Dog Collar Knockoff

by Adrienne Giordano

  With what Bart had put her through these last few days, it would be fun to watch Lutz nail him. Just rip into him.

  Ooooh, that bastard. Selling fake paintings and bringing her in on it. She should report him to the police herself. Well, she sort of already had by telling Tim. But still, she was so strung out she wouldn’t mind seeing Bart Owens in handcuffs. Locked in a cell. Feeling the way she had when she’d been arrested.

  Yikes, what a week.

  She shifted her car into gear, watched Mr. L. make the right at the end of the block. Where was he going?

  Since she’d already decided traffic on the Kennedy would be a mess, she could kill some time, let the traffic die down.

  And follow Lutz.

  Just to see if he was about to confront Bart.

  Had to be, right? He’d just been swindled and he was a man of action.

  At the corner, Lucie looked right, watched for a second as Mr. L. made the next right, heading down the one-way street. She should be going left, making her way home for another night alone and working on financial reports for her growing business.

  But that damned Bart Owens. She wanted to see him squirm.

  Lucie made the right.

  *

  Lucie waited until Mr. L. entered the gallery then sneaked around the back to the office entrance where she usually picked up Oscar the Perv. Chances were he’d be in the office, but he wasn’t a barker, so the worst that would happen is she’d get humped.

  A silent hump.

  As long as it didn’t clue Bart in that she was in the office, the dog could get off on her all he wanted.

  At the base of the stoop, she formed a plan. First, she’d peek in the door’s window. If Bart was in the office and spotted her, she’d tell him she lost her watch somewhere and was backtracking the day’s route.

  Lame, but the best she could do on short notice. She probably wouldn’t even need a cover story since Mr. L. had already entered the gallery and Bart normally hopped up from his desk the second the door chimes sounded. Nothing stood between Bart and a customer.

  Lucie climbed the steps, contemplated what she was about to do. She really should have checked with Tim on whether or not she could be arrested for this. It had to be trespassing since she was outside the function she’d been hired for. Sadly, snooping on the client probably wasn’t included in her scope of services. At least she’d texted Tim to let him know she was coming over here.

  That way, if she suddenly went missing, he’d know where to look.

  And wasn’t that a lovely thought?

  She held her breath until her lungs ached and then released it. Go to work. She peeped in the door. No Bart. But Oscar lay sunny-side-up, snoozing on his Sniffany dog bed. Good boy.

  The second she slid her key into the lock, Oscar bolted to his feet, faced the door and his tail whipped into action. Please don’t pick today to be a barker.

  She slipped inside, bent low to say hello to Oscar and heard voices from the gallery floor. Definitely Bart. Definitely Mr. L.

  Lucie moved behind the closed door leading to the gallery and pressed her ear to it.

  “You sold me a goddamned fake? Me?”

  Mr. L.

  Annoyed voice.

  Lucie hated his annoyed voice. It remained steady in volume, low even, but the lack of shouting made it all the more fierce.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Bart said. “I gave you the provenance.”

  A long pause and then, “I’m supposed to believe that crap?”

  “Daniel,” Bart said, “I know what you’re thinking. I didn’t give you fake paperwork.”

  “Lucie was just at my house. She feels guilty because she brokered a deal involving a fake painting. She’s worried she’s going to prison.”

  Darned tootin’. And if she was about to become someone’s prison bitch, Bart was going with her.

  “She’s mistaken,” Bart said. “Why would she think the painting is fake?”

  “Give up already. She called the Gomez family. That damned dog walker she has—the art history major?—started asking questions. My Darkest Night is still in the hands of the family. They’ve never sold it. You dumbass. You should have at least faked a painting that wasn’t still owned by the family. Flaming idiot.”

  Silence.

  Yeah! Get him Mr. L.

  “Which means,” Mr. L. continued, “not only are you giving me my money back on that painting, we have to figure out a way to back Lucie off. We’ve barely gotten into this thing and you’ve botched it.”

  Hold up. Lucie hopped away from the door and stared at it. We? Back Lucie off?

