Bye, Bye Love

by K. J. Larsen

  I groaned and Cleo laughed. “I’m joking, girlfriend. I still got a few slick tricks up my sleeve. I got a plan.”

  “Will I be bailing you out of jail again?”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  “But I might pack a toothbrush just in case. They got some shitty brushes in that jail. No respect for a person’s oral health.”

  “I’ve got a plan too. It’s called lunch. So don’t get popped. I’ll be waiting at Tino’s.”

  Chapter Ten

  Captain Bob was sitting at his desk, fingers steepled, when I poked my head in the door.

  His face did that twitchy spasmy thing. “Go away.”

  I wiggled a white donut bag.

  “Are those lemon crèmes?”

  “You know they are.”

  Bob is a hard-boiled cop who loves donuts. He lives for lemon crèmes. But when some of the numbers from his last physical were bad, Bob’s wife put him on a high fiber/no donut diet.

  He gaped at the bag and his eyes went glassy. “My wife is brutal. The woman has spies everywhere. Every donut shop in Bridgeport has blacklisted me.”

  I plopped his donuts and hot coffee on the table and pulled up a chair. “So, that’s why you’re so cranky.”

  “Shut up.”

  He bit into a lemon crème and groaned with pleasure. I let him finish. When every last bite was gone, he licked a splat of lemon from his fingers. His lips were powdery white.

  “Thanks for the donuts, Cat.” He said, focusing on his computer screen. “Shut the door on your way out.”

  “Not so fast, Bobby-boy. I think somebody owes me an apology.”

  “Oh really.” His voice dropped to a growl. “For what?”

  “Last night.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I reported a bloody murder and you thought I was crazy. That hurts, Bob. That really hurts.”

  “I was going with the evidence. Or lack, thereof. There was no body.”

  “You know, this is Chicago. People steal stuff.”

  “This wasn’t a car, Cat.” Captain Bob dragged another donut out of the bag. “Besides, there are past mental issues that caused me to question your, um, sanity.”

  “Seriously? I had a concussion seven months ago, not a psychotic break. I’m over it.”

  “Of course you are.”

  My eyes shot to the donuts on the desk. He shoved them in a drawer.

  “I think we should team up on this one,” I said.

  “Hah!” Bob took a swallow of his coffee. “There aren’t enough donuts in Bridgeport.”

  “Keep an open mind. I’m your star witness. I got a good, hard look at this guy. If he didn’t pull the trigger, he knows who did. You need me.”

  “I need you to go away.”

  “Not a chance. At least let me look through your mug books. If the perp’s in there, I’ll find him. If he’s not, get me a sketch artist.”

  “I know I’m gonna regret this.” The captain kicked his chair back. “I’ll get someone to help you. If you can find a photo of this ass-wipe, we’ll take it from there.”

  “I can help you catch this guy.”

  “Maybe. If you were on my team. But, you’re not.”

  That’s the moment I decided to go rogue.

  OK, I know it was childish and dumb as hell. But Captain Bob refused to treat me with the professional respect I deserve. I mean, who did he think he was? My mother?

  I decided I would solve the murder of Bernie Love by myself. I’d hunt this Rolex Man down and prop his head on a platter. The next time I strutted into Bob’s office, I wouldn’t be waggling a bag of lemon crèmes.

  “You’re just a concerned citizen here. Nothing more. Do we have a deal?”

  I crossed my fingers behind my back. “Deal.”

  And that was the biggest lie of all.

  ***

  I followed Captain Bob into the buzz of the bull pen. Our ears were assailed by the hum of several conversations mixing together and interspersed with the clacking of keyboards and ringing of phones. If you closed your eyes, you might mistake the sounds for a public television pledge drive.

  I caught Tommy’s eye across the room and waved. Tommy is Leo’s partner and a rookie from Wisconsin. Veteran cops are notoriously tough on rookies. But Tommy skirted most of the hazing when he unwittingly took a bullet for me. Well, not a bullet exactly. More accurately, a bomb. The rookie became an instant hero. He won the old guard over at the Ninth with a little shrapnel and a few broken ribs. Now they include him when they stop at Mickey’s for a beer. Papa invites him to barbeque suppers with his burnt chicken and Mama’s pasta salads and Italian Cream Cake. But he hasn’t earned a seat at Uncle Joey’s poker game yet.

