Liar, Liar

by K. J. Larsen

  “Did she…”

  “It was quick, Harry. She didn’t feel a thing.” I didn’t know if that was true but it felt good to say it.

  “Thanks.”

  I offered Harry one of his tissues. “Now let’s cut the crap, Harry. You told Polansky to hire me and I want to know why.”

  “I did not!” The bushy eyebrows shot up and down.

  “You’re lying, Harry.”

  “Damn the eyebrows.” Harry’s shoulders sagged. “Rita might have said she needed a detective. I might have mentioned your name.”

  “I’ve been blown up, threatened, chased all over town, and someone put a dead rat in my bed. Yes a rat!” My voice rose precariously. “With my Tuscany silk scarf around its tail.”

  “Sorry, Cat. I—”

  “Maybe if you’d told me the truth from the beginning I could’ve helped and my sister wouldn’t be dead now.”

  He looked at me over the rim of his glasses. “She’s not really your sister you know.”

  I shot him a withering look.

  Harry sat up, frowned. “It was Rita’s idea to keep you in the dark. She said it would be too dangerous for you. It was better if you didn’t get involved.”

  “Involved! Tell that to the rat in my trash.”

  Harry collapsed in his chair and covered his face with his hands. I hadn’t seen him so distraught since he punched out the priest he accused of pursuing his wife. She is too much woman for one man, Harry lamented. How can I fault her when every man desires her.

  Looking back, I still didn’t get it. Harry’s wife is a kind and generous woman with a face that screams Bow Wow.

  When Harry hired me he explained that his wife had no desire for sex and must be having an affair. I followed the plain, exhausted woman for a while and finally just came out and asked her. She said she had four young children and didn’t want to get pregnant again. I drove her to Planned Parenthood and took the kids for a long weekend. I also told Harry to help more at home, hire some Merry Maids, and see a shrink for beating up a priest.

  “The story Rita was working on has been canned. It’s over. Go home and forget it happened.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “What?”

  I stared at him hard. “Oh my god, they got to you.”

  His bushy eyebrow shot up and down. “Did not.”

  “Your reporter was murdered and you’re letting them get away with it.”

  “I told Rita to back off but she wouldn’t listen. I’ve got a wife and kids. Do you have any idea what they’d do to such a desirable woman?”

  I started to respond but thought better of it. “Who got to you?”

  “Maybe I got a phone call. So what? It’s over, forgotten.”

  “I’m not forgetting, Harry.”

  The phone rang and Harry listened, grunted, and hung up.

  “The cops are on their way up, Detective Lewis. You may want to slip out the back.”

  I leaned across his desk and kissed Harry’s cheek. “I’m taking my sister’s pictures, organic chocolate, and laptop with me.”

  Harry shrugged. “You’ll never crack the code.”

  I opened the office door to a chorus of “good luck, sorry for your loss, Cat.” I waved to my new friends.

  “Watch your back,” Harry said.

  “Gotcha.”

  “And don’t get yourself killed. I need you to take the kids for a long weekend this summer.”

  Chapter Nine

  I knew Harry would buy me some time. But someone in Rita’s office was certain to blab to the cops. I put my money on the big-mouthed red head. I hot footed to the service elevator, exited through a side door, and flung Rita’s worldly possessions in the trunk. When this was over, I’d mail them to her family in Oregon.

  I turned my wheels toward Bridgeport and wondered about the secrets that cost my client her life. I hoped she shared them with her laptop. Ratman thought I witnessed something before the fireworks. I’ve wracked my brain over and over to get nothing. The truth is my secrets aren’t worth killing a rat over. But at least I know how to keep them.

  One of my first cases involved a Senator’s wife who became suspicious when she noticed charges on her husband’s credit cards for lingerie she didn’t receive. She hired me to find out who had. The conservative Senator courts the moral outrage vote and his wife wasn’t about to let a second rate hootchie blow her chance at First Lady.