  “Daniel, don’t panic. I’ll handle Lucie. She knows nothing about art.”

  Hey! She knew enough to figure out Bart Owens was a thieving bastard.

  From her pocket, her phone vibrated. Tim. Wanting to know what she was doing. She shot off a text.

  Snooping at the gallery. Something might be up. Will call in a bit.

  “Don’t underestimate her, Bart. She’s smart and she’s grown up around criminals. She can sniff out a scam in no time. We should have anticipated this.”

  There was that “we” again. What did it mean? Was Lutz involved in selling himself a fake painting? That made no sense.

  “I’ll deal with her,” Bart said.

  “No. I’ll deal with her. First, you’re gonna tell me where we’re at on this thing. Setting aside what you owe me for that fake painting you sold me and the other deal you did, I want the rest of my money back. I’m out.”

  “Well fine, Daniel, but you’ll have to wait. The money is tied up.”

  “Where?”

  “You know where. I’ve got three guys on the hook. I’ve paid the artist with the money you gave me. He’s one of the top forgers in the world. He’ll have all three paintings done in two weeks. I’ll sell the paintings and give you your money. I don’t have that kind of cash lying around. If I did, I wouldn’t have needed you!”

  Just stop it. Mr. Lutz was in on this crazy scheme. Double-thieving rat bastards.

  And they’d roped her into it. Lucie squeezed her fists tight, then bit back a stream of venom ready to fly. She’d been nice to them. Both of them. Tried to help them and make a little side money for herself. Oooh, she’d known the whole thing felt a little smarmy. Knew it. But with her father coming home, the lure of fast cash that would get her new headquarters completed led her to ignore her instincts.

  Well, this is what she got.

  And her cop boyfriend—was he even her boyfriend?—wouldn’t be able to get her out of a fraud charge.

  Dammit, these men. They’d betrayed her trust. That alone infuriated her. Rage, fast and sharp, shredded her, made her eyes throb. She closed them, took a long, slow breath. Calm down.

  Calm.

  Down.

  If she confronted them, they’d know she’d been listening. Confronting them would give her some satisfaction, though. Just looking them straight in the face and letting them know that she knew what they didn’t think she knew, but she did. Wait. What now?

  She shook it off. Got her mind straight.

  Tim.

  She’d told him she’d be here. She could leave and call him. Relay everything to him and ask his advice. If nothing else, she could go to the police herself and confess. Ugh. How awful would that be? Joe Rizzo’s kid, the apple that didn’t fall far.

  The gossips would have a grand time pulverizing saintly Lucie.

  Once again, her father’s reputation had put her in a place she never wanted to be.

  “How the hell does this happen to me?” she muttered.

  Well, however it happened, she wasn’t about to put up with it. She hadn’t known Bart and Mr. Lutz were scammers. Not a clue.

  Who was she kidding? No one would believe that. Not of Joe Rizzo’s kid.

  The office door flew open.

  Oh, no. Caught.

  Lucie leaped backward, held up her fists. Fists? As if she knew how to fight.

>   Oscar barked at the sudden movement and Bart halted. He looked down at Oscar then, as if sensing someone, slowly lifted his gaze. Lucie narrowed her eyes—mean Lucie. Very mean Lucie.

  His face stretched into open-mouthed shock. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Her? The nerve. “Bart, I think the question is what the hell are you doing?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tim sat at his desk reading and rereading Lucie’s text. What kind of message was that to send a cop? She was at a gallery owned by a known crook and thinks something is up. And expects him to do what? A phone call would have been nice. Maybe an explanation.

  He tossed the phone on his desk. “She’s got to be kidding me.”

  “Who?”

  He glanced up at Rich Laslo, another detective in his unit. Rich, obviously on his way to the coffee pot if the mug in his hand were any indication, halted. He stood beside the desk in his wrinkled suit pants and shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. Rich was an old-timer. One of those gritty twenty-year veterans with balding heads and barrel chests that were great for intimidating witnesses.

