by K. J. Larsen
“This whole case is an illusion, Uncle Joey. It’s not what it looks like.”
“I suppose I could assume the new identity I got for Bernie. Live out my days in Costa Rica.”
I laughed. “Call Captain Bob. Tell him I kidnapped you. ”
“He’ll want to arrest you.”
“What’s new?”
***
I was in bed counting sheep, with an arm around Inga, when Savino called. He’d left several messages during the day but I hadn’t picked them up. I was still a little pissy about Chance assigning Max to me without as much as a conversation. I was just pouty enough to expect my boyfriend to hang around when the bullets fly. Not send a surrogate hot guy.
I was emotionally exhausted and being a putz. I answered the phone on the fifth ring.
“Did you see I called earlier?” He was almost hollering.
“Yeah. I was handcuffed.”
He laughed as if I’d said something funny. “Did you get my message?”
“No. Why are you yelling?”
“I’m in a helicopter.”
“Oh no. You did not just say that.” I heard the venom in my voice.
“I’m in Nevada. We have a situation here—I can’t really talk about it.”
“Of course you can’t.”
“I hate to leave you right now, DeLucky.”
“Really? Cuz you sound chipper enough.”
“I need to find this guy and bring him back. It was supposed to be a quick pick-up. In and out and home tonight. You wouldn’t know I was gone. But the guy ran. I should be back in time for the wedding Saturday.”
“Whatever.”
“You’re pissed.”
“I’m tired, Savino. I’ve been shot at, nearly arrested, crushed by a frozen dead guy, and some dirtbag broke in my house.”
“Dammit, Cat. I gave you Max. He’s supposed to take care of you.”
I didn’t trust myself to answer that one.
He shouted over the engine’s racket. “It’s been a rough few days, babe. Things will look better in the morning.”
“I can’t hear you. You’re cutting out.”
“You’re upset. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
“I didn’t hear that at all.”
Click.
I tossed the phone on the nightstand.
Cleo shook her pink-tipped head in the doorway.
“Unh, unh unh.”
I made a face. “You overheard.”
“No. I was eavesdropping.” She sashayed in and plopped on the bed. “Gimme the scoop.”
“Savino’s in Nevada.”
She shrugged. “He wouldn’t have gone if he had a choice. Not with Smoak out there.”
“So he says.”
“I bet you’re PMS-y. You’ve been a little bitchy lately.”
“Shut up.”
She laughed. “The guy’s crazy about you. Last night he was ready to take a bullet for you.”
I smiled. “I guess that counts for something.”
“It’s romantic as hell.” She sighed, all dreamy and goofy. “I wonder what Frankie would do if someone was shooting at me.”
My guess was, run like hell.
“You don’t want to find out,” I said.
Her eyes gleamed. “Yes, I do. We can test him.”
“No we can’t.”
“We set up a drive-by. Frankie and I are strolling down the street when...” She made a gun with her hand. “Pop! Pop! Pop!”
Geesh!
“We might want to use blanks,” she said.
“Ya think?”
I threw a pillow at her.
Chapter Thirty-three
A Cleo-sized wail woke me from a dreamless sleep. I jumped up, wrestled the 9mm from my panty drawer and charged down the hallway. My heart hammered in my chest. Cleo squawked again. I followed the sounds to the guest room, and blazed in, ready to blow a hole through my intruder. Cleo sobbed softy. She dragged a sweater and jeans from the closet, stripping and frantically pulling them on.
I set the weapon on the dresser and willed my heart back in my chest. “Uh, what’s happening?”
“My sister’s been in a terrible accident. She’s at the hospital in Wheaton.”
My heart wrenched for her. “I’m sorry, babe. Is that your sister, the nun?”
“No,” she sobbed. ‘”It’s my sister the h-h-h-ho.”
Inga and Beau barked anxiously, picking up on Cleo’s meltdown.
“I’ll drive you,” I said.
“No. I need to do this. I have to beg my sister to forgive me. She’s probably at the m-m-morgue.”
That unleashed a new fountain of tears.
