Liar, Liar

by K. J. Larsen

  I dropped the phone like a snake and ran through the house, checking the locks on my windows and doors. I positioned pepper spray and stun gun on my nightstand and stuffed a pistol under my pillow. Diving under the covers, I curled into a ball, and skirted a troubled sleep with every light in the house blazing.

  Chapter Four

  The DeLuca family isn’t crazy about the FBI. Not since 1998 when the Bureau turned down my cousin Frankie because of mental instability.

  “The feds are stupid,” Mama says. “The DeLucas are too good for them.”

  Being nuts isn’t frowned on so much by the Chicago Police Department. My cousin Frankie embarked on a promising career there. On Frankie’s behalf I’ll say he’s less scary since discovering Prozac.

  The commute was heavy the next morning when I merged onto the Dan Ryan. I didn’t see my stalker but the hair rose on the back of my neck as if someone walked on my grave. He was behind me all right. I scratched my neck and let him be for the moment. I wanted to be first in line when the FBI opened their doors for business.

  I skipped up the FBI steps, shimmied through the metal detector, and set off what sounded like a three-alarm fire. I clamped my hands over my ears and groaned. I forgot I was armed. I don’t usually carry a weapon but my crazy stalker was creeping me out.

  “Oops,” I said.

  The agent jumped me, wrestled my hands behind my back, and yanked the gun from my holster. I was still deciding who to scream at with my one phone call when my permit checked out. No one was more surprised than me. The gun came from Joey who’s not exactly a stickler for red tape. It’s not that my uncle’s gifts can’t be legitimate. I’m just saying it’s a crap shoot.

  Everyone got to have a gun at the FBI but me. A stiff female agent with cold hands frisked me. She said she’d hold my weapon until I left. I gave her my business card for Pants on Fire Detective Agency. She eyeballed me frostily. That woman’s pants hadn’t seen a spark since George Sr. was President.

  Special Agent Larry Harding kept me waiting an hour. I suspected he wanted me to know how important he was. I checked his mouth for donut crumbs and spotted a chocolate glaze.

  I followed Harding’s tall frame through the maze that led me to his office, a small box of a room with a tiny window obstructed by boxes stacked to the ceiling. I guessed they were cases he hadn’t solved yet.

  Agent Harding’s glasses tended to slip down his flat nose and he peered at me over the lenses. His eyes formed dark narrow slits and his thick bristly hair was shaved close in a flattop. He wore a four-button slim-cut suit over his wiry frame and a maroon dress-for-success tie.

  “Nice shoes,” I said. “Gucci?”

  He ignored the question and motioned to a chair. I sat down, crossed my legs, and rotated my sandals in little circles.

  He glanced at a slip of paper in his hand. “I understand you have questions about the explosion in Bridgeport, Ms.” he looked again. “DeLuca. How may I help you?”

  “You can tell me what you’re doing about it.”

  “Doing about…?”

  “The bombing,” I said.

  He raised a brow. “Gas leak.”

  “I was told it was plastic explosives.”

  “It was a gas leak.”

  I digested this a moment. “And the person who died?”

  He reached down opening his bottom drawer and pulled out a file. “A business man. We’re guessing he was interested in the property. His name was Savino.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “Wasn’t what?”

  “It wasn’t Chance Savino. He made it out safe. I’ve seen him.”

  Harding frowned. He glanced at the file again and ruffled through a stack of folders on his desk. He pulled one out, opened and shut it again quickly.

  “You’re that Caterina DeLuca,” he said like he was seeing me for the first time. He cleared his throat. “You’re mistaken about Savino. He wasn’t as fortunate as you. However, I’m happy you survived the gas leak.”

  “Bomb.”

  He didn’t look that happy.

  Harding glanced at his watch. “So, if there’s nothing else.”

  “There is. Why is the FBI interested in a gas leak?”

  “We’re not.”

  “Then how come you have two files. And why does somebody out there think I saw something.”

  The bushy brows darted. “Did you?”

