Velvet Ropes

by Patricia Rosemoor

  “You really ought to stop, Stella,” Cass suddenly said. “It’s not safe for you. Lay low and let the rest of us take over.”

  Though her hair stood on end at the well-intentioned warning, Stella insisted, “I’m a cop.” Whatever Cass saw couldn’t stop her. “Nailing bad guys is my life. What kind of message would it send out if I lay low after being threatened? The word would spread faster than a speeding bullet. How could I do my job effectively after that?”

  “If you don’t survive you won’t have the chance to do your job at all,” Dermot growled.

  “At least make yourself less available, away from the neighborhood,” Cass suggested. “You can bunk in with me.”

  “Or me,” Blade offered.

  “I’m sure Lynn would appreciate that.”

  “She’d be glad to do it for someone else in trouble.”

  Reminded that the woman Blade loved and now lived with had not only been her case, but had been the last victim to be helped by Team Undercover, Stella was actually considering the offer when Dermot said, “If anyone is going to play bodyguard, I will. It’s my fault you got involved. This is all about me—”

  “Not anymore, it isn’t.”

  Stella knew she’d placed herself in the midst of a cat-and-mouse game, and suddenly she was one of the mice. No matter, she couldn’t help but be irritated that everyone thought she needed to be protected. She was a cop and trained to protect herself, just as she’d done that afternoon.

  Her practical side saw the wisdom of not being alone until the murderer was caught, however.

  “All right. For the time being, I’ll move in with Dermot,” she agreed.

  Her motivation was strictly case-related. A safety precaution. At the moment she wasn’t feeling too kindly toward the man she’d vowed to exonerate.

  Chapter Eight

  The street that took them to Skipper’s Tavern was lined with dollar stores, secondhand stores and a pawnshop. No fancy bookstores or coffee houses or sushi bars to tone up the neighborhood. According to Stella, the side-street corner establishment used to be the hotbed where everyone with a reputation or without a steady job gathered. At least that’s what she was counting on.

  His voice tight, Dermot asked, “You’re sure you want to do this? Maybe we should give it a day.”

  “Maybe not.”

  Damn! Why had he agreed to let her drive?

  They’d been on the way back to pick up his car and go to his place after Stella had packed what she needed for a few days, when she’d decided that now would be as good a time as any to check out Skipper’s. Dermot wasn’t fooled. Knowing he would object, she’d waited until they were almost there to tell him about their little detour.

  “I never should have agreed to let you get me out of this jam,” he muttered.

  “Being the only suspect in a murder case is more than a jam. And I didn’t need your agreement. I simply thought things would go smoother if I had it.”

  “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “So you keep saying.”

  Even if she hadn’t believed him, Stella would undoubtedly do the same thing. That’s the kind of cop she was. And the kind of person, he thought, as she slid the car to the curb.

  Dermot was practically breathing down Stella’s neck as she entered Skipper’s—he wasn’t about to let her get out of his reach. Once inside, she stopped suddenly and he bumped up behind her, making her gasp. Apparently still angry with him, she glanced back and frowned, then gave herself some space before looking around the smoke-filled room.

  Dermot looked, too.

  The guy behind the bar mixing drinks near the ship’s wheel had to be the owner, Skipper. He wore a captain’s cap and a cruise-ship-type shirt. The whole place was decorated to look like the inside of a ship. With a graying handlebar mustache and sideburns, Skipper was as hopelessly out-of-date as his nickname, but he perfectly fit his surroundings.

  Dermot noted Stella had bypassed the pool table and dartboard areas to focus on the back of the room, where several guys played cards around a corner table. The only other woman present stood behind her man, whispering encouragement in his ear.

  “Damn,” she whispered. “No Johnny Rincon and no Luis Zamora. Illegal or not, those guys are playing for money. If Johnny was here, I’d be tempted to arrest him.”

  Personally, Dermot was glad the much-talked- about Johnny Rincon was absent tonight. Stella had been through enough in the past twenty-four hours. She didn’t need to run up against a career criminal and possible murderer, as well.