  Given that, there was no way could Tim admit this one. Hey, Rich, guess what? I’m hot for Joe Rizzo’s daughter and she wound up in the middle of an art fraud case. She’s innocent. Really.

  What the hell was he supposed to do with this text? If he went running over to that gallery and nothing happened, he’d tip off Bart Owens that they were on to him. Hell, this wasn’t even an official case.

  It would be soon, but he hadn’t brought it to his superiors yet.

  Stupid ass that he was, he’d known dating a mob guy’s daughter—and not just any mob guy, but the mob guy—would be complicated.

  But this topped any and all scenarios he’d imagined. And that was saying something for a Chicago cop.

  “Women,” he said to Rich.

  “Please. I got two ex-wives. You’re not telling me anything I don’t know.”

  Tim read the text again, then set the phone down and tipped his head back to study the ceiling.

  “Oh, boy,” Rich said. “You got that look you get when a case strings you up.”

  Tim grunted.

  Rich wheeled one of the rickety desk chairs into the aisle between the two rows of desks and sat. Right in the center of the aisle. Had to love cops.

  He paddled both his hands. “Tell me. I can help.”

  “You got two ex-wives. Why would I ask your opinion?”

  Rich laughed. “You don’t think I learned a few things after two wives? Trust me, I got this. Go.”

  In a twisted way, it made sense. Plus, Rich was a cop. He’d understand the dilemma.

  “I’m dating someone. It’s fairly new.”

  “Good for you. Get a lawyer.”

  Tim shook his head. “It’s not that serious, moron.”

  “Okay.” Rich rolled his hands in front of him. “But you like her. More than just casual hook up stuff, right? Or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  True. “Yeah. Exactly. And she might be into something here.”

  “Something illegal? Get a lawyer. Now.”

  “Hey, she’s a fraud victim. Sort of. We just figured that out. I haven’t even had a chance to kick it up yet and I get this text from her that something’s up with the guy running this scam.”

  “Okay. What’s your problem?”

  “I know where she is. I don’t know whether to go there, see what’s what or not. If I do that before I kick this up—and get warrants—the guy could bolt. And she’s in a jackpot.”

  “Does this guy know you’re a cop?”

  “No.”

  Rich sat back, eyed him. “I’m thinking.”

  “Great. Got all the time in the world. Let me know when you’re ready.”

  Rich slapped his hands on his legs. “I got it.”

  “Finally.”

  “If he doesn’t know you’re a cop, I’d go over there. Consider it an undercover gig. You check things out, make sure she’s okay, and you come back, talk to the brass and get the paperwork going. Otherwise, you’ll be sitting here with your thumb up your ass getting pissy. There’s your plan.”

  Tim rolled his bottom lip out, considered it. Rich had a point. Down deep, Tim wasn’t ready to go to his boss. A relationship with a mob boss’s daughter might have career implications. Nothing wrong with having his ducks in a row before he went public.

  Tim stood and grabbed his suit jacket off the back of the chair. “Never thought I’d say this, but you’re right. I’ll check it out.”

  “You want company?”

  “Nah. I’m good. If I think something’s hinky, I’ll call you.”

  Because no cop should walk into an unknown situation without some backup. Regardless of the fact that his girlfriend was involved.

  Girlfriend. Been a long time since he’d thought of a woman in that way.

  Lucie. Girlfriend.

  He liked it. A lot.

  *

  “You’re trespassing!”

  Rage in full circulation, literally tearing her apart from the inside out, Lucie bounced on the balls of her feet and swung her fists at Bart. “That’s nothing compared to what you’ve done.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “I heard it all, Bart. All. Of. It.”

  She pushed by him, headed straight for Mr. Lutz, who was still in the main part of the gallery. “And you! I trusted you. How could you do this to me?”

  “Lucie, now take it easy. I don’t know what you heard, but I never intended to put you in the middle.”

  Lucie glanced back at Bart, who’d hustled up behind her. She needed to keep an eye on him. She didn’t think Mr. L. would physically harm her, but who knew what Bart was capable of?

  “Daniel,” Bart said, “stop talking.”

