Liar, Liar

by K. J. Larsen

  Jack felt the scratches with his fingers. “How did you find her?” he said incredulously.

  Uncle Joey pitched the keys to Jack. “Maybe she found you.”

  I gave Uncle Joey a squeeze and sniffed the shoulder of his jacket. An aroma I’d smelled before filled my nostrils. My eyes widened knowingly.

  “You smoked a cigar in Olivia,” I said.

  “Don Diego. I asked around. It was Bernie’s brand.”

  “I met a woman who smokes them in elevators.”

  Jack hopped in the driver’s seat. He sat frozen for a moment. Then he threw back his head and laughed.

  “Now that’s magic,” I said.

  Uncle Joey smiled. “I thought it was a nice touch.”

  Chapter Thirty

  I had a glass of wine at Mickey’s and made a date with Tommy to do Chicago. I couldn’t face another buffet and luckily, Mama didn’t notice. She was busy heaping cake and ice cream on plates for the twins.

  Uncle Joey drove me home in his car. “You shouldn’t be alone until we get the guy who got Tommy.”

  “Any leads?”

  “None that panned out. We’re all over your case files.”

  “At least you solved the case of the flaming dog poop.”

  “What can I say? We’re Chicago’s finest.”

  I hesitated. “Eddie did it.”

  “The poop?”

  “Dorothy.”

  He mulled the possibility over in his mind. “You could be right. But you won’t convince the captain to go after Harr. He’s retiring next year. He’s going to need his pension.”

  At the house, I punched in the code and opened the door and Inga charged full speed, howling. She bounced off the porch, zagged circles in the grass and galloped full-speed back inside.

  “Some watchdog,” Joey said. “She’s leading the way to the silver.”

  I reset my premium platinum alarm system and trotted after her to the kitchen.

  Max and Tino were at the table, hunched over a game of chess.

  “Who’s winning?” I said.

  “I am,” Max said.

  “I got fifty bucks on Tino,” Uncle Joey said. “Any takers?”

  Dead silence.

  “Thanks a lot, Cat,” Max said. “I saved your life last night.”

  “And I’ll buy you dinner with the fifty bucks I just saved. I’m starved.”

  Tino picked off Max’s queen. “Checkmate.”

  Uncle Joey tucked his fifty away. “Nobody beats Tino at chess.”

  “Dammit,” Max said.

  Uncle Joey chuckled. “Put in your order. I’m buying. I’ve got Happiness Chinese Restaurant on my cell.”

  “Cat still owes me dinner,” Max said.

  Thirty minutes later we sat at the table around open cartons of Kung Po and Dim Sum. I stabbed giant prawns with my chop sticks but broke down and used a fork for the fried rice.

  “Cheater,” Tino said.

  I made a face. “I know you were a spy.”

  “You were hit in the head by an exploding building.”

  “It was a sign. It said FOR LEASE.”

  The door bell rang followed by a commanding knock. Max stuffed a scallop in his mouth, pulled the .45 from his shoulder holster, and beat Uncle Joey to the door.

  “What the hell, Cat,” Joey called. “You rob a bank or something?”

  There was a shuffling of feet on the hardwood floor.

  “You have company,” Tino said. We ditched the squid and padded to the living room.

  Captain Bob positioned himself by the fireplace, arms folded across his chest. Two uniforms anchored stiffly beside him. My stomach roiled in a knot. This couldn’t be good. I was reasonably sure it wasn’t about my unpaid parking tickets. Uncle Joey takes care of them.

  Bob’s face was red and a jutting blue vein pulsed on the side of his neck. The facial twitch was new.

  “There was a break-in last night at the Kids First warehouse,” Bob said.

  “Oh?” Minnie Mouse took over my voice.

  “Eddie Harr believes members of the Chicago Police Department were involved and he’s citing police harassment and brutality. Several employees required medical attention.”

  “Wimps,” I squeaked.

  “I assured Mr. Harr this was an unfortunate and random act by completely insane individuals with no connection to the department.”

  Bob glared at me. His jaw worked savagely.

  “Can I get you something?” I said. “Coffee? Tea? Valium?”