  “Why don’t we leave, then,” Dermot suggested, “and come back another time.”

  Maybe he could circumvent Stella altogether and get Blade to check out the joint the next day and see what he could dig up. Or there was that friend of his—Leroy. Maybe he’d already come up with something.

  Stella ignored Dermot as if he hadn’t spoken and stepped up to the bar. “Skipper. Long time.”

  “Well, aren’t we honored to have one of Chicago’s finest join us,” Skipper announced loudly.

  The tavern grew hushed, and Dermot noted all heads turned toward Stella. She slid onto a stool at the bar near the owner, and Dermot took the one next to hers. The guys at the poker table suddenly appeared nervous. Probably trying to decide what to do with a cop in the house. A cell phone flipped open and the player hit some number on his speed dial, then turned his back to the table, making Dermot wonder who he was calling.

  Another man defiantly spread his cards across the table. “Read ’em and weep, boys.”

  But he didn’t reach for the pot in the center until Stella turned her back on the rest of the room and concentrated on the bar owner.

  “Two drafts. So how’s business?”

  Skipper grabbed two beer glasses and set them before the tap. “Same old, same old.”

  “All the usual suspects coming around?”

  He laughed. “What is it you want, Detective?”

  “Stella.”

  “And your friend is—”

  “Not feeling very friendly tonight,” Dermot muttered.

  “Sorry,” Stella said to Skipper.

  “Don’t apologize for me.”

  Skipper set their beers down before them. “Sometimes it doesn’t pay to ask questions.”

  “Are you talking about yourself?” Dermot asked, handing the man a twenty. “Or about us?”

  “I guess that depends on the question.”

  Stella beat Dermot to it. “Who are your regulars at the poker table?”

  If anyone else in the room heard the question, he or she wasn’t worried about the answer. Voices rose and mingled with the clack of cue tips against balls and the slap-slap of cards being dealt.

  “I’m not running a casino here,” Skipper was saying. “If the boys want to let off a little steam and pass a few bucks back and forth, that’s their business.”

  “What boys?” Stella asked, then lowered her voice enough so no one but they could hear. “Johnny Rincon? Louie Z.?”

  Dermot saw a clear yes reflected in Skipper’s startled expression. But then he covered. “C’mon, you can’t expect me to name names and stay in business.”

  “Louie Z…how often?” she continued to probe.

  “Not often. And not anymore.”

  “Why? How big did he lose?”

  Skipper spread his hands. “Since I have nothing to do with the game…”

  “How often did Tony Vargas stop by?” Dermot asked.

  Skipper winced. “Ah, the poor slob was here a lot. Said he had nothing better to do.”

  “Was he a player?”

  “Look, I don’t need no trouble here.”

  “Tony was murdered,” Stella reminded him, taking over. And, as if she was officially investigating the case, she said, “If you withhold information…”

  “Okay, so he was a player, so what?”

  “Winner or loser?”

  “Everyone knew Tony was a loser—”

  “Wh
at about at poker?”

  “Yeah, usually, but I hear he got lucky.”

  “How lucky?”

  “I got another customer.” Skipper escaped to the other end of the bar.

  “Now what?” Dermot asked as Stella took another look around.

  “Leroy.”

  He followed her gaze to the pool table. A slight man with thinning hair and a goatee hung up his cue-stick and wandered over to where they sat.

  “Stella, Blade says you’re on the prowl for answers.”

  “That I am. How’s the family?”

  “Kids are eating me out of house and home,” Leroy said, sounding like a proud dad. “Gotta pick up some extra work.”

  “Talk to Frank.”

  “Yeah, well…”

  “Leroy’s a mechanic,” Stella said. “He used to work for my cousin Frank. Leroy…Dermot.”

  Leroy held out his hand for a shake. His strength for a small guy surprised Dermot. For some reason he’d sounded reluctant about approaching Stella’s cousin—so maybe Frank had fired Leroy.

  Stella said, “We were just asking Skipper about Tony’s luck at the card table.”

