There Was a Crooked Man

by K. J. Larsen

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Tino said. “Why are you investigating Daniel Baumgarten’s murder?”

  “I have a client. He insists on anonymity.”

  “Max will work with you.”

  “I work alone.”

  Tino looked amused. “Max will see you have everything you need. Whatever your client pays, I’ll double it.”

  “Uh, what just happened here?”

  Tino smiled. “You just made more money.”

  Actually, I could double what Sammy was paying me all day and still not have enough to buy an ice cream.

  “There’s one more thing.”

  “I already don’t like it,” I said.

  “Captain Bob and the Ninth Precinct. They had seventeen years to find the guy who took Danny’s life. He’s mine now. I want his name. Bring it to me and walk away.”

  Yikes.

  “Danny will have justice,” Tino said. “And maybe one less ghost will hover over my bed at night.”

  Max emerged from the kitchen with a dish towel on his shoulder and a tray with three small glasses of Sambuca. We each took a glass and Tino held his in the air.

  “To Danny. May you rest in peace.”

  Our glasses touched, making a soft, musical tinkle.

  Max raised his glass. “To my partner.”

  I glared at him and he laughed.

  “What’s your client’s name?” Tino said.

  “Uh, Sam.”

  “Honest?”

  I finger-crossed my heart.

  Max grunted. “Who the hell is Sam? And why does he care about a hit-and-run every Chicago cop forgot about a long time ago?”

  I gulped down my Sambuca. “Every cop didn’t forget. Danny’s ghost still keeps a few awake at night.”

  ***

  I lay still and listened as Chance’s breathing slowed to a deep, soft snore. When he was sufficiently zonked, I removed his hand from my hip and turned over to say good night to Sam I Am. The sleazy motel room streamed live on my laptop. Sammy was asleep in the hard, metal cage but his legs were running. He was escaping in his dreams.

  “Hang in there, Sam,” I whispered. “We’re gonna bring you home.”

  I nestled my bum into the curve of Chance’s body. He threw an arm around me and pulled me to him, the soft snores not missing a beat. I let myself melt into the warmth of his skin. I closed my eyes but the image didn’t go away. The sleazy motel room was glued to the inside of my lids. I squeezed them tight and tried to count sheep. But the sheep’s faces looked like Sam I Am and there was red sauce on his lips.

  My eyes opened wide as pepperoni.

  I bolted upright and seized the laptop from the nightstand. I pulled the screen to my face. I hadn’t imagined it. There was a glimpse of something on the floor by the bed. I suppose it could’ve been anything. But it looked a helluva lot like the edge of a pizza box. And the flash of black and red was the tip of a wing.

  I’d know that pizza bird anywhere.

  My heart beat wildly in my chest. I slipped into a robe and dragged the laptop to my office. I magnified the image on the screen for a closer look. Then I brought up the pizzeria’s website and checked their logo against the box on the motel floor. The black-and-red blob matched the tip of the dark wing perfectly.

  Yes!

  The pizza box came from Flying Zimbaroni’s Pizzeria. The man in the motel knew they make some of the best pies that fly over Chicago. If the pizza was a delivery, I’d find out where it went. I’d do whatever it took.

  I dressed quickly and silently, tugging on jeans and an oversized sweater. I pulled on socks and shoes, and was tiptoeing to the door when a groggy voice mumbled from the bed.

  “Babe. Where are you going?”

  “Uhm, to Flying Zimbaroni’s.”

  “At this hour?”

  “I love their pizza.”

  “Are you pregnant?”

  His eyes were soft and he smiled as if he thought that would be a good thing.

  Geesh.

  I sat on the bed and kissed him. “I’m not pregnant.”

  He grinned. “We can try again.”

  He pulled me down but I squirmed away laughing. “Don’t tempt me, Babe. I’m weak. And I have a lead on Sammy.”

  “What lead?”

  “The creep in the motel bought a pizza. If it was delivered, someone’s gonna tell me where.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “You have an early meeting with the federal prosecutor. Besides, I’ll be gone before you get your pants on.”