Cleo tugged on socks and shoes. “She’s my baby sister. Oh, why did I treat her so bad. Why was I so pissed off?”
Off the top of my head, it might be because she stole your money, your clothes, your dog, and your husband. But l kept that to myself.
“I really should drive you,” I said and ducked into my room.
Her keys rattled and the door closed. I grabbed a robe and told the dogs to stay. I darted to the car after her.
“Be careful,” I said. “And call me. If you need anything, I’ll be there in a flash.”
She peeled rubber, weaving erratically. Her taillights were all over the road. I watched her narrowly elude parked cars until she disappeared from view.
I turned back and the neighborhood snoop glared at me from her window. I waved and hurried to quiet the dogs before she called the cops.
I set the alarm and called Inga and Beau. They didn’t come. The last time this happened, one of them had an accident on the carpet. I found them hiding under the bed.
“It’s OK, kids,” I said trotting down the hall. “Where are you?”
Their barks grew louder and more frantic. And then I got it. A shiver crawled down my spine and my legs faltered.
The dogs were locked in the bathroom. The bathroom on the other side of the house.
Holy crap.
My piece was in the guestroom. My phone was by my bed. And my taser was in the hollowed-out Bible in the trunk.
I would have to beat this jerk off with my bunny slippers.
I felt rather than heard him slither up behind me. I moved quickly and spun mightily, kicking up a foot with a killer move I learned from Jackie Chan. I was gonna feed this dirtbag his teeth.
And then something hard as kryptonite smacked my head. My flying bunny foot crashed in an explosion of brilliantly colored stars. Everything went black.
I don’t know how long I was out. But a frenzied howling and scratching brought me back. I lay on the hallway floor mad as hell, feeling as if my head would explode.
I knew this much. If I was holding a gun, wouldn’t be looking at this moron’s legs.
The intruder was in my bedroom. I heard him banging drawers and tearing the place up. I was trapped. I couldn’t make it to the front door without being seen. And if I ducked out the back door, the alarm would go off. He would chase me down before I made it to the gate.
I sprang to my feet and nearly passed out. The pain in my head was brutal. I moved silently to the kitchen, slipping into the pantry. I opened the secret space behind the wall with my jewelry, Bernie’s box, and some dusty bottles of Prohibition moonshine.
I took a deep breath and sucked everything in. Then I climbed onto a shelf and folded like a pretzel, closing the door tight.
I hardly breathed. I heard the dirtbag for some time, throwing things and searching for me. I guess he finally decided I’d bailed cuz the alarm wailed. I let it scream and it wasn’t until I heard the cops arrive that I stumbled out of the pantry.
My pretzel legs felt stiff and gumby at the same time. I let the dogs out of the bathroom.
&
nbsp; And then I called Cleo.
I told her the ho was safe. The “accident” had been a ruse to get her out of the house. I said on the upside, she’d have a chance to make peace with her sister after all.
Cleo gave a smartass snort. “Peace?” she shrieked. “After all that snatch has put me through? Not gonna happen.”
Yes, Cleo was just fine.
A paramedic examined the bump on my head. She cleaned away the blood and said I should have it looked at. I told her my neighbor was a doctor and she seemed satisfied. I didn’t mention his doctorate was in marine biology.
The cops asked their questions. I said “no” a lot. No, I don’t know why someone would target my house. No, I don’t know what they were looking for. And no, I haven’t pissed anyone off lately.
Okay, the last one was a lie. I’m always pissing somebody off. And the second one was a big, fat whopper too.
My intruder was after something in Bernie’s box. Nothing else made sense. Maybe it was Provenza’s guy. He seemed to think the ledger was here. But why send just one bully. I’d expected a small army.
My house was trashed. My head hurt. And I felt like crying. It was almost five a.m. and my merriest maid would still be sleeping. As God intended. I called her number anyway and left a message on her machine. She would come and work her magic. And when I came home tonight, I’d have my house back.
I sat on the couch with Beau and Inga. The cops buzzed around, checking doors and windows. A blue shirt with soft eyes came over and asked how I was doing. I said I was peachy.