  I shrugged. “Someone thinks so. A man has followed me since I left the hospital. He threatened me to keep quiet.”

  “Would you recognize him in a line-up?”

  “Yeah. He’s the guy who had the crap beat out of him.”

  Harding opened the file and shuffled pages. He cleared his throat. “The identity of the body was confirmed through dental records.”

  “So fast?”

  “We’re the FBI. We made it top priority.”

  “I’d like to see the corpse.”

  “The family opted for cremation.”

  “That was convenient.”

  “Unfortunately he was well on his way.”

  My eyes shot to the file on his desk. “May I look at that?”

  He snapped it shut. “Sorry. Classified.”

  “A gas leak is classified?” I rolled my eyes. “Is there anything in that file you can tell me?”

  Harding peeked inside. “It says you suffered a concussion, escaped from the hospital, and…”

  “Mama called you, didn’t she?”

  “You’re experiencing psychotic episodes.”

  “What?”

  “Apparently you see dead people.”

  I wanted to throw myself on his desk and rip the file from his hand. Being the only person in the building without a gun, I didn’t like my odds.

  Harding’s eye twitched. “Good day, Ms. DeLucky. We’re finished here.”

  “Aha!” I clapped triumphantly. “That’s proof. You’ve seen Savino. He’s the only one who calls me that.”

  Harding’s mouth did a mean imitation of a gold fish. Nothing came out.

  I hiked my shiny black DKNY bag up on my shoulder and headed to the door, turning back to smile.

  “Next time you see Savino, tell him he owes me a cannoli.”

  ***

  The green BMW wasn’t in sight when I skipped down the FBI steps. In case he was watching I waved. Unless the guy’s a total moron he would have changed cars by now. I decided to find out.

  He did change cars but he was still a moron and no match for Special Agent in Charge Pants on Fire. I spotted the cream colored Lexus within four blocks, lost him in four more, and headed north on Lake Shore Drive to the address Rita gave me in Evanston.

  The Savino house was a modern Tudor, white with blue trim and a red door. I parked in front and tried Rita’s number one more time. She didn’t answer. That never happens when the client pays in advance. I slathered on my Dr. Pepper Lip Smacker, fluffed my hair, and tromped to the door. Three days of newspapers littered the porch. I didn’t bother with the bell. I used my lock picks to let myself in.

  Plush white shag carpet. No blue tears here.

  Creamy white couch. No wine, no pizza, no dog.

  Silk flowering plants. No oxygen.

  The room was picture perfect but something didn’t smell right.

  Not that I expect every house to smell like coffee, pasta, and a wet dog. This house reminded me of a Street of Dreams home. There wasn’t a picture, magazine, or discarded piece of mail. No pantyhose hanging in the bathroom. No laundry basket by the washer. I couldn’t come up with a stick of electric-blue eyeliner. The master bedroom drawer revealed a week’s worth of men’s socks, tees, and briefs. All starchy new and fresh from the package.

  Two Armani suits hung in the closet. One brown, one black. A leather jacket, scattering of shirts, slacks, and tees. Bathroom toiletries were stuffed in a travel bag under the sink. A person who stayed here could be packed and gone in less
than five minutes.

  I dropped onto the side of the bed and smacked my forehead with the palm of a hand. I’d been duped. The house was a ruse, a sham. Rita Savino didn’t live here. For that matter Chance didn’t either.

  My client had lied to me. She wasn’t married to the smoking hot guy in the black Boxster. She wouldn’t recognize his naked ass if I blew it up on an 8 X 10 glossy.

  I whipped out my trusty fingerprint kit. All I needed was one good print of this guy. It was time to find out who he really was. I dusted every surface including the ice trays in the freezer. Nothing. The place was wiped clean, every trace of Chance Savino gone.

  I stomped back to my car, pissed. My liar, liar client wouldn’t return my calls. Chance Savino was playing dead. Even the FBI thought I was crazy. I opened the back door and tapped my foot on the grass. Inga jumped out and did her business on Savino’s lawn. I felt a little better. We made a quick schlep around the block and returned to the car.

