch. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  “Tough girl, eh?”

  He hunched beside me, the big, meaty, red face sincere. “I’m Jay.”

  He was going for the Stockholm syndrome, where the kidnapped victim identifies with the kidnapper. Yeah right.

  I said, “I know who you are. You’re a thief.”

  “Am I?”

  “Bridgeport Bandit. You’ve made quite a name for yourself.”