  Leroy kept his voice low. “So-so, but he got lucky before he…well, you know.”

  “Right. Died. So did Tony score off anyone in particular?”

  “Louie Z. lost to him big.”

  “How big?”

  “Ten large.”

  Dermot whistled. “Ten thousand. I would swear he didn’t collect. If Tony had his hands on ten grand, I would have known.”

  “Louie Z. didn’t have it to give him.” Leroy shook his head. “Tony scores the big one and what does he get for it? An IOU.”

  And maybe a rope around his neck instead? Dermot wondered. He glanced at Stella and was pretty sure she was thinking the same.

  “How long ago was that?” she asked.

  “Two weeks, give or take. Louie Z. hasn’t been back since.” Leroy glanced up and something like panic floated through his expression before disappearing. “Look, that’s all I know,” he said gruffly, backing away. “I can’t tell you nothing else.”

  “You need something, Stella?” came a taunting voice from behind them. “You know I’m the man.”

  As Leroy beat a hasty retreat, Dermot whirled in his seat and came face-to-face with a pair of sleek designer sunglasses over a deeply scarred face. “You must be Johnny Rincon.”

  “My reputation has spread, huh?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Reputation is very important to Johnny,” Stella said in a way that sounded like a warning.

  With his black leather jacket and slicked-back hair, Johnny Rincon looked like a cheap imitation of The Fonz in Happy Days, Dermot thought. Despite the low light in the room, the man didn’t remove the sunglasses. He must like the effect. Probably thought not being able to see his eyes made him scary. That and the present from Blade.

  Without taking his gaze from Dermot’s, Johnny said, “You look familiar,” and snapped his fingers at Skipper.

  Knowing he was about five years older than Johnny—enough time for him to get out of town and in school before Johnny made his own reputation— Dermot said, “Mine was one of the faces of the neighborhood when you were just a snot-nosed kid.”

  Dermot felt Stella stiffen next to him, and he squeezed her knee to keep her from interfering. Before them, the man hardened and his mouth pulled into a thin line. Animosity pulsed from him in waves.

  Suddenly the room narrowed to just the two of them—him and Johnny. Everything else—customers, Skipper, Stella—receded into the background. In a matter of seconds, twenty years of civilized behavior slid off Dermot like a snake’s skin. Instinct swallowed him whole and spit out someone who could deal with a Johnny Rincon on his own terms, on his own turf.

  “I wouldn’t say that’s very friendly,” Johnny said, his voice low and threatening.

  “He’s not feeling very friendly tonight.”

  Dermot heard Skipper’s edgy attempt at breaking the tension, but he kept the eye-lock with his target. “No disrespect intended.”

  “Johnny, on the other hand, disrespects everyone,” Stella said. “Don’t you, Johnny?”

  “You need to watch yourself, Stella. Then, you always did have a problem with running off at the mouth. Don’t you ever learn?”

  Stella would have jumped at him if Dermot hadn’t been faster. The second she squirmed, he snaked an arm around her waist and held her fast. He could feel her gun pressed against the inside of his arm, and he didn’t want her to be obliged to pull it.

  “Stay,” he growled at her. To Johnny, he said, “Nothing like a woman with a big mouth and a bigger temper to make life interesting.”

  Johnny grunted but didn’t let down his guard. “I know who you are.” His lips turned into an imitation of a smile. “The holy-rolling shrink who hung Tony Vargas by his scrawny little neck.” He shook his head. “What’s the world coming to? Cops hassle an honest citizen like me, but they let a dangerous killer like you walk the streets.”

  Stella still clutched to his side, Dermot returned the feral grin. “I’ve never actually killed anyone…yet.”

  The tension was so thick in the room you could cut it with a knife. Not a sound intruded. Then Johnny barked a laugh and reached in between Dermot and Stella to the bar, where he fetched the glass and tall- necked bottle waiting for him. He tossed back the shot and washed it down with half a beer.

  “Your boss know you’re hanging with a criminal, Detective?”