  Holding the phone away from my ear, I punched in Rocco’s number.

  “Where the hell are you?” my brother hollered. “Have you lost your freakin’ mind? Ditching the hospital with a concussion?”

  “Hello to you too.”

  “Don’t hello me. You’ve lost it, Cat! Totally lost it! You’re gonna give me a god damn heart attack. And you know how crazy Mama gets.”

  “Are you done?”

  Dead silence.

  “Meet me at Mickey’s,” I said. “I’ll buy lunch.”

  The way to calm any DeLuca is with food. I figured this was going to cost me big.

  Located in downtown Bridgeport, Mickey’s has been a cop hang-out as long as anyone can remember. The food is decent, the drinks are strong. If you like cops the company’s good. I drop by when I need help on a case or wanna scoop out the rookies. The one thing I can’t get at Mickey’s is a date. The DeLuca men see to that.

  Rocco was draining a beer when I passed through the swinging doors.

  “You look like shit,” my brother said.

  “That’s what I appreciate about this family. All the love and support.” I snagged the menu.

  I ordered the cheeseburger and fries and Rocco settled for the most expensive thing on the menu. A sixteen ounce rib-eye with all the fixings. He caught me up on Maria, the kids, and soccer. Rocco’s the girls’ coach and I go to as many games as my schedule will allow.

  “Enough about me. How’s your head?”

  “Scrambled.”

  “There’s a room for you at the hospital. They keep the really good drugs there.”

  I scrunched my mouth. “I need your help, Rocco.”

  “Name it.”

  “The FBI is staging a cover up. They’re calling the bomb a gas leak.”

  “It was a gas leak.”

  I shook my head. “Plastics explosives.”

  “You’re saying the FBI is lying.”

  “Through their shorts.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Conspiracy.”

  “You do know you have a concussion, don’t you?”

  I made a face.

  “Are you eating your fries?”

  “Take them,” I said. “A man was murdered in that explosion and it wasn’t Chance Savino. I saw him at the hospital.”

  “Of course you did. Pass the ketchup.”

  “Now I have some creepy stalker guy tailing me.”

  “Where’s the steak sauce?”

  “He called me at home threatening me to keep my mouth shut.”

  “You really shouldn’t be driving.”

  “He’s all kinds of pissed cuz Tino’s guys beat the crap out of him.”

  A fry fell from Rocco’s mouth. “Tino saw this guy?”

  “Of course he saw him. I stopped by on my way home.”

  Rocco pushed the plate away. “Where’s this asshole now?”

  “I shook him after I left the FBI.”

  “You went to the FBI?”

  “Special Agent Larry Harding is an arrogant ass. So are you.”

  “Huh?”

  “You didn’t believe me until I told you Tino saw my stalker too.”

  “Tino doesn’t have a concussion.” Rocco threw the napkin on his plate. “OK. I’m on board.”

  I started over at the beginning. From the first tear Rita spilled in my office to the oddly sterile house in Evanston.

  “What kind of man fakes his own life?” I demanded.

  “I don’t know, but you’re not spending another night in that house alone. You’re staying with Maria and me and that’s final.”

  “I’m not afraid of the stalker guy,” I said without conviction. “Inga will tear him to shreds.”

  Rocco gave me a raised eyebrow. “You’re the only person on the planet who mistakes her for a guard dog.”

  “I won’t tell her you said that.”

  I handed him a folded sheet of paper. “Trace these license plate numbers for me. And here’s the address on the Evanston house. It would be interesting to know who owns it.”

  “It’s too bad you didn’t get a print on Savino.”

  “It’s bizaare. Like he didn’t touch any—” I sucked air.

  Rocco smiled. “I know that look. Whach’u got?”

  I shot a goofy grin. “I got Savino. He opened my passenger door.”

  Chapter Five

  I had two more stops to make and I intended to drag them out as long as possible. The sun was in a westward dive and I dreaded going home.