  I closed the case in ten days and delivered the 8 X 10 glossies to my client. Not that he was good the first nine. The Senator was surrounded by an entourage of associates and I couldn’t get close to him. The tenth day I slipped in his hotel room, scooted under his bed and waited. The Senator returned early and alone. He placed a call to his wife and left a brief impersonal voice mail for his secretary. Then he plunked on the foot of the bed and kicked off his shoes. His pants dropped to the floor and his briefs tumbled inches from my face. Then he stood, scratched his hairy butt, and sauntered to the bathroom.

  He took a long steamy shower. The Senator knows the words to more musicals than a singing waiter off Broadway. I don’t recall the songs he sang but “I’m Going to Wash that Man Right Out of My Hair” would have been a good choice, because a Senator stepped into the shower, but a hairy ho in pink satin lingerie shimmied back into the bedroom.

  I don’t know what the Senator’s wife did with the pictures I gave her. She paid me well and sends other sensitive cases my way. I heard her husband heads a Congressional Committee on Family Values. The memory of his fat ass in lace cheers me to this day.

  At a red light I glanced in a mirror and scared myself. Rita’s big unseeing eyes stared back at me. I burned rubber to a corner Starbucks and scrubbed every trace of make-up from my face.

  I bought Inga a biscotti and me a cinnamon dolce latte with extra whipped cream. Then I called Uncle Joey.

  “Sweetheart. Your Mama said you lost your mind in the explosion.”

  “I’m fine. You know how she worries.”

  “Your Mama says you’re a dispatcher now. She said they’ll fire you if you don’t show up to work.”

  My head pounded at the temples. “You know I’m a private investigator, Uncle Joey. I have a successful business.”

  My uncle chuckled. “That’s right, Cat. You can always depend on people to cheat.”

  “What else did Mama say?”

  “Father Timothy will be calling on you soon.”

  I groaned. “Of course he will.”

  “So what’s on your mind, kid?”

  “I’m hoping Joe Jr. will hack into a laptop for me. It involves a case I’m working on.”

  “About the explosion in Bridgeport?”

  “I think so.”

  “Bring it over. Junior’s leaving tomorrow for Cambridge. I’ll put him on it right away.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Joey. Your boy’s a genius.”

  “I think his Mama was screwin’ the judge. The DeLuca men ain’t that smart.”

  I laughed. “Tell Joe Jr. I’ll pay him.”

  “Save your money. I’ll take care of it. You can pick up your laptop tonight.”

  “Thanks.”

  I counted to ten before dialing Mama.

  “Caterina, is that you?” Mama has caller ID but she doesn’t trust the little box.

  “It’s me. I talked to Uncle Joey. You have to stop telling people I’ve lost my mind.”

  “What? I should lie for you?”

  “I had a concussion, Mama. Not a lobotomy.”

  “Are you a dispatcher.”

  “Nope. I’m a snoop.”

  “You lost your mind. Come over tonight. I made cannoli for you.”

  “Cannoli?” I was fresh out.

  “I made your favorite. Dipped in dark chocolate.”

  I weakened. “Well, I’m dropping by Uncle Joey’s house later.”

  “Stop here first and I’ll send some for Joey and
the kids. Don’t let your Aunt Linda eat one. She’s too thin. She doesn’t fool me. There’s a fat Italian woman inside her and I won’t have her throwing up my cannoli.”

  ***

  Mickey’s was packed and happy hour in full swing when I plowed through the door. I was met with a few wolf whistles and a hand slapped my behind. I spun around to a half-dozen goofy grins. Cops are cheezy like construction workers but with more dangerous tools in their belts.

  I covered my ass and scuttled to Rocco’s table, dodging servers with baskets of juicy burgers and fried chicken.

  “You don’t look so good,” Rocco’s partner said.

  Jackson’s toughly built frame wears the hell out of a tight fitting black turtleneck, and his chocolate eyes matched his jacket. My brother Rocco is no slouch, but his untamed hair has a mind of its own, and his eyes were tired like he slept on the couch.

  I made a face and slung my purse on the back of the chair. “Did you eat?”

  “We ordered,” Rocco said. “You’re having the special. Barbequed ribs.”

  “Good enough.”

