Knocked Off

by Adrienne Giordano

  She opened the door, and as expected, the second Oscar smelled her, he charged. She quickly shut the door and braced herself against it, holding her hand in a stop. "Be good, Oscar."

  But this darned dog was so cute with his tail flicking back and forth she could barely stand it. Lucie squatted to give him a rub. "No humping." She nuzzled his neck. "I have important business back here."

  Oscar slapped a couple of licks across her cheek, and sensing him getting wound up for action, she stood, moving sideways around the desk to the cabinet.

  The key wasn't in the lock—not necessarily a bad sign—and she grasped the handle. Shoot. Should have worn gloves. "Ach. What kind of detective are you?"

  Too late now. She'd just wipe it clean when she left. Then again, someone had told her that didn't work, but she couldn't remember why. Something about DNA maybe. She didn't know.

  Gah.

  Just as she wrapped her fingers around the handle, Oscar mounted her. "Off!"

  Damned horny dog. But he was apparently in mission mode as well. He wrapped his front paws around her calf and went to work. She reached down, nudged him away and held him with one hand while yanking on the drawer. Nothing.

  Locked.

  God! Should have known—Oscar and the boob rejecting notwithstanding—things were moving along too well. Whenever that happened in her life, it meant a spectacular screw-up would ensue. She breathed deep. Went to plan B. Yes, she had a plan B because that's what A-type personalities did.

  They planned.

  Forced to let go of Oscar, she dug her phone from her pocket and put her fingers to work texting her accomplice. In all caps so she'd understand the urgency.

  LOCKED. GO TO GUNS.

  Lucie shoved the phone back and squatted once again, pushing Oscar off and holding him at bay while giving him a scratch. If Ro had initiated plan B, any second now, Bart would come through the door and see Lucie on the floor with Oscar.

  "Let's do this, Perv."

  Oscar gave her another lick and she nuzzled him again. Stupid dog. She simply couldn't stay mad at him.

  And sure enough, the door opened, and in stepped Bart, grinning from ear to ear at the Lucie-Oscar lovefest.

  "Well, look at you two," he said.

  "Yep. Just me and the love machine. Everything okay?"

  "Oh, sure. Roseanne would like to see the provenance on one of the paintings."

  "Provenance?"

  Oh, I'm good! She might join the Screen Actors Guild after this performance.

  "Yes." Bart scooted behind her. "It confirms the painting's authenticity."

  Pretending to ignore him, Lucie rubbed noses with Oscar and scratched behind his ears. "You're a sweet, sweet baby," she said, baby talk in full swing. "Yes, you are."

  Bart retrieved a file from the cabinet, slipped a document out and kneed the drawer closed.

  Please don't lock it.

  "You know, Lucie, you don't have to sit in here with him. He'll be fine."

  To add a little insurance to that no locking thing, Lucie stood, stepped back a foot to give herself leg room and shook out her legs. All while moving in front of the cabinet so Bart couldn't flick that lock.

  "Oh, I know." Lucie stuck one leg out, gave it a good stretch. Good, long, lock-blocking stretch. "I just like playing with him."

  Bart drew his eyebrows together and maybe, perhaps, she'd gone a little too far on that stretch. "Stiff legs. Sorry. All that walking."

  "All right." He held up the file. "Back to work. Just come out when you're ready."

  "I sure will."

  After I get done rummaging through your files.

  The second the door closed, Lucie lunged to the cabinet. Oscar followed suit by lunging on Lucie. Perv.

  "You're a sick pig, Oscar." She couldn't waste time shoving him off and just let him have his way with her.

  Hump, hump, hump. She ran her fingers over the folders and slowed when she reached G. Hump, hump, hump. Perusing the names, they appeared to be alpha by client. Yes! She got to H and flipped through. Horvath. There.

  Thank you for being a normal filing person.

  Go to work.

  Hump, hump, hump. Crazy dog.

  She tugged the file out, flipped it open, and spread the pages. Door. Check it. She glanced over. Nothing. She dug her phone out. Thank God for the miracle of cell phone cameras. Snap, snap, snap. One each of a client information sheet, a bill of sale and an invoice—holy mother of God—for nine-hundred-thousand-dollars. Even as an investment banker, she'd been awed by sums of money that large. Tim had told her the original was worth three million. If that were true, the Horvaths did indeed get a deal.