  We both cheated death that week. For Tommy, it was his very first day as one of Chicago’s Finest. For me, it was the week I ran into an exploding building. Not my best move.

  A smartass voice from the back of the room shot out, “911 Emergency. A woman’s no-good husband is ganting around. P.I. Hot Pants DeLuca on the scene.”

  A snicker rippled through the bull pen. A smile tugged the edges of Captain Bob’s mouth.

  Booker’s voice boomed from the back. “All right, give it a rest.”

  Joey’s partner pushed his way to the joker and smacked the back of his head. “Cat, don’t listen to this fool. He couldn’t light a spark in his own pants—let alone someone else’s.”

  The joker grinned. “My pants see plenty. They’re smokin’ hot.”

  Booker waved a hand in front of his face. “That’s not smoke.”

  “OK, back to work,” Captain Bob barked over the laughter.

  The room quieted to its usual dull roar and Bob gestured to Tommy. The rookie shot over.

  “Yes, Captain,” he said, grinning at me.

  “Take Caterina to an empty desk and bring her the mug books. She says she saw a guy in the park last night. If he’s not a park employee, he could be a person of interest.”

  As usual, Captain Bob minimized my contribution to our partnership.

  Booker appeared behind the captain. “Park employees don’t pull weeds after dark. This guy wore a Rolex. There’s no way he worked for the city.”

  Captain Bob brow shot up. “Joey has a Rolex.”

  “He moonlights.” Booker hung an arm around my shoulder. “I’ll take it from here, Tommy. I’ll fix Cat up with the mug books and bring her a cup of cop shop coffee.”

  “I’ll pass on the sludge.” I said.

  “I got this,” Tommy protested.

  Bob shrugged. “I thought Booker had more sense. If he wants it, it’s his.”

  “The douche-bag killed my partner’s friend,” Booker said. “Assaulted his niece. And kicked her dog. I owe it to Joey to bring him in.”

  “In tiny little pieces,” I suggested.

  Tommy said, “Did this guy hurt you?”

  “I’m fine. But my partner bit him. The teeth-marks on his legs will convict him.”

  Captain Bob rolled his eyes.

  “Ted Bundy,” I said. “Thanks anyway, Tommy.”

  “Maybe we can have a beer later. Unless you got somebody to stalk.”

  “Just you, Tommy. Be at Mickey’s at seven.”

  ***

  Booker put me in a stark, windowless room, buried in mug books. He stuck his head in the door from time to time. The first time he brought a cup of the cop shop’s nasty-ass coffee, I made him take it away. The next time he brought a bottle of water and a package of crackers and cheese from the vending machine. I kissed his cheek. The third time he opened the door, I was walking out.

  I needed air and a brisk walk. Poring over mug shots was depressing. I was seeing some of these guys on the worst day of their life. There weren’t a lot of cheesy smiles. I saw dazed,
drunken faces with deer-in-headlight eyes. I saw typical angry bad boys. Then there were some who didn’t give a damn and guys who appeared genuinely scared. I saw a good number of arrogant jerks. And more than a few sociopaths with feral eyes as cold as ice.

  Booker caught me at the door. “Running away?”

  “Definitely.”

  He fell in step. “Me too.”

  I welcomed the company. We stepped out into the crisp, morning air and walked south on Halsted. Mama had taken Inga to the vet. She was a little sore after the Rolex monster kicked her last night. Mama gave me a thorough tongue-lashing for endangering her favorite granddog. She gathered up Inga’s sleepover pillow and favorite chew toys and my traitorous girl bounced happily out the door. She didn’t look back. I wasn’t expecting to see either of them anytime soon.

  I hooked my arm in Booker’s and dragged him to one of Bridgeport’s hidden gems. Jackalope Coffee and Tea House is tucked away at the end of a dead-end street. It’s Bridgeport’s version of Cheers, a place where everybody knows your name. When I’m stuck on a case I grab my laptop and drop in for a cupcake, latte, or wild berry smoothie. Their amazing Day of the Dead artwork inspires me.

