by K. J. Larsen
The killer shuffled from the bedroom, his head down thumbing through my client’s wallet. His eye caught my Sketchers and Levi’s first. He froze.
“You!” I choked and the room spun a bit. I honed my gun on the hot guy with the black Boxster. He wore trousers, a dark green turtleneck, and a black leather jacket. Dammit, he was fine.
He recovered quickly. “DeLucky! What the hell are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here? I’m catching you in the act with your wife!”
“She’s not my wife.”
“Whatever she was to you she’s dead. And you murdered her.”
“She was dead when I got here.”
“Liar, liar!” I waved the 9mm at the body.
Savino frowned. “Do you know how to use that thing? Put the gun away before it goes off.”
“If it goes off it won’t be an accident. You’re going down, Savino.”
“I never saw this woman until ten minutes ago. I arrived just before you.”
“Save it for the cops. I caught you stealing money from her wallet.”
He threw me a “you’ve got to be kidding” look. “I was checking her ID. I want to know her angle. I’m trying to figure out why she had me followed.”
I juggled my purse, struggling to unzip it with one shaking hand.
He removed a license from her wallet. “Her name’s Rita Polansky.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I didn’t kill her. Look at the body.”
“I’m a little busy eyeing her killer.” I moved craftily to the coffee table and rummaged through my bag. “Stay there, I’ll have my phone out in a minute.”
“Let me know if I can help. Here’s her press card. Polansky’s a reporter for the Chicago Tribune.”
“Aha!” I opened the inside zipper with my teeth. “So that’s why you killed her. She was onto you and your—”
“My what?”
“Whatever it is that makes a man fake his own death.”
“You’re the detective, DeLucky. Consider the evidence.”
“I am.”
“Her jewelry box is open and emptied. Her watch and rings are gone. The people who did this wanted it to look like a robbery.”
“Hah!” I squeaked. “If Rita’s jewelry’s gone it’s bulging from your pockets.”
He grinned. “The bulge you see is not her jewels. Check my pockets if you wish.”
I threw the purse away and mumbled. “Great, I left my phone in the car.”
“For godsake I couldn’t have done this, Cat. Her body’s not even warm.”
I waved my gun. “Drop to the floor with your hands behind your back.” I made my way to the Mickey Mouse telephone next to the lava lamp.
Savino stretched out on the floor. I slid around him, my weapon trained on his back. In an instant he struck. His right hand seized my ankle, jerking me off balance. He yanked me down, tearing the gun from my hand. My head bounced hard on the hardwood floor.
“Ow!”
He sat on me. I sputtered and struggled to jolt him off.
“I don’t want to hurt you, DeLucky. You’re so damn hot-headed you won’t listen.”
“I wish I’d shot you,” I lashed back at him.
He jerked me to my feet, pinned my arms, and dropped me in front of the body. “Look at her.”
The pool of blood was dry around the edges and the stain on the knife looked black and crusty. Her body was a grayish blue, and her eyes vacant. Her mouth was slack and gaping. Rita Polansky had been dead at least ten hours. Okay, so Savino was telling the truth. Maybe he wasn’t the murderer, at least not this time.
“OK. She’s been dead a while. Maybe you came back again.”
“Really? You’re not serious?”
“Fine.” I admitted grudgingly. “So you didn’t kill her.”
He threw out his arms. “Thank you.”
“But her death is still on you. If Rita didn’t care about your stupid secrets she wouldn’t be dead now.”
“And what secrets would those be?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet.” I pulled my eyes from his well defined chest. “But I will.”
The dreamy cobalt blues smiled. “I’m sure you will. Just don’t get yourself killed over it.” He snatched two satin ropes from the velvet drapes, secured my ankles, and tied my wrists behind my back. When he was finished he leaned close, his breath tickling my ear.
“If I could trust you I wouldn’t have to do this. The knot is loose enough. If you don’t jerk it tight you’ll free your hands in no time.”
I twisted my bound wrists furiously. He moseyed to the door. “One more thing, DeLucky. You might want to stop trying to convince people I’m alive. They’ll think you’re nuts.” He walked out letting the door swing shut behind him.
“Too late,” I screamed.
I was free in five minutes and spent the next ten tossing Rita’s apartment. Not that I expected to find anything. Both the killer and Savino had had their shot before I got there. I came up empty for anything that would explain her death, but I found letters and a photo album of her family. Rita was the middle of three daughters. She attended high school and college in Oregon and her parents and siblings still lived there. Their recent letters talked about her big story and hopes for a Pulitzer. I put her letters away and looked hard into the unseeing eyes outlined in electric blue.
“I won’t let the people who did this get away,” I promised.
I hated to admit it but Chance Savino was right. The killer wanted to stage the murder as a robbery gone wrong, but the ambitious reporter was killed to silence what she knew. Her watch and jewelry were taken away, but so was the one thing that could speak for her, the hard drive to her computer.
I wiped away my prints and slipped from the apartment unnoticed. I’d been doing this surveillance gig a long time and felt confident I wouldn’t be remembered.
At a busy intersection I placed a call from a payphone.
“911. What is the nature of your emergency.”