  If what they had was the original.

  Sweat bubbled on the back of her neck, tickling her. In an attempt to dislodge the moisture, she rolled her shoulders. No good. Forget it.

  She set the three pages aside and spread the remaining two out. Snap, snap. Done. She slapped the file closed.

  "Hold on one second, Roseanne."

  Bart's voice.

  From just on the other side of the door.

  Yikes! A shot of panic raced straight up into her shoulders, stabbed at her neck. She steadied herself on trembling arms. Locked her nerves down. No time for panic. Close the drawer, close the drawer.

  Lucie's phone buzzed and she glanced down. Ro. No time. Fingers spazzing, she shoved the folder back. Was that the right spot? Who knew?

  Lawdy!

  "No," Bart said, his voice even closer.

  Right spot or not, she'd have to go with it. Hip-checking the drawer, she shoved Oscar off and dropped to her knees. Thinking it was playtime, Oscar lunged, knocking her off balance and back against the desk. She clocked her head on the top of the cabinet and a sharp jab radiated from the back of her head clear around the front. This was one dangerous mission. Mounting a full frontal assault, Oscar straddled her leg, trapping it against the floor and hump, hump, humped his way to heaven.

  Seriously, this dog needed to get laid.

  The door came open and Bart's gaze zoomed to Lucie rubbing her head and Oscar having his way with her.

  "What happened?"

  "Well," she said, "you were right about him being playful today. He just knocked me right into your desk, the little devil."

  And thankfully, Oscar didn't speak human. He'd totally throw her under the bus. Totally.

  Bart kneeled beside her, locked his gaze on hers. "Are you okay? Any blurry vision?"

  So, Lucie, how did you get that concussion? Well, you see, one of my clients humped me into a desk.

  The horrors of this job were sometimes plentiful. "Oh," she said, "I'm fine. But I think it's time for me to leave Mr. Oscar be. I don't want him too wound up." She pointed to the door. "I'll just head out."

  She shoved the perv off, got to all fours, and slowly rose to her feet. No whirling room. No swaying. No nausea. Okay. Good.

  Bart held out a steadying arm, but Lucie ignored it, set her shoulders back. "I'm okay. Thank you, though."

  She headed toward the door.

  "I just need to file this and I'll be out there." He waggled his eyebrows. "We may have a winner, Lucie. And a hefty commission for you."

  Oh, they'd see about that, wouldn't they?

  * * *

  Lucie strolled out of Bart's office, her gaze glued to Ro. Suddenly, she had to pee. Sometimes that happened at the worst moments. Flop-sweating had nothing on flop-peeing.

  Ro squinted and cocked her head.

  Lucie smiled all big, bright and cheery. "I'm back. You about done here?"

  They probably shouldn't rush out, but at this point, Lucie didn't want to be in the gallery a second longer than she had to be.

  "Yes."

  Ro motioned to one of the paintings. A rather dark contemporary with harsh splashes of red and black that Lucie surmised might be indicative of Ro's current emotional situation.

  "I like this one. Once the divorce is final, I may treat myself."

  Unsure
whether Ro was still method acting or really intended on buying the painting, Lucie nodded. "Good for you."

  Bart entered the room, shutting the door behind him so Oscar the Perv couldn't hump anyone. That dog was almost a menace. Almost?

  "Is there anything else I can show you?" Bart asked.

  "I think I'm good," Ro said. "I do like this one. I can't swing it right now though. If you still have it when I'm ready, I'll be back."

  She stared at the painting, her normally bright eyes a little droopy and with a wistful longing Lucie had ever only seen on her once before. And that was during a conversation about—if one could believe it—Joey.

  Blech.

  Ro wanted that painting. For whatever reason, it spoke to her. Depending on the cost, if they had a good month with accessories sales, Lucie could give Ro a much-deserved bonus. A bonus that would get her a painting. Without Ro, that first lucrative Frampton's order, even if it had irritated Lucie at the time because they weren't equipped for such a large undertaking, would never have happened. Their success had been a complete team effort and Ro had led the charge.