  Rocco’s radio blurbed static and a screechy voice spat out numbers and a street address. He groaned disparagingly. “That horrible voice took your dispatching job.”

  “With that great insurance, it’ll screech forever.”

  The server brought three baskets of gooey ribs, fries, and a pile of extra napkins. I ordered a salad with a side of ranch and when the waiter returned with it I popped the question.

  “So what happened at Savino’s office? Did you make it past the lobby?”

  “No problem,” Rocco said. “I can’t believe you let that guy carry you out of there.”

  “He what?” said Jackson.

  “Never mind.” I pointed to a glob of barbeque sauce on Rocco’s tie.

  “Damn.” Rocco wet a napkin and smeared it around.

  “What happened upstairs?”

  “Savino’s office is sweet,” Jackson said. “Full bar, leather couches. Fancy appetizers in the fridge.”

  “You went in?”

  “How else could we eat the cheese and crackers?”

  “We scored with some eighteen-year-old Scotch,” Jackson said.

  “You stole his booze?”

  “It’s not like he can take it with him.”

  I looked at Jackson blankly. “What?”

  “I mean now that he’s gone.”

  I kicked my brother. “Didn’t Rocco tell you? Savino isn’t dead.”

  The partners exchanged glances.

  “Right,” Jackson said.

  “You guys are so lame,” I said.

  Rocco grinned. “The office looks like any other office, until you look deeper. No address book, no appointment calendar. There’s not a goddamn sticky note anywhere.”

  “No paper trail,” I said.

  Jackson licked his fingers. “There’s a high-end computer but the hard drive’s missing.”

  “OK.” I whipped the air with a fry. “Here’s the question. Did Savino clean house before or after the explosion? And did he plan to stage his own death?”

  “You’re scaring me,” Jackson said.

  “Concussion,” Rocco mouthed.

  “Should she be driving?” Jackson didn’t bother to whisper.

  I exaggerated an eyeroll. “What about the other office. My stalker had their Lexus.”

  Rocco removed the fry from my fingers. “It’s called Harbor Reach International. Looks legit. The driver could be a nut case acting on his own.”

  “He’s not that smart,” I said.

  Rocco chewed. “The rat gig is a no brainer. It just takes a strong stomach.”

  “And a twisted mind,” Jackson said. He dragged a notebook from his pocket. “Harbor Reach International is an import-export business with interests around the world. They have a good public image. Their stocks are up—”

  “Yada yada yada,” I snapped. “What about blowing up buildings? They killed some poor Joe Blow—”

  “Savino,” Rocco mouthed.

  “I saw that!”

  “We got nothing shady on Harbor Reach or its owner.” Jackson turned a page. “Name is Eddie Harr. He’s loaded.”

  “Aha!” I gasped. “My client had something on Eddie Harr. Maybe something that got her killed.”

  “You can’t prove that,” Rocco said.

  “Can too. I’m a detective.”

  Jackson choked on a laugh.

  “If Rita had told me the truth, I could have saved her.”

  Jackson opened his mouth to say something and I shot him my full evil eye. He closed it again.

  Rocco smeared more sauce around his plate. “Even if Eddie Harr is involved…”

  “That’s a huge IF,” Jackson said.

  “Eddie’s too big,” Rocco said. “You can’t take him down.”

  “I don’t care how big you are. You ruin somebody’s perfectly good Tuscany scarf, you gotta pay.”

  Jackson shook his head. “Is this about the scarf?”

  “I loved that scarf.”

  “Geez, Cat.”

  “And also you can’t kill people.”

  I jabbed the salad with my fork. Maybe they were right. Eddie Harr had an army of thugs along with a pocketful of politicians. I was out of my league here. Sure I was a detective but my cases were the stuff soaps are made of. My clients aren’t supposed to be murdered. They’re scorned lovers who have their panties in a bunch.

  Rocco buried his face in his hands and shook his head.

  I beamed a smile. “Maybe you’re right and I can’t bring Eddie Harr down. But I bet I can wipe the arrogant smirk off his face.”