  “He has no idea I’m here with you, no. What about Louie Z., Johnny? Since when have you two gotten all cozy again?”

  “Don’t know who you’ve been talking to. It’s just poker.” He switched his attention back to Dermot. “Now that I think of it, I remember hearing how you put a guy in a coma.”

  “He survived.”

  “And after you spent time in juvy, you found religion.”

  “Which made me even tougher,” Dermot told him. “But I was able to admit when I was outmaneuvered.”

  “Don’t get too cocky.” Johnny raised his beer in salute, then strolled toward the card game. “Or you might find you’re not as tough as you think.”

  “WHAT THE HELL was all that macho posturing?” Stella demanded the moment they got in the car.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Liar.” Not knowing when she’d ever been so irritated with Dermot, she started the engine and, with a jerk, wrestled the shift in gear. “What a performance.”

  “That was no performance,” he assured her. “It was running on instinct. Self-preservation. The only thing someone like Johnny Rincon understands.”

  “For a minute there, you scared me.”

  “Remember who I used to be years before I met you.”

  “You’re not that person anymore,” she argued, trying to convince herself.

  “Don’t discount the past. We can never forget it completely. Yes, I’ve changed, but part of me will always be that tough gang kid I once was.”

  A fact that Stella had difficulty accepting, both for him and for herself.

  She’d spent years fighting to stay out of a gang herself. She’d been raped when she’d threatened to cut a gang’s criminal plans short. And she’d spent years as a beat cop helping to make gang members pay for their crimes.

  So she didn’t want to think about Dermot’s early history. But apparently what she’d seen as a brilliant performance had been a slice of his own life.

  She shuddered at the realization.

  We can never forget it completely…

  Not her, either. Did that make her a perpetual victim, someone always to be pitied? She hoped not.

  Winding her way along a side street, she kept one eye on the rearview mirror for another set of lights that would indicate someone might be following them. To her relief, nothing. The street behind her remained free of another moving vehicle.

  Dermot waited until they were on the main d
rag before asking, “So was tricking me into going to Skipper’s worth the trouble? Was it good for you?”

  She ignored his sarcasm. “We got three things confirmed. We know Officer Luis Zamora is associating with career criminal Johnny Rincon. Johnny knew about you being under suspicion for Tony Vargas’s murder, so that means Luis is probably the leak. And we know Luis owed big money to Tony. We could be dealing with a bad cop. I hope not. But it’s not looking good for Luis.”

  “Too bad we didn’t get anything new.”

  “We did. Johnny’s comment about my mouth, asking me if I ever learned…” She shuddered again.

  “You think he’s connected to the threatening note and the gang members who played you?”

  “It’s obvious that he knows about it. And the reference to the past…he knows about the attack, too. Not that I’m surprised. He might not have been the guy who raped me, but he was leader of the Vipers. Undoubtedly he was the one who gave Rick Lamey his orders to teach me that lesson.”

  Stella didn’t much feel like talking after that, and thankfully neither did Dermot. Or perhaps he was simply trying to be considerate. Whatever the reason, they drove the rest of the way to the club in silence.

  When he opened the door to trade cars, he asked, “You’re going to follow me, right?”

  “That’s the plan. Don’t worry if you lose me. I remember the address.”

  “I’ll wait for you outside the garage door.”

  Having the short drive alone allowed her to cool off. If they were going to be sharing a space for a few days, tension was the last thing they needed between them. No matter what she told herself, however, Stella couldn’t relax. Being alone with Dermot in such close quarters was sure to be challenging. Maybe staying miffed with him had its advantages.

  Unfortunately, anxious was more where she was at.

  By the time they got to his place in Printers Row and left their cars in the small first-floor garage, Stella was having trouble breathing easily. When he insisted on carrying her bag and their hands collided as he got hold of the handle, her stomach tied in a knot.

  Not an auspicious beginning.

  Following Dermot from the garage onto the sidewalk and to the door, where he punched a code to get in, she asked, “What made you decide on the South Loop?”