  Bart did a weird little bow that had Lucie quirking an eyebrow. Kinda creepy.

  She held her hand toward the door. "We'll get out of your way. Have a good night."

  Once on the walkway, surrounded by that same off-the-scale humidity, Ro nudged her with her elbow. "Did you find anything?"

  To be sure they weren't being surveilled, Lucie glanced behind her. Even if Bart were watching them from inside, it wasn't as if he could hear them. Unless he'd planted a bug or something.

  Lawdy, this was an epic level of paranoia.

  "I did. I took pictures of everything in the Horvath's file.” She patted her back pocket where her phone was safely stored. “There was a receipt inside from a gallery. They paid nine hundred thousand for porn."

  Ro whistled and clicked the key fob to unlock the car. "Big bucks."

  "He bought it from the Contessa Gallery. In Rome. All I have to do is find the phone number, slip into my Delilah alter ego and tell them I'm interested in buying the Position Seven painting."

  "It's late over there now. The gallery is probably closed."

  Lucie shrugged. "So, I'll try first thing tomorrow. If they tell me the painting was sold, then maybe I can weasel out of them who they sold it to."

  "And if they still have it?"

  Lucie stopped near the front tire of the car, cocked her head, and stared at Ro over the hood. "Then, my best buddy, we know the Horvaths have a fake."

  12

  The following morning, Lucie went into mission-critical mode. If her clients were being swindled, she needed to know and deal with it. Straight away.

  She sat at the princess vanity table that had been in her childhood bedroom since her twelfth birthday. Next to the desk, she'd set up a card table with a printer and a monitor she could plug her laptop into. All of it packed into her micro bedroom.

  She'd already printed the photos she'd taken of Bart's files and now had them set out in front of her as she dialed the number on the Contessa Gallery's receipt.

  "Whoopsie."

  She'd forgotten to add the digits that would mark the call as a private caller. Subterfuge. So many details to fuss over. She stabbed at the screen to clear the number just as Joey's big head appeared in her doorway. Only eight o'clock and he was dressed and moving already. What was that about?

  "Why are you awake?"

  "I gotta run over to the apartment. The painters are coming by to give me an estimate."

  Her brother was serious about moving into Frankie's house. She'd hoped it was a phase. "You're painting in there?"

  "Bet your ass. That yellow isn't exactly my style."

  Oh. Right. The last tenant had been a woman. "Do you need a hand with picking out colors? I could get Ro over there."

  "Nah. I'm good. Thanks though."

  "Sure. I'll see you later."

  Joey left and Lucie dialed Rome again, this time making sure to punch in the privacy code. After two rings, a woman answered. "Pronto?"

  Oh, jeepers. Lucie's Italian was more than a little rusty.

  "Buon giorno. Parla inglese?"

  "Yes," the woman said in a peppy British accent.

  Calling Italy and getting a Brit. Fun. "Good morning," Lucie said. "My name is Delilah. I'm calling from the United States and hoping you can help me locate a painting."

  "Oh, of course, mum. From the States, you say?"

  "Yes. My boss is looking for a particular painting. Position Seven by Nodai. I researched it and discovered you might have it at your gallery."

  The woman sighed. "It is a classic. And quite lovely."

  A snapshot of the painting flooded Lucie's already seared brain. God, that thing. She opened her mouth, silently gagging. Obviously, she'd never make it as an art critic. "Yes, it is. Which is why I'm hoping you'll tell me you still have it."

  In actuality, she didn't want them to have it. That would mean Mr. Horvath might have the real painting and Lucie wouldn't be in bed with a scheming swindler.

  "Allow me to check. Can you hold one moment?"

  For good news, she'd hold for ten moments. Lucie sat back in her desk chair.

  "Hello?" the woman with the British accent said.

  Lucie sat up, tapped her fingers on the desk, and said a silent Hail Mary. At this point, she needed whatever help she could get. "Yes. I'm here."

  "I've just checked the computer. It appears we still have the painting."

  An obscene—absolutely filthy—level of panic set in.