  He snarled.

  “Cut to the chase, Bob,” Uncle Joey said.

  “At five a.m. this morning a man named Charles Ross was found dead in his car.”

  I caught my breath. “Ratman?”

  Bob referred to his notes. “A suicide note was on the dash.”

  I flopped next to Tino on the sofa. “Somebody murdered Charlie. I can’t believe it.”

  “Suicide,” Captain Bob barked like I was deaf. “In his note, Ross confessed to killing Rita Polansky.”

  “Charlie could write?” Max said.

  “He typed the note,” Bob said, “but he signed his name.”

  “Oh Puh-leeze!”

  Bob ignored me. “Ross claimed responsibility for the two bombings. It was a crime spree. He’s responsible for the deaths of three persons and for using the Kids First Project to smuggle arms out of the country. Ross said he couldn’t live with the guilt.”

  “Guilt wasn’t a big problem for Charlie,” I said.

  “We expect to close the case within a few days,” Bob said. “Pending autopsy and handwriting results.”

  “How convenient,” I said. “Charlie confessed everything but Eddie’s traffic tickets.”

  “The hit you took from that brick has you imagining things.”

  “It was a FOR LEASE sign,” Max said.

  “Well there’s a VACANCY sign up there now.” Captain Bob tapped his finger on my forehead.

  Tino snickered.

  “I’m delivering a message from the Chief,” Bob said. “Leave Harr alone.”

  “C’mon, Bob. Charlie didn’t kill himself. He took the fall for his boss. Rita Polansky connected Eddie Harr to organized crime. I can show you her laptop.”

  “Polansky was crackers too.”

  “Too?” I squawked.

  “For godsake, Cat, see a doctor.”

  Captain Bob stomped to the door. The two stiff uniforms followed him out and slammed it shut.

  “They’re closing the case,” Max said.

  “But the autopsy results—”

  Joey cut me off.

  “Don’t count on it, kid. Everything is neatly wrapped up now. The brass hates wrinkles.”

  “It’s over,” Tino said. “Max can go home. Harr is off the hook and he won’t make waves. He knows if anything happens to you he’ll be under the spotlight again.”

  Joey nodded. “You’re safe now.”

  I dropped on a chair. “You’re leaving?”

  “I should feed my fish,” Max said. “I have plants.”

  “But what about slick Eddie? He’s getting away with murder.”

  “Give it time,” Tino said. “The scales of justice balance themselves. Eddie will slip up one day and make a mistake.”

  “You have my phone numbers, fax, and email,” Max said. “If anything changes I’ll be here in an hour.”

  Max walked down the hall to his bedroom and I shuffled after him. His duffle bag was on the bed and he was already packed.

  “You knew about Charlie.”

  “Tino told me this morning.”

  Of course he did. “When we met you said I could drive your Hummer.”

  “That was when you had a gun on me.” He wrapped his arms around me. “Now that you are no longer my security detail, I have a cabin in Wisconsin outside Baraboo. We can go next weekend.”

  For one delicious moment his lips caresse
d mine. His fingers danced across the nape of my neck and down my spine. Tino canceling Max was actually turning out to be a good thing.

  He pulled away and smiled. “And you can drive.”

  I hugged two retired spies and a crooked cop at the door and they left in a parade. I pasted a smiled on my face and waved from the porch. They drove away and I felt terribly alone.

  I loaded the dishwasher and cleaned the room. I hadn’t had a decent night sleep in over a week. My cook was gone but at least Mama’s cannoli was on ice. I poured a huge glass of chianti and wondered what schmuck Eddie paid to pull the trigger on Charlie. My life looked a little better at the bottom of the glass.

  Inga trotted to the back door and dropped the leash in my lap.

  “Well Inga, we’re free. Let’s blow this gin joint.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  I scooted to my bedroom, smushed my hair in a pony tail, and grabbed the brightest thing in my closet, a fuschia pull-over hoodie, and my favorite pair of Rock and Republic pants. I stuffed a bottle of water, apple, and a sausage for Inga in my front pouch. Inga chased me to the porch. I swung the door closed behind us and broke into a slow jog.