  “No you won’t.”

  He threw back the covers and my mouth went dry.

  “Whoa, Trigger!” I said. “Back in the barn.”

  Savino stomped around the room. “I can’t find my pants.”

  I didn’t remind him that I took them off in the living room.

  I blew Trigger a kiss and hustled out the door. I cranked up the Silver Bullet and for the first time in memory, Mrs. Pickins’ curtains didn’t move.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The woman behind the counter at Zimbaroni’s Flying Pizza had a cluster of frizzy hair as red as their sauce. She didn’t want to tell me if one of their drivers delivered a pizza to a motel in the past few hours. She changed her mind when I pulled out a twenty. The answer was yes. Another twenty bought me the driver’s name.

  “Jared.” She turned up her nose when she said it. “He drives a beat-up red Fiat.”

  “What motel?”

  She held out her hand. I slapped a twenty in it.

  “Jared is an asshole.”

  “I figured that out already. What motel?”

  “I ain’t losin’ my job. You’ll have to ask Jared.”

  “I don’t suppose I can get my last twenty back.”

  “Not happening.”

  I hunkered down with Camilla Schafer and read two chapters of her newest Lexi Graves mystery while waiting for Jared to wheel into the lot. His rap music got there first. Kanye blared from his radio and the beat-up red Fiat followed. Jared took one last slow draw on his smoke before grabbing the empty thermal pizza bag and tromping toward the door.

  Inga and I cut him off at the pass. We were still fifteen feet away when Jared sneezed.

  He waved us away. “I’m allergic,” he said.

  Puh-leeze.

  “One moment, Jared,” I said and opened the car door for Inga. She looked over her shoulder and growled. She didn’t like Jared any more than the cashier did.

  I flashed a winning smile.

  His uncertain eyes darted back and forth as if half expecting a subpoena or summons for some karmic behavior or unpaid debt.

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to pay for some information.”

  “How much?”

  I whipped out a Benjamin. “You delivered a pizza to a motel tonight.”

  “So?”

  His nose twitched. I had a pretty good idea what he was gonna do with it.

  “I’d like to know where that pizza went and who answered the door.”

  He gave a disinterested shrug but his eyes never left Benny. He licked his lips.

  “Privileged.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s company policy. I don’t want to get fired.”

  “I’m discreet.”

  “You got another one of those?”

  “I’ve got two.” I whipped a second one out.

  “Too bad. I got three kids.”

  “I hope not.” I dragged out one more. “This better be good.”

  “Dreamscape Motel, room seven. One guy, about fifty.”

  “Anything else?”

  “And a yellow dog. He had a yellow dog.”

  “Did he like the dog?”

&n
bsp; “I guess. He talked to him.”

  “What did he say.”

  “Shut up, don’t bark.”

  “Seriously? And you thought he liked him?”

  “The dude was cool. He gave me a ten-dollar tip.”

  “Wow.”

  He snagged the C notes from my hand and stuffed them in his shirt pocket. His lips curled in a silly grin. I knew he was calling it quits.

  “I’ll be going home early.” He winked at me. “I just got a killer headache.”

  ***

  I rang the motel manager’s bell three times before a sleepy-eyed clerk stumbled to the counter. He was Danny DeVito-short with big ears and a grumpy face. I was staring at two of the seven dwarves.

  “Where’s Happy?” I said.

  He managed an even grumpier face and tapped his nametag. “I’m Bert.”

  I glanced at the tag. “I never trust those things.”

  His eyes narrowed and he looked me up and down. “You’re not one of them working girls, are ya? This is a respectable establishment. I don’t want no hanky-panky here.”

  “Your guests come for hanky-panky. It’s your bread and butter. You’d be out of business without it.”

  His gaze settled on my breasts. I tapped the corner of my eye.

  “Eyes up here, please.”

  He dragged ’em up.

  “I need a room on this end, if possible. I like the view.”