I watched him step away and make a call. When he hung up, I checked my watch and walked to the kitchen to make coffee.
Rocco would be here in five minutes.
***
Sleep was a lost cause. I settled instead for a cold shower and an early morning run. Rocco ran with us and made me promise to keep my gun with me. Max had said the same thing yesterday. If I’d listened to him, I wouldn’t have this stabbing pain in my skull. And some freak would have a hole in his leg.
I packed the Silver Bullet with a large thermos of coffee and stuffed my surveillance cooler with sausages for Inga and Dixie. I threw together a picnic lunch with Cleo’s Italian roasted chicken, Tino’s antipasto salad, a big bunch of grapes, and a couple handfuls of tremiti olives. I packed a few bottles of wine and an extra glass in case we had company. And I didn’t forget Mama’s Tupperware with her pastries and creamy cannoli.
Uncle Joey was a little hung over when Inga and I showed up at his door. I lured him to my car with the promise of hot coffee and scones. He brought Dixie and his favorite Bruce Springsteen and Pink Floyd CDs. When I told him we had a long road trip ahead, he tracked back to the house for some Eagles, Queen, and Elton John. I figured by the time Mama and Papa get married Saturday, my hair would explode into a big, bouncy Farrah Fawcett ‘do all on its own. I’ve tried to suggest to Uncle Joey how convenient it is to download his music. But he’s like an old dog. I’m just grateful he’s moved on from cassettes.
We took the 1-94 going north and crawled through snarled traffic until we hit the north suburbs and the road opened up. The sun was climbing higher and the sky was a periwinkle blue. Joey cranked up the music. He knows all the words. I knew a lot of them and faked the rest.
Joey gave me the play by play of slapping the cuffs on Nick Provenza.
He said he interrupted a small dinner party and some whacko cook assaulted him with a spiced, slow roast duck.
“Was this whacko cook’s name Gabbie?”
“How did you know that?”
“Cleo and Gabbie are buds.”
“Of course they are.” Joey grunted. “Okay, Ms. Caterina, give it up. What are we doing here?”
I summoned my most innocent look. “What? We’re having a picnic.”
He answered with his grouchy look. “Last night you said you would blow this case wide open.”
“Oh. That.” I smiled. “I may have gotten a little carried away.”
“Forget about it, Cat. It’s done. We got our man.” Joey stretched back in his seat, fingers linked behind his head. “The asshole killed Bernie and torched my Ferrari. He’s goin’ away for a long time.”
“You should hope so. If he’s not guilty, driving your new Ferrari around Bridgeport is gonna be awkward.”
“Try suicidal. Nick Provenza is not a guy you want to owe a shitload of cash to. If by some miracle he’s innocent, I’ll be eyeing Bernie’s place down in Costa Rica.”
After an hour on the road, the big, blue Welcome to Wisconsin sign greeted us. The state sign is redundant. Wisconsin is all about cheese. The moment you cross into Wisconsin, massive CHEESE signs and tourist markets appear on both sides of the highway. Some signs even sparkle.
When you travel at a high rate of speed, the repetitive CHEESE CHEESE CHEESE can have a disturbing, hypnotic effect. You find yourself sucked into these roadside black-holes where the cheese is as lip smackingly delicious as John Hamm in spandex. It may be wrong but you can’t help yourself. You just can’t look away.
I filled Joey in about the cigars I found at Corey’s condo and Toby Smoak’s house. And about the old woman who lived across the hall from Corey. She was convinced he was pushed out of his window. I told about finding Toby in the freezer and how his frosty body crushed me against the wall.
And then I explained in great detail my uninvited guest last night, and how I escaped to hide in the pantry with the moonshine and Bernie’s box. Joey blamed Provenza’s soldiers for my head-bashing, and railed into a vicious rant. He was double-pissed that Savino was hovering over Nevada in an FBI chopper, trailing a fugitive.
Uncle Joey is a typical bossy, testosterone-gorged DeLuca male.