  We took the side streets to the Catholic high school and ran the track. The sun was warm on my skin and it felt good to sweat.

  Inga and I shared a snack on the school lawn and walked home. I exchanged gossip with neighbors, helped Mrs. Betrolli carry in her groceries. When I rounded the corner to my house a shrill voice nailed me.

  “Yoo hoo! Caterina!”

  I took a deep, groaning breath. It was Gladys Pickins, Bridgeport’s self-appointed neighborhood watchdog. Mrs. Pickins is quick to point out an unmowed lawn but her specialty is moral insensibilities. Sam and Harvey who live across the street are her top priority. I’m a close second.

  “Sic her, girl,” I whispered. Inga wagged her tail.

  “Hello, Gladys.”

  My neighbor narrowed her eyes to small slits. It was her mean look. I stepped back.

  “I read your name in the paper. It said you’re a terrorist.”

  “I read the paper too. It said the explosion was caused by a gas leak.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “I’m watching you, Caterina. I’ve seen the trail of men coming and going.”

  “I have clients, Gladys. I own a respectable business.”

  “That’s a hoot! Hot Pants Detective Agency.”

  “It’s Pants on Fire.”

  “Same difference.”

  “The difference is whether you’re taking pictures or posing for them.” I reached into my pouch to get my keys and unlock the door.

  Gladys is a mean-spirited old witch without a friend in the world. No one visits her, not even her kids. For one brief moment I felt sorry for her. I heard my voice say something crazy.

  “Why don’t you come inside and have a cannoli with me. It’ll be fun.”

  “With one of your clients waiting for you?”

  My heart stopped dead in my chest. I stared at my front door. “You mean…”

  “You don’t fool me, Caterina DeLuca.” She turned on a heel and tromped away.

  I froze at the edge of the sidewalk trying to remember if I had set the alarm. I was more emotionally exhausted than I thought. And my gun was in my top dresser drawer. Victoria’s Secret was safe.

  I forced myself to breathe. I considered the facts. One. Gladys Pickins is crazy and she wasn’t even slammed in the head. Two. Nobody wants to kill me anymore. Except maybe two hundred of Tommy’s closest friends and family. But they’re good people. The kind who would drop arsenic in my punch. Not the kind who would break in just to murder me. And three. There wasn’t a strange car on the street. Did I mention Gladys is crazy?

  Besides I wasn’t alone. My vicious sidekick was with me. As if on cue Inga rolled over and scratched her back on the soft grass.

  “Oh yeah, girl,” I said. “We’re going in.”

  I unlocked the door and Inga bounded to her water dish. No sniffing the air, no hair up on her back. I made a fist and yanked my elbow back hard. “Whoo hoo!” Just as I suspected. Gladys Pickins was a whack job and Inga and I were alone.

  I hit the radio button and shimmied to my bedroom.

  I got my mo-jo workin’ but it just won’t work on you.

  I pulled my ponytail, opened my dresser drawer, and dropped the hair tie inside. My stomach flipped. I did a double take and looked again. My fingers ferreted futilely through satin and lace. The 9mm was gone. And Victoria’s Secret, gathered in a sorry muddled hump, was far from safe.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Gladys Pickins, it would seem, isn’t quite as crazy as the woman who didn’t call for backup. I strained my ears for a sound. A creak on the stair or the metal scrape of a sharpening axe. I got nothing but my head hammering with a vengeance.

  I closed the drawer and calculated a beeline to the front door. Zero to sixty in three seconds. With any luck my intruder ran off while Gladys zoomed her binoculars on Sam and Harvey.

  “Inga, come!” I called and made a dash for the door. Inga bounded from the kitchen and I smelled Tino’s Deli. I stopped in my tracks. A big fat sausage hung from Inga’s mouth. Her new best friend trotted behind her clutching the bag of Tino’s smoked sausages. Special Agent in Charge Larry Harding’s other hand gripped my gun.

  I grabbed the edge of the couch for support.

  “Traitor,” I said. Inga licked his greasy sausage fingers.

  “She’s a nice dog.”

  “I’m trading her in for a pit bull. What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I think you know.”