  “It’s a street. I got rooms in back with a view of the park.”

  I pulled out my Sonya Olsson driver’s license and Visa. Uncle Joey hooked me up with the fake ID. Grumpy looked at it. And he looked at me.

  “Sonya Olsson,” he read.

  Grumpy had amazing reading skills.

  “You don’t look like a Sonya. I knew a Sonya once. She was a blue-eyed blonde.”

  “Wow. My uncle’s name is Bert. You don’t look like him at all.”

  He chuckled. I was mildly surprised when his face didn’t crack.

  “I’ll take that room now,” I said.

  He ran my card and I signed the registration.

  “Sure you don’t want one of our park views? The rhodies are in bloom.”

  I tucked the Visa back in my bag and flashed a smile.

  “It’s a tempting offer, Bert. But what can I say? I’m crazy about neon.”

  He took a key from his desk. “Number ten,” he said. “No drugs. No loud parties.”

  Not bad. Number ten was a few doors down from Sammy’s seven.

  “Eight is my lucky number,” I said.

  “Eight is taken.”

  “I like six too.”

  “You’re a difficult woman, Ms. Olsson. The rooms are the same.”

  “I like six a lot.”

  He tossed the ten key in the drawer and held number six in the air. “Let me give you some advice.”

  “Do you have to?”

  “If you got a secret rendezvous with number seven, I don’t want to hear about it. Keep it to your lovebird selves. I don’t need no jealous husband or schizo wife sniffin’ ’round here raising hell.”

  I blinked my surprise and leaned in close. “Gee, Bert. Did you say there’s a guy in seven? Is he adorable?”

  He pressed the key to room number six in my hand and shuffled me out the door.

  “I hope you’re not staying long, Ms. Sonya. I got a bad feeling about you.”

  “Really? Most people have to know me a while before they say that.”

  He drummed his forehead. “I got the sight. I see things.”

  “Did you see the White Sox lose last night? Cuz I did not see that coming.”

  “You walked through the door and I got a ringing in my ears. It’s still there. Do you know what it sounds like?”

  “Uh, tinnitus?”

  “Sirens. Sirens, and yelling, and a helluva lot of cops storming my hotel.”

  I studied Grumpy with unexpected interest. The guy was a goddamn psychic.

  “Why am I hearing sirens, Ms. Sonya?”

  Gee, I dunno. Maybe cuz you’re harboring a gutter punk who’s brain-dead enough to go after a CPD captain.

  I flashed a smile. “Go back to bed, Mr. Bert. You’re still dreaming.”

  ***

  I let myself into number six and closed the door behind me. The room was sparse but clean and smelled of pine cleaner which, considering the options, was a good thing. I sat on the bed. It was lumpy and would do a number on a troubled back. I figured guests invested lots of quarters for a cheesy Magic Fingers massage.

  The walls were thin and I could make out most of the words from a Law and Order rerun coming from room seven next door. A show that nails and convicts the culprit seemed a curious choice for a crook to watch. Before I left, I said a prayer for Sammy. I put a hand on the wall between us and said good night.

  I parked the Silver Bullet in the motel lot with a direct view of room seven’s door. I fixed a tiny spy camera to the windshield and checked the feed on my iPhone. Then I called a cab and waited on the corner for a ride home.

  The text from Roger came as the cab pulled up to my house.

  Sam is at Dreamscape Motel on West Eighteenth. Be careful. Bring him home safe.

  I texted back. You’re my hero.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A searing pain in my neck woke me. I had fallen asleep at the kitchen table and had come-to in a twisted, hunched-over mess. I felt stiff in places I didn’t even think about. I needed a Magic Fingers massage.

  The house felt a little lonely and I knew Chance was gone before I opened my eyes. There was a soft blanket around my shoulders and he’d placed a long-stemmed red rose on the table. And he left a goofy love note under a glass of fresh squeezed OJ. I love that about him. He’s got all the romance genes I lack.