I disguised my voice with a really bad accent. “A voman eez dead in her apartment,” I said spouting the address.
“What is your name, ma’am?”
“Ze Cleaning Voman.”
Click.
I made my next call from a payphone a few blocks away.
“Chicago Tribune. How may I direct your call.”
“You have a reporter by the name of Rita Polansky. I’d like to speak with her supervisor.”
“One moment please.”
“News desk. Stephanie Mills speaking.” I could hear gum popping between syllables.
“This is the Detective Sasha Lewis from the Chicago Police Department. My call concerns one of your reporters, a Rita Polansky.”
She popped a bubble. “Her supervisor is in a meeting. Is Rita in trouble?”
Not any more. “I’m sorry to inform you Ms. Polansky died last night in her apartment.”
“Really? Omigod!”
“Really.”
“She choked on granola, didn’t she? I mean, the way she wolfs it down…”
“The cause of death is under investigation.”
“I can’t believe it,” Stephanie sniffed. “She was such a health nut.”
“Ms. Polansky’s family arrived early this morning from Oregon. They’ll gather her things and take her home for the funeral. Maybe you’ve met them?”
“No. She hasn’t worked here that long. I can’t believe she’s gone, this really sucks.”
“We’ll have more answers in a few days.”
“Thanks for calling. I didn’t know the cops cared that much.”
“Oh we care. Chicago cops are all heart.”
Chapter Eight
I took Inga for a three mile run. I get a cloud of doom around dead people and when I lie a lot. I had to shake a double whammy.
When the run didn’t help I drove th
rough The Sugar Shack and ordered two coffees, a doggie treat for Inga, and a dozen gooey donuts. The coffee was still hot when I pulled into my driveway.
Balancing the drinks in my hands, I clenched the bag with my teeth, and bumped the car door with my booty. Rocco met me on the porch, arms folded, eyes narrowed to slits. “You shouldn’t go out alone with that psycho—” he began, and his eyes lit on the donuts. He snatched the bag from my mouth.
“Sweet!”
Forgiven again. I followed my brother inside and kicked the door behind me. I removed the lids from the coffees and joined Rocco at the dining room table.
Rocco held up a sugary white finger. “Do you hear that?”
I listened. Nothing. “What?”
“Silence, Cat. Sweet uninterrupted silence. I read the entire newspaper for the first time since the kids were born.”
The paper was scattered in a mess across the table.
“I see that.” I shuffled it together in a pile and smacked him over the head with it. The DeLuca men are like Mama made them. Dependent, messy, and helpless in the kitchen.
Rocco stuffed an apple fritter in his mouth. “I’m eating my whole fritter. No squalling babies, no kids climbing on my lap.”
I smiled. “You hate it.”
“Give me a few days.”
He dug deep in the donut bag. “Jelly filled,” he gloated, still gnawing on his fritter.
I sank my teeth into a maple bar and melted inside.
“Where’d you run off to at the butt crack of dawn?”
I wiped the sugary glaze from his cheek. “I was looking for my client. The one who’s not married to Chance Savino.”
“The dead man?”
“The dead man who isn’t dead.”
“Right.” He shot up a brow.
“It turns out Rita Savino is Rita Polansky, a reporter for the Trib.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“Yep. I did all the talking.”
“Why’s that?”
“She’s dead.”
“Holy shit.”
I told my brother everything except maybe the part where I was scared. Rocco sucked in air. “What is wrong with that head of yours? You could’ve been killed.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were tied up by a dead man. Give it up, Cat.”
“No can do, bro. I made a promise and I’m keeping it.” I didn’t mention the promise was to a corpse. You don’t want to go from crazy to committed before lunch.
“Let the cops handle it.”
“I’m way ahead of the cops. Rita was working on a story. She got too close and they killed her.”
“Who is they?”
“The bomb people. The rat people. Who knows how many people there are?”
“Back up. The explosion was a gas leak.”
“Uh uh.”
“The guy in the Lexus could be acting on his own.”
“No way. Ratman was delivering a message. I’m a detective, Rocco, this is what I do.”
“No. I’m a detective, you’re a hootchie stalker. The only thing you investigate is who’s doing who and how they’re doin’ it. This is murder. It’s my gig. You’re way over your head.”
I stomped to the bathroom, grabbed my bag of make-up, and disappeared into my bedroom. I dug deep for something I hadn’t touched since Halloween.
“You’d be a damn good dispatcher,” my brother shouted through the door.
“Stuff it,” I barked back.
I made my face and doused my scraped skin with Bactine. I slipped into black pantyhose and a clingy little black dress I bought last year for my great uncle’s funeral. There was a crusty spot on the front of the dress and I spit washed it away with my finger. It was probably red wine or chocolate cake from the wake. Uncle Barney was a fat boozer.
“What’s wrong with your eyes?” my brother said when I joined him. He was working on a lemon crème donut.
“Electric blue eyeliner. You like?”
“It’s hideous. Where are you going?”
“To the Tribune. Maybe I’ll learn something about the big story my client was working on.”
“Take someone with you. I don’t want you alone until we catch this asshole.”