  Chapter Ten

  My parent’s house in Bridgeport is much the same as it was when I was a kid with a few upgrades. The large oak tree with the rope swing has been replaced by a cedar swing set for the grandkids. Papa’s new deck and Viking outdoor kitchen was the talk of the Moose Lodge for a week. The community hasn’t changed all that much in thirty years. Mrs. Gigliotti is still the neighborhood gossip. She runs to Mama who spices it like a good Italian meatball and spreads it over the south side of Chicago.

  There were way too many cars at my parents’ house when I dropped by for cannoli. I wanted to make this fast, pick up the laptop at Joey’s, and pop by Tino’s Deli on my way home. With this kind of crowd, getting away might be trickier than I planned.

  I scooted around the back and caught Mama in the kitchen. “You’ll stay for supper,” she beamed. “Father Timothy is here to see you.”

  Uh oh. “This isn’t about my concussion, is it? Because when it comes to crazy, you and I are in a dead heat.”

  Mama sniffed, affronted. “Is it crazy to want to help my daughter when she talks to dead people?”

  “The man isn’t dead. I saw him again this morning.”

  Mama crossed herself.

  “Ask Rocco.”

  Her face glimmered with hope. “Rocco saw this dead man?”

  “Not exactly. But a man doesn’t have to be dead just because the FBI says he is.”

  Mama squinted. “Who else was there when you saw this dead man?”

  “You mean like a witness?”

  “A witness would be good.”

  “His wife was there.”

  “Ah!”

  “Or I should say the woman who wasn’t his wife.”

  “You have a witness, Caterina. Saints be with us.”

  Yup. You know there’s a priest in the DeLuca house when saints are called to supper.

  I hedged. “Now that I think of it she may not be the ideal witness.”

  Mama’s eyes narrowed to slits. “And why would that be Caterina?”

  I sighed. “Mostly because she’s dead, Mama.”

  “Dead?” Her voice was a hoarse whisper.

  “Checked out, stabbed in the chest, off the planet dead.”

  “Father Timothy,” Mama scre
amed. Her pitch reached a shattering level and just like that all the saints scattered.

  The priest appeared and hauled me into the living room. I didn’t want to go with him but it’s hard to argue with a man who knows all my shit from the confessional. At least since I was fifteen and met Stanley Swank behind his Papa’s store.

  “Sit, Caterina. Please.”

  “No,” I said, and sat. I looked around the room. Papa, Sophie, the twins, their wives, Uncle Joey, and a slew of running snot-nosed children added to the chaos. From across the street I could feel Mrs. Gigliotti’s high powered binoculars piercing the window.

  “My child, we’re here tonight because your family is worried about you.”

  My head spun around. “What? I’m here for the cannoli.”

  “I understand you’ve suffered a recent concussion.”

  “Uh, I was feeling OK until now.”

  “Your family has seen some troubling changes in you.”

  “Cat talks to dead people,” Sophie blabbed. “She’s scaring the children.”

  Sophie’s a big fat tattle tale. Her bratty children ran around my chair. “Auntie Cat’s a witch!”

  I went rigid. “What’s going on?”

  “Out of the mouth of babes,” Sophie said.

  Mama sniffed. “The explosion was awful. The building blew like a bomb.”

  “That’s because it was a bomb.”

  “Cat’s delusional,” Sophie said. “It was a gas leak.”

  Mama yanked her hankie from her bra. “My little girl flew through the air and a slab of concrete crushed her head.”

  “It was a sign. It said FOR LEASE.”

  Mama wrung her hands. “And now my Caterina is crazy. She doesn’t go to her dispatching job. She takes dirty pictures.”

  “Pornography?” Father Timothy gasped.

  “It’s a sickness,” Sophie smiled.

  The priest shook his head. “It’s been too long, Caterina, since your last confession.”

  “Whoa,” I held my hands up. “What’s happening here?”

  Papa gazed longingly at the door. “This is your Mama’s Interfering.”

  “Intervention,” Mama said.

  “Holy crap,” I said.

  “I just came for the food,” Uncle Joey said. “You know your Aunt Linda can’t cook.”