  Booker had the Unicorn sandwich and I sipped on a spicy chai latte in a brightly colored mug. I ordered a big bowl of chicken gumbo soup and a strawberry scone to go for Joey. My uncle loves to eat but Linda hates to cook. And he can barely manage a microwave. Joey’s friends and family feed him. He keeps a foot in Mama’s kitchen.

  Mama might adore Joey but she’s not crazy about his wife. She doesn’t trust anyone who turns down her lasagna. She says Linda is too thin. And she refuses to believe there’s a connection between her sister-in-law’s fabulous figure and her grueling workouts at the gym. Mostly, Mama suspects Linda is puking up her cannoli.

  Booker dug his cell phone out and showed me a selfie of his son BJ and Joey Jr. having pizza and giant-sized sodas in their messy dorm room.

  “Look at those boys,” Booker grinned. “They’re killin’ the ladies,”

  “They’re definitely knockouts. And brilliant.” I smiled. “Wherever did they get it from?”

  “Joey and I think their mamas were doing the computer salesman. That guy was brainy. And a smooth talker.”

  I laughed. “I don’t know about the salesman. But I remember your kids had new computers every year.”

  The coffee shop door opened and a gorgelicious hottie in Spandex and running shoes trotted in with his English sheepdog. They placed an order to go at the counter. Booker caught me gawking.

  “Nice eyes?” he deadpanned.

  “Dunno. The face was a little hairy.”

  “Nice try, kid. You were checking out the guy in the sprayed-on Spandex. Not the dog.”

  “Oh,” I said all innocent like. “Did he have eyes?”

  Booker dumped extra sugar in his coffee and stirred. “BJ is acing his classes at Harvard.”

  “You must be proud.”

  Booker shrugged. “He might be enjoying this college thing too much. He wants to be an oral maxillofacial surgeon. I don’t even know what that means. He says the word and all I hear is cha-ching. Do you have any idea how much that’s gonna cost me?”

  “BJ should be eligible for some scholarships and grants.”

  “I gotta think of something.”

  Booker’s brow furrowed. He had two more kids at home. They’d be heading to college in a few years.

  “My youngest says she’s gonna be an environmental biologist and save the Oregon Spotted Frog. A goddam frog,” He made a face. “That’s what I get for sending her to camp last summer.”

  I laughed. “Marcy’s a great kid.”

  “My kids’ got big dreams. You’d think at least one of ’em would wanna be a cop like the old man.”

  “When Papa went to work, he told the twins he was going to save the world.”

  “And they became cops. They believed him. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Yeah. Well the twins aren’t that bright.”

  Our server dropped a brown paper bag with Uncle Joey’s chicken gumbo and our bill on the table. I slapped a card in his hand before Booker could pull out his wallet.

  “I don’t have to worry about tuition. Inga’s already smarter than I am. Even without college. This is on me.”

  “In that case, I’ll take another bowl of that chicken gumbo and a raspberry almond puff of doom. To go.”

  The server trotted off and Booker smiled broadly. “If there’s one thing my partner hates, it’s eating alone.”

  Back in my windowless room at the Ninth, I found two more mug books on the crowded table. And a note from Tommy.

  Found these in the back. Night shift leaves their crap around. See you tonight. T

  I picked up one of Tommy’s books and leafed through the pages. Same shit, different pile. I made myself comfortable and got to work. Halfway through Tommy’s second book, I felt the hair rise on the back of my neck. For a moment I couldn’t breathe. My gaze narrowed on a photo. And Rolex Man glared back at me. He was a burley guy with short dark hair and no neck. Someone had carved a thin scar along his left cheekbone and down his jaw with a knife. He probably had it coming.

  Toby Smoak. I jotted down his name, date of birth, and booking ID and stuffed the paper in my pocket.

  My lip curled when I said his name. Ain’t karma a bitch?

  I grabbed my bag and bolted out the door. I was scampering down the hall toward the exit when Booker called my name.

  I winced and turned around. He was walking toward me, the open mug book in his hand.