“I’m not alone. I have Inga.”
My brother growled and I kissed his cheek. “Meet me later at Mickey’s.”
Inga and I made our way across town to the Tribune Tower, a neo-gothic skyscraper near the Michigan Avenue Bridge over the Chicago River. I glided through the doors and fixated on a suit exiting the elevators, his attention focused on a sheaf of papers. He looked important enough to get me upstairs and too busy to ask questions.
I blinked feverishly, recalling the day my childhood dog, Spooky, was hit by a car. Blue tears stung my eyes. Don’t tell me I’m not a good crier.
I clacked across the stone floor and cut him off at the pass.
“Excuse me.”
He nodded vaguely, his attention focused on his papers.
My voice caught. “I’m Amber. I’m looking for my sister’s office.”
This time he glanced up. He took a step back.
In my experience men are usually terrified if a woman cries, has PMS, or chases ’em with a hatchet. “Who’s your sister?”
It was too painful to speak. I choked on the name. “Rita Polansky.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “Sorry. I just heard.”
He reached into his jacket and spoke into a pager. The elevator doors parted, and a woman in a gray tweed pant suit waved me inside. When I looked back again the suit was gone.
I read her tag. Her name was Alice.
“Where to?” she said.
“Rita Polansky’s office.”
“Everyone liked Rita,” Alice said. She punched a button and the elevator jerked sharply, groaned, and a hard jolt shot us upward. When the door opened I breathed.
Alice took me to Rita’s office and introduced me to Rita’s friends. They were good criers too and hugged me tightly. They packed my sister’s worldly possessions in a box for me to take home to Portland. There were organic chocolates, herbal teas, an autographed picture of Rita with President Obama, and an Award for Integrity in Journalism plaque.
“I can tell you’re Rita’s sister,” a redhead gushed. “You got her eyes.”
A woman with round glasses gnawed on a lip. Her voice was low and throaty.
“I had lunch with Rita last week. She was working on a big story.”
“What story?”
She shrugged a shoulder. “But she said some people wouldn’t like it.”
“What people?”
“Dunno.” She threw her hands up, then shook her head. “She was worried someone might want her laptop. She began leaving it at work. I guess it belongs to you now.”
Laptop? Score!
Rita’s friend pulled a bobby pin from her hair and patiently worked the lock on the desk.
I clenched my hands behind me. I wasn’t sure Rita’s sister from Oregon should know how to pick locks, and I resisted the temptation to throw her out of the way, snag the laptop, and run. Her patience paid off and she dropped Rita’s laptop next to the box with the chocolates.
I looked at Rita’s coworkers and a blue tear splashed on my chest.
“My sister loved you all.” Sniff. Sniff. “Thanks for making her feel at home in Chicago.” I seized the laptop in a vice grip.
“Don’t forget the organic chocolates,” the red head said.
I reached for the box of effects and a pair of elephantine hands pinned my shoulders.
“Not so fast, Cat.”
You could’ve heard that bobby pin drop.
Busted. My eyes dropped to the floor and I turned around slowly. My eyes traveled up checkered polyester pants, white dress shirt, tummy over his belt like the home of the Whopper, and a red-blond beard. A serious honker sprouted nose hairs that screamed for a trim.
>
“Harry!” I gulped. “I can explain.”
Harry Kaplan raised a bushy brow. He was one of my first clients. He had been convinced his wife was cheating on him. I wondered if he got the therapy I recommended.
“Cat?” A chorus of confused voices echoed. “She said her name was Amber.”
I smiled weakly.
Harry slapped an expansive arm around my shoulder. “Cat is Amber’s nickname. Rita introduced us last fall at the National Media Conference in Seattle.”
“Hi, Cat,” the redhead giggled.
Harry waved above his head. “Back to work everyone. We have a deadline.”
I inched behind him, ready to bolt, but he snapped out an arm and snared me.
“Your sister’s death was a terrible shock. There must be something I can do.”
“There’s not.”
“Nonsense.”
“I should go now and grieve.”
“I’ve got tissue.”
Harry dragged me in his office, slammed the door shut, and closed the Venetian blinds. First chair I saw, I grabbed, slipped out of my pumps, and propped my feet on his desk.
“Thanks for covering for me, ol’ pal.”
Harry sank into his overstuffed chair. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I came for Rita’s laptop. Don’t try to stop me, Harry.”
Harry snorted and glared at me over the rim of his glasses. “Stephanie called me out of a meeting. She said Rita choked on tofu.”
“You can’t choke on tofu. It’s smooth as silk.”
“Here’s another funny thing. I called the Chicago Police Department. They never heard of a Detective Sasha Lewis.”
“I can’t believe that, Harry. It’s a huge department.”
“Not that huge. Maybe a dozen cops responded to the 911 call to Rita’s apartment. No Sasha.”
“That’s odd.” I pressed a hand to my throbbing temple.
“Nice name, though.”
“Thanks.”
Harry opened a drawer and pulled out two glasses and a flask. “Rita was a good kid, Cat. What the hell happened to her?”
I looked bleak. “She was dead when I found her in her apartment this morning. Stabbed in the chest.”