  Sam I Am’s live image was splayed on my laptop and his sad eyes made an ache in my heart. My credit card was on the table. My tablet was open to a Central Illinois dog rescue called Holy Shih Tzu. I searched four rescues sites in the night before I found a blond bombshell Pomeranian that was a shoe-in for Sammy. Down to the white boot on his front right foot.

  His name was Thor and I fell in love with him in a red hot minute. At four-thirty a.m. I paid the adoption fees with my Visa. Thor was coming home to Inga and me.

  Inga pranced over with a big ol’ smile on her face, ready for our morning run. She dropped her leash in my lap. I stretched my sore neck and winced.

  “Sorry, girl. I gotta skip our run. I’m goin’ with a hot shower.”

  I opened the back door and she trotted outside all snotty. She didn’t glance back.

  “Be nice,” I called after her. “I found a grateful replacement for you on Google.”

  I took a long, steamy shower, letting the hot, pulsating water work on the tight muscles of my neck. I was a wet mess of bubbles when my phone rang. Usually, I’d let the call go to voice mail. But there was a good chance my wildly eccentric mechanic was on the line. Jack has made my cars purr since I was sixteen. He’s a magician under the hood, but he’s temperamental. And easily put off. I didn’t want to piss him off again.

  I fell all over myself scrambling out of the shower.

  My soapy hands grabbed the phone and my voice was breathless. “Jack?”

  His response was cool. “Caterina. You left a message at four a.m. Can I assume you blew up someone else’s car?”

  Okay. He was still pissy. Last year Jack’s beloved Dorothy bit the dust on my watch. Jack’s father had bought the ’67 Ford Mustang straight off the assembly. It was awful. But it wasn’t my fault. It’s not like I planted the bomb.

  I called Jack because I was without wheels. The Silver Bullet was doing surveillance at the Dreamscape Motel.

  I managed a light laugh. No small feat before a flipping cup of coffee.
“No bombs, Jack. Thanks for returning my call.”

  He grunted. “Your Accord isn’t due for a tune-up until next month.”

  “I’m looking for wheels, Jack. I need a loaner for a day or two.”

  Oddly enough, Jack’s been touchy about trusting me with a car since Dorothy’s demise. It wasn’t a good time to suggest he get over her. But even Father Timothy thought Jack should be happy his dad and Dorothy were together again.

  Jack gasped. “You wrecked your car.”

  “Nothing like that. I’m giving her a rest. I just need a loaner.”

  “You lost her. You lost the Silver Bullet.”

  “I didn’t lose her, Jack.”

  “I don’t believe you. I want a picture. Evidence of life.”

  “I’ll text one.”

  “With today’s Times headline.”

  “Jeez, Jack. Can you give me a car or not?”

  “I might give you Marion. If you’re gentle with her. She’s a lady.”

  Seriously?

  I squinched my eyes closed and smacked my forehead for not calling Hertz.

  “Thanks, Jack. Nothing bad will happen to Marion. I promise.”

  “I remember that’s what you said about Dorothy.”

  “Do you remember what Father Timothy said?”

  He sniffed. “It was a nice service.”

  “Thanks, Jack. I’ll catch a ride to your shop.”

  “Don’t think about showing up here without your mama’s cannoli. I got a big crew.”

  “And I got a big Tupperware-full.”

  “My favorite is toasted almond.”

  “Well, today it’s chocolate.”

  I rinsed off the bubbles, blow-dried and fastened my hair in a soft French braid. I reached for my phone a half dozen times to call Rocco. I needed to tell him I found Sam I Am. But each time I tucked it away again without pushing Send.

  I didn’t know what my brother would do if he knew Sammy was being held at the Dreamscape Motel. I wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t charge to room seven with guns drawn and sirens blazing. Sort of like Grumpy, the unlikely seer, predicted last night. But I trusted Captain Bob’s solution even less. He wanted Uncle Joey to send an assassin. In the end I did what I wanted. I gave myself a day to keep my secret and stir up some trouble of my own.