  “Not even a clue. You scared the shit out of me.”

  “Where’s the laptop?”

  “Are you kidding me?” My voice rose incredulously. “You’re here for the laptop? You couldn’t get a warrant? Knock on the door and ask nice or tell Chance to pick it up…”

  I stopped cold and looked hard into the steel-gray eyes. I got it then.

  “Chance doesn’t know you’re here.”

  Larry gave a crooked smile.

  Without meaning to I spoke the words aloud.

  “It was your number Charlie wrote on Rita’s picture,” I said, sealing my own fate.

  “I’ll take that laptop now.”

  “You’re not in it, asshole. Rita said she suspected a leak in the FBI.”

  He appeared surprised. “That’s it?”

  “That’s all she wrote. What happened? Did Rita catch you that morning with Eddie Harr? Cuz she didn’t enter her notes about that meeting in her laptop. Maybe she ran out of time.”

  He barked an evil laugh. “Couldn’t be late to her own funeral.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll win that race.” He pulled a pair of plastic gloves from his pocket and stuffed his hands inside. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry? You can’t kill somebody and say sorry. You’ll never get away with this.”

  “I don’t have to. But you will. You killed yourself. The headaches, the concussion, the madness drove you to it.”

  My throat constricted. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I had to keep talking.

  “What made you crack, Larry? Did your boss pass you over for a promotion? A messy divorce? A meltdown? Why would a federal agent team up with Eddie Harr? Was it money?”

  “And the early retirement plan.”

  “You’ll spend it in Joliet.”

  “I’ll take that laptop now, Cat.”

  Harding tossed the bag on the floor and Inga charged the sausages. She whaled over the recliner and whacked his arm in flight. Diverting his attention for one brief moment was all I needed. I whirled at him with all my might, my flying weight propelling him backwards. I grappled his wrist with both hands, my nails clawing his skin.

  The 9mm went off wildly. The
bullet chipped the fireplace and the smoking gun dropped to the floor. I kicked my foot and the gun skirted across the hardwood, spun under the couch, and ricocheted off the wall. Harding howled with rage. He nailed my cheek and a sharp pain pierced my head. His big hands clawed at my neck and I jammed my knee up into his groin. He screamed. His legs gave way and I twisted sideways and broke free.

  I hurdled over the couch and landed on the gun. I rolled on my back. He rocketed after me, bounding onto the couch cushion, reeling above me wild eyed, his breath ragged. I flexed my hands around the hard steel and aimed the pistol over my head. Right between his eyes.

  I fired. He flew back and he went down hard. I flinched at the sound of his head crashing the coffee table. My Chihuly vase shattered to tinkling bits of priceless glass. Inga crawled behind the couch and trembled beside me on the floor.

  I had killed a man. The adrenaline crashed. I could barely breathe. I was too numb and shaky to think. The gun burned my hand and I dropped it. I hugged my knees a long time until the shaking stopped. When my legs would hold me I pulled myself up and stumbled to the kitchen. First I called Rocco. My brother was on his way when I called Chance.

  ***

  Captain Bob was not a happy man standing in front of my fireplace for the second time that day. This time he brought half a dozen reinforcements. Not to be outdone Rocco brought seven DeLucas.

  “Merda!” Papa muttered. He held my hand, too worried to show off his scar. My crazy cousin Frank brandished his gun and practiced his quick draw on the porch. Rocco spoke quietly with the captain and the twins finished the forgotten bag of smoked sausages. Uncle Joey manipulated the crime scene. He spoke on his cell and whispered instructions to my cousins. The FBI’s golden boy draped spread-eagle across the broken coffee table, head dropped back to the floor. An Adam’s apple protruded from the stretched turkey neck. Special Agent in Charge Larry Harding’s steel eyes gaped open, surprised by death.

  I felt numb. I answered Captain Bob’s questions. He asked the same ones a hundred times. My answers didn’t change.

  Bob shook his head gravely. “I don’t think I can help you with this one. But I can put in a word with the DA.”

  I frowned. “What word?”

  “Insanity.”

  “It was self-defense,” Rocco countered. “A witness saw Larry Harding let himself into her house.”