  Crap! I’d been so pumped, I left the book open on the table.

  “You found something,” he said. “On this page.”

  “Not really.” I slathered Dr. Pepper Lipsmacker all over my lying mouth.

  “Show me. Who is he?”

  “Here’s the thing. This mug shot thing isn’t working for me.”

  He pushed the open book in my face. “Which one.”

  I squinted at the photos. “I can’t be sure. It was dark. It may have been foggy.”

  “What are you pulling, Cat? These are not guys you want to mess with.”

  I exaggerated a sigh. “I tried, Booker. I looked at hundreds of photos. But you know how men are. After a while, you all look alike.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Bernie lived on a block of wood-frame houses with painted shutters and pampered yards. I parked in front of the one with cheery yellow police tape across the porch. There were potted flowers and a cool, iron bird sculpture on the stoop. If Bernie was home, I would’ve asked where he got it.

  I left a message on Cleo’s voice mail to call me. I had the name of the killer. Or at least his cleaner.

  I slipped on plastic gloves, held my head high, and strode purposefully up the steps. When you B&E, you gotta act as if you own the place. Regrettably, the integrity of my arrival was compromised when I botched my lateral side kick. I thrust a leg over the police barrier and the yellow tape stuck to my shoe like a stream of toilet paper.

  I did a total bad-ass kickboxing move but the tape was a stickler. I reached down and ripped it off my shoe. Then I pried it off my gloves and threw the whole crumpled mess on the porch. I used my picks to turn the dead bolt and then the doorknob lock. I darted inside and closed the door behind me. Smooth.

  Bernie’s living room was a wash of earth-tones and masculine mahogany woods and leather. I wandered from room to room searching for a glimpse of the bookkeeper’s life, when he had a face.

  I concluded that Bernie lived alone but sometimes he had company. The guest bathroom was well-stocked with new toothbrushes and women’s toiletries. He wore expensive, tailored clothes and preferred natural fabrics. He had golf clubs and he liked soft, fuzzy sweaters. He owned three robes and three pair of slippers. He was a boxer gu
y. And he didn’t wear pajamas.

  Bernie’s refrigerator was a tribute to cheese. He drank Peroni beer and Chianti. There was a whole pizza from Tino’s Deli that should have been last night’s supper. I helped myself to a Greek yogurt and a handful of strawberries, and washed them down with a cold mineral water.

  Bernie had books in every room. He’d been reading Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast when he died. The book was beside his bed, open to the last chapter. I read it in school a long time ago. I can’t remember the ending but it had to be better than the one Bernie got.

  Bernie liked history and crime fiction. But birds were his passion. Entire bookshelves were devoted to birds and photographing them. He’d traveled all over the world to capture the pictures displayed on his walls.

  Frankly, I didn’t get this guy. There was a decided disconnect between the bird whisperer and the man who made a career hiding a very bad man’s money. For some reason Bernie aligned himself with a killer thirty-some years ago. What I did get was why he wanted out.

  I wandered into his office, plopped onto a plush leather desk chair, and spun around a few times. Rocco and Jackson took the hard drive with them before they plastered police tape across the door. The keyboard, monitor, and printer were fluff without it.

  I snooped through the desk drawers. Paper clips, pens, and paper for the printer. I emptied the waste basket on the desk. I smoothed out the crumpled papers one by one and tossed them back in the can. The last item on the desk was a lottery ticket from last night’s drawing. Not a winner, apparently. I found a sandwich baggie in the kitchen, tucked the ticket inside and zipped.

  I drummed my fingers on the desk. Uncle Joey said Bernie suspected his boss was after him. I needed something to back that up. If my find was convincing enough, a judge could sign off on a search warrant for Provenza. And just maybe, it would make enough noise to spook Toby Smoak out from under his rock.

  Outside, I heard a car door close. There was the quick patter of running footsteps. A shadowy figure skulked past the big bay window. I scooted to the far side of the curtain, and carefully nudged it aside. The skulker was one of Chicago’s boys in blue. He pushed in tight against the side of the house. He was crouched low and his backside turned my way like a moon.