  My first destination was to a modern architectural masterpiece in the heart of downtown Chicago. Thirty stories masked by glass and steel where I tailed the black Boxster Monday morning. Savino’s office was on the twelfth floor. I intended to charge up there and get some answers.

  Monday I wasn’t so lucky. The trick was getting past the two guards stationed in the lobby. The information desk featured a bleach-bottle blonde with a Betty Boop boob job. The elevator was defended by a steroid freak of a giant who missed his calling in the WWE wrestling ring.

  I tried to bust through Monday without success. First I mixed with a group of office workers back from lunch. We crammed into the elevator and the freakish giant plucked me out like a whore in a church choir. Later that afternoon I tried stealing unnoticed up the staircase. Betty threw herself in front of me and her cohort hoisted me over his shoulder and planted me on the sidewalk.

  Today I planned a more direct approach. I would ask for a pass.

  I changed my clothes in the car. I had switched from blue jeans into a dress, pantyhose, and a pair of Jimmy Choo’s. I now freshened my makeup and added cat eye frames and a candy apple wig.

  I walked to the desk. “I’m here to see my husband,” I announced.

  “Name and company?” she bubbled.

  “I’d rather go up and surprise him. Today is his birthday.”

  “You should’ve brought balloons. Everybody loves balloons.” Betty picked up the phone.

  “Name and company?”

  I crossed my fingers behind my back. “Chance Savino, Open Passage, Inc.”

  She dropped the phone. “Chance Savino is your husband?”

  “So?”

  “First of all Chance wasn’t married.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Did you date my husband?”

  “We had drinks. And second,” her voice caught, “he’s dead.”

  “So that’s why he didn’t come home last night.”

  She called to the person behind me. “Next!”

  “Wait,” I said. “This is so sudden. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Don’t say anything. Next.”

  “I’d like to go upstairs and clear out his office.”

  “You don’t have a pass.”

  “You could give me one.”

  “I could.”

  “But…”

  “I won’t.”

  “I demand to speak to your Su
pervisor.”

  “Tucker,” she screeched.

  The Bulk barreled toward me and his nose twitched. He was picking up a scent.

  “I know you.”

  “Do not.”

  “Do too.”

  He had me. I saw it in his eyes. He picked me up and threw me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carried me out the door.

  I smoothed my dress down and stomped back to my car. I ditched the wig and cat glasses and headed across town to my last stop. The Morgue. Somebody died in that explosion and it wasn’t Chance Savino.

  I was hoping someone could answer my questions. Like, how badly was the body burned? Where was it found? And did the coroner examine the corpse before the FBI whisked all its secrets away?

  Business at the County Morgue is never slow. In my experience the people who work there aren’t like the actors on TV. They’re like the brainy sci-fi geeks in high school who can’t dance unless the Star Trek theme is blasting.

  I fixed a somber and grieved expression on my face before ringing the bell. It was after five and the door was locked. A kid about seventeen leaned against the rail and jammed to his IPOD. I knew he didn’t work here. This boy could dance.

  After a few minutes a man wearing a white polyester shirt and a greasy black comb-over opened the door. He reminded me of the nerd who sat next to me in Biology. The guy who threw himself over tests so I couldn’t copy his answers.

  “May I help you?”

  I reasserted my stricken look. “My husband was brought here the other night after a terrible accident. I’d like to speak to someone who saw him.”

  “Who was your husband, ma’am?”

  I blew my nose hard. “Chance Savino.”

  He sighed. “The man who died in the explosion?”

  “The same,” I sobbed.

  He crossed his arms. “I didn’t believe the first woman who said she was Chance Savino’s wife and she was a hell of a lot better actress than you.”

  “I doubt that,” I snapped holding up my fingers. “Three years, drama club.”

  He gave a little snort. “Take your questions up with the FBI. They warned us you people would come by.”

  “What people?”

  He ignored me. “Your break is over, Billy.”

  “I got four minutes.”