  Please no. Lucie lurched in her chair and her shoulder blade smacked against the wood frame sending a sharp stick of pain straight down her spine. "You... uh...have it?" she stammered.

  Please say no. That it was all a big mistake. Wrong painting. Had to be.

  "Yes, mum. Position Seven, correct?"

  Dammit. Here I am, officer, slap on the cuffs. Even Tim O'Brien couldn't get her out of this one. Nor would she want him to. Why should he risk his career trying to help her? The mob guy's daughter. This was just a fabulous capper to the whole getting arrested thing.

  "Mum?"

  "Yes. I'm here. I'm just...stunned." No lie there. "My boss will be thrilled. I will have to speak with her and call you back. Thank you so much for your time."

  Even though you've just sentenced me to twenty years in prison.

  Could she get that much for art fraud? A small cry sounded in her throat, all that spewing panic probably. She disconnected and sat back, breathing in a few times, then flexing her fingers and rolling her shoulders and neck.

  "I can do this."

  No problem. After all, it wasn't her fault, right? She hadn’t known Bart was a con artist. How could she? She'd just call Tim and tell him what she knew. That's all. He was in the loop—more or less—on this whole thing. He'd understand.

  She hoped.

  "Hi, it's me," she said when Tim picked up. "Uh... Lucie."

  They were far from the level where he should be required to recognize, immediately, without hesitation the voice attached to the "it's me" statement.

  "I know who you are, Lucie."

  Huh. How about that? Maybe she'd misconstrued their level of familiarity.

  "Plus," he said, "there's this cool new thing you may have heard of. Caller ID."

  She rolled her eyes, found herself smiling in spite of her soon-to-happen arrest for art fraud. "Oh, hardy-har, Detective."

  He laughed and the husky tone, the pleasure, immediately lifted her mood. I really like you, Tim O'Brien. Which would be a total problem when Frankie decided he wanted to come back to her. Assuming that would happen. With each day, she wondered.

  "What's up?" Tim said "I bet you miss me."

  As a matter of fact... "Oh, the charm. It's almost too much to handle."

  "I know. It's a curse."

  Now it was her turn to laugh. Something she'd cherish after the anxiety of the last few minutes. This guy had a way of maki
ng impossible situations seem not so impossible. "You know, Tim O'Brien, I really like you."

  "That's good. Because I really like you, Lucie Rizzo."

  Most definitely, this would be a problem if Frankie changed his mind. How she felt about that, she wasn't sure. With Tim, everything was shiny and new and fun. No baggage. But Frankie? She had history with him and that history clung to her. Truly, a lifetime of memories.

  The Falcones had been in her life since she could remember. And the idea of a life without Frankie in it darn near devastated her. Left a gaping hole. But was that because she was simply used to his presence? The other half of Frankie and Lucie.

  The bookend.

  The problem with bookends was they usually spent most of their time apart.

  But back to art fraud. "Soooo," Lucie said. "I think I need to share some information with you."

  Of course, Tim might not approve of her super-sleuthing techniques. Still, she'd gotten the information she needed and might possibly have enough evidence to launch an investigation into Bart Owens.

  "Can I come by and see you?"

  "Yeah. I'm at the precinct. You coming now?"

  "I can be there in thirty minutes."

  * * *

  Exactly twenty-eight minutes later, Lucie marched into the police station, where a woman manned the phone at a desk behind the glass-walled lobby. Two patrons sat in the reception area. The middle-aged woman read a magazine while a younger guy messed with his phone. Lucie stepped up to the window’s built-in speaker and told the woman Detective O'Brien was expecting her. Two minutes later—voila—a door at the side of the room opened. There stood Tim. A mighty handsome Tim in navy slacks—again without the jacket—a crisp, white shirt, tie perfectly knotted. How she loved a man who knew how to knot a tie.

  His usual flirty smile appeared. "Good morning, Ms. Rizzo. Come in."

  I so need to jump this guy. Whew. What the heck was wrong with her these days? Even with her current stress level, she couldn't be within feet of this man without thinking about sex. With him.

  Loneliness. Had to be. Or stress release. Right?