  Mr. Lutz put his hand up, but kept his eyes on Lucie. “Bart, shut up. This is between Lucie and me. We’ve been friends a long time.”

  Totally playing her. That’s what he was doing. Yes, they’d been friends a long time. She had, in fact, worked side by side with him, watching him close deals, negotiate terms, sometimes string people along.

  Playing them.

  Oh, he was the master.

  And he knew it. His only problem was she knew it too.

  The thing that really upset her was that he’d had the chance to come clean with her when she’d told him his painting was a forgery. When she couldn’t stand the fact that he’d been swindled. Because she cared about him.

  In this relationship, respect only went one way and it stabbed at her like a pick ax.

  Heartbreaking betrayal. No other way to describe it. Something in her chest hitched and she cleared her throat, but… nothing. No air. She shook her head, scrunched her nose and forced another cough that released a gasping breath.

  Good. Fine. She stood a little taller—as tall as someone so petite could—and tipped her chin up.

  “We have been friends a long time. Which is why you should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “Okay. Hold on a second. Let’s talk about this.”

  “This is stupid,” Bart said. “You don’t owe her anything. She’s got nothing to defend herself with. Lucie, you’re screwed. We’ve got you on the tracksuits.”

  Tracksuits. What? She spun on him. “What are you talking about?”

  “A little insurance in case you decided to go to the cops. I bought those atrocious tracksuits from my cousin. He stole them. Brainiac didn’t realize the damned things were out of season and got stuck with them. They’ve been sitting in his basement for months.”

  Oh, a fresh bout of rage burned right through her skin. “You,” she said.

  “Yes. Me. I planted them in your place. After you talked to Keegan about the Gomez. Keegan has a big mouth, Lucie. Never trust him.”

  Keegan. Another rat bastard.

  “My dear,” Bart continued, “he told me all about your conversation. I decided a little insurance was in order. Just in case I needed t
o prove the squeaky-clean Lucie had a taste for her father’s lifestyle. That way, if you went to the cops, they’d have the tracksuits and think if you were involved in that, maybe fake paintings wasn’t a stretch. You’re in it just as deep.”

  Lucie’s eyes burned. They’d set her up. After she’d cared for their dogs, loved them like they were her own, dealt with Oscar the Perv humping her leg every second.

  “Bastards,” she said.

  Both of them. Not the dogs, the owners.

  And then he laughed. A deep, annoying rumble that ravaged Lucie’s mind. One thing she’d never been—at least until now—was a fool. All her adult life she’d known who she was and what people said about her. She’d risen above it.

  Now, Bart Owens thought he could pigeonhole her, lead people to believe that she wasn’t a legitimate businesswoman, but simply Joe Rizzo’s kid, leading the Joe Rizzo lifestyle.

  Bart continued to laugh and the look on his face, that grin, that smug knowing, that pity, she couldn’t stand it.

  He half turned as if to walk away. Nuh-uh. No one leaves.

  Lucie leaped—whaaaaa!—and landed on his back. Moving on pure and potent adrenaline, she wrapped her legs around him and hooked an arm over his shoulder, hanging on as he tipped forward and stumbled.

  “Aaaaahhhh!” he screamed. “Get her off.”

  She slapped her hand across the back of his head. Bam, bam, bam. “You son of a bitch.” Bam, she smacked him again. “You tried to destroy my reputation?” Bam. “Do you know how hard I’ve worked? I’m not some fraud, like you. I earn my living.” Bam! “And now you think you’re going to tear that away from me?”

  “Aaaaahhhh! Daniel, help!”

  Bart swung around, faced Lutz, and tried to buck Lucie off, but she hung on and locked her legs. She’d bloody him before she let go.

  “And you,” she said to Lutz, “you knew how I felt about stolen merchandise! You knew. I trusted you! And this is what I got?”

  Bam. She smacked Bart again. Why not? Lutz would be next. For now, Bart deserved whatever he got.

  “Whoa,” came another voice.

  All three of them glanced at the entrance where Tim stood, one hand over his holstered weapon.