Despite my protests, he called Max and then they were both pissed. Max said he’d be there when I got home. And he’d stay with me until every last goon of Provenza’s was, like Bernie, swimming with the fishes.
“I know a guy,” Uncle Joey said to Max. “Call me when you got bait.”
Joey hung up with a hard, satisfied smile. “That’s a real man, Caterina.
Damn shame he’s not Italian.”
“Max is Danish. He eats lutefisk.”
‘”The Vikings were savages.”
This from a man who had just called for rope, a cement block, and the long end of a pier.
I wondered if Max had made plans tonight with the belly dancer he met at the gym. And why her gyrating hips and the shimmering bauble in her navel irritated the hell out of me.
I got off the interstate at WI-50 and drove west on a mostly two-lane road that cuts through rolling hills and red-barn farms. Most fields had been harvested by now and the last few golden leaves were hanging on for dear life. The cool air smelled of sun and turned soil and a faint aroma of burning leaves.
I slowed down as we approached Lake Geneva. Lake Geneva is a small resort city on Geneva Lake and a favorite go-to place for anyone who wants a quick getaway weekend. Historically, the Chicago elite have come here to escape the oppressive heat and humidity of the city. They built huge estates all around the lake. Like the historic Wrigley Mansion. And the more contemporary Playboy mansion.
Today sex sells better than gum.
Sandwiched between the big money houses are an assortment of church and youth camps. For a slice of this prime real estate, you’ve gotta be filthy rich or nonprofit.
I parked and the four of us trolled the main street of town. Lake Geneva’s a total tourist trap but I love it. The shops are so sweet they make your teeth hurt. There’s an old fashion soda fountain, homemade fudge and gift shops on every corner. There are trendy art studios and high-end designer shops with $200 tees. There’s something for everybody here.
I went with chocolate. I bought ribboned gift-boxes of homemade fudge for Mama and Maria and Cleo and my switched-at-birth sister, Sophie. And two su
per-sized boxes for the long suffering wives of Mama’s twin boys. They’d be lucky if my piggy brothers didn’t eat every piece.
Joey did diamonds. Aunt Linda was coming home tonight from Vegas. The new big, hairy, four-legged kid would be a total surprise. I followed my uncle into the Lake Geneva Jeweler and he picked out a Bulgari diva watch with enough gold and diamonds to work Linda’s arm muscles.
I winced when I saw the price. “Geez,” I said. “Linda really doesn’t like dogs, does she?”
Uncle Joey looked a little sick. “She does now.”
We passed by a deli and stopped for a warm loaf of sourdough bread for our picnic. And some Wisconsin dill havarti cheese.
On the left of town, the municipal park hugs the lake. We took the dogs for a walk. Dixie heeled like a Westminster champion. She’s sleek and black as velvet and she moves with an elegance that wows just about everyone we meet. Beagles, on the other hand, are baying, nose-to-the-ground food whores who partner detective agencies and contaminate crime scenes.
“The last time I made this trip, I was with Bernie,” Uncle Joey said. “He has a cabin somewhere around here. I’m not sure I could find it again.”
I reached in my bag for the copy I’d made of Bernie’s will and handed it to him.
“That’s OK,” I smiled. “I have the address.”
Chapter Thirty-four
Bernie’s cabin on Delavan Lake was half an hour from Lake Geneva. It’s close enough to the fine restaurants, entertainment and beautiful people who make up Lake Geneva and far enough away for the fishing, and anonymity of Delavan Lake’s cottage culture.
I programmed the GPS and it took us north, continuing on 50 until we hooked onto Delavan’s South Shore Drive. We followed the water, eventually turning onto a forested dirt road and zigzagging our way toward the water. The structures surrounding the lake were mostly small summer homes on large plots of land. Most were closed for the winter. The warm days of summer had passed and kids were back in school.
Bernie’s “cabin” was an engaging two-story log home, with a wraparound porch, on a densely wooded property. A boat was tied to a pier along a generous stretch of waterfront. Beside the house, a wood shed was stacked high with enough firewood to fend off the frigid, Wisconsin winter.