by Dianna Love
Chapter Five
The sound of Aretha Franklin belting R-E-S-P-E-C-T pierced the darkened quiet of Lucie’s bedroom. She shot to a sitting position and snatched her cell phone off the nightstand.
“Hello?” Her sleep clogged voice grumbled like a stalling tractor and she cleared her throat. “Hello?”
“Lucie, this is Elaine Bernard. They’re back.”
Huh? Who? Lucie jabbed two fingers into her eyes, then glanced at the clock. Six-oh-five.
They’re back. Please. Let her be referring to the dogs. “Josie and Fannie?”
“Yes. Lenny called a few minutes ago and said he had them in the lobby. Apparently, they were scratching the door to get in.”
The thumping behind Lucie’s eyes gave way to waterworks. She swiped at the tears. What a wuss. Her father would be disappointed.
“They look fine,” Mrs. Bernard said, “but we’re taking them to the vet to be sure.”
The poor things had been through an ordeal. They could have internal injuries. Or be traumatized. Dogs could suffer horrible post-traumatic stress. She had to make it up to them. “Would you like me to do that for you? No charge of course. I feel horrible about what happened.”
Mrs. Bernard got quiet. Why would this woman trust Lucie with her dogs again? Mr. Darcy hadn’t. Why should anyone trust her with their dogs? She flopped on the bed and absorbed the screeching sound of her backup job careening to a halt.
“Oh, well—” Yep, here it comes, the kick to the curb. “—if you wouldn’t mind, that would actually help me out. We’re not blaming you for what happened. We know you love the girls.”
Maybe the backup job had a chance. “Absolutely.”
How the hell she’d get the other dogs walked and take the girls to the vet, Lucie had no idea. “Do you know what time?”
“No. The vet doesn’t open until eight. I’ll let you know.”
Lucie disconnected and smacked the phone against her lips. Suddenly she needed an assistant dog walker. Unfortunately for her—or him, depending on how they looked at it—the only other person who knew the route, because he’d done it with her yesterday, was Joey. Asking him would require that she not only swallow her pride, but also digest it. Ugh.
Coco Barknell.
The little voice, Frankie’s voice, tickled her thoughts and warmed her. This dog walking thing might have been a small side job, but it provided income. Plus, she had to protect her reputation. Mrs. Bernard could have easily blamed Lucie for the loss of her dogs, yet she chose to trust her.
A good businesswoman would cherish that trust. Even if it meant dealing with Joey.
An hour later, she heard the toilet flush through two closed doors and, assuming it was Joey, cornered him. At least he’d thrown a pair of shorts on his otherwise naked body. Well, she assumed he was naked beneath the shorts. All he ever talked about was how he slept naked because he turned into an inferno in pajamas. As if she wanted to know that. Ew.
“Are you out of your flippin’ mind?” Joey asked from the bathroom doorway.
“You owe me.”
“For what?”
“For every rotten thing you ever did to me. And, if you don’t help, I’ll tell Dad when I visit him this weekend.”
Talk about hitting a man where he lives, but their father finding out Joey wasn’t doing right by his family would give her brother loose bowel movements. Lucie shook her head. “And you know Dad. He’ll hold his two fingers together and say ‘this is you, this is your brother. These fingers better never come apart.’”
Total blackmail. It should have sickened her. Should have made her feel like pond scum.
Eh, she didn’t mind so much. For once, she held the power.
Joey put her in a headlock and gave her a noogie that would scar her scalp. “You are a sneaky little witch.”
“Ow. That hurts. Knock it off.”
He pushed her away. “I’m not riding that butt-ugly scooter. You’ll have to pay my parking.”
Parking wouldn’t be cheap, but she supposed that was fair. She held out her hand to seal the deal. “Agreed.”
Joey clasped her hand, gave it a hard pump. “Deal.”
She wanted to think the angels were singing because she and Joey had actually agreed on something—without screaming—but the only feeling was a warm blood rush. Maybe her brother was human.
“By the way,” Lucie said. “Did you find a spreadsheet of mine? I had handwritten notes on it.”
Joey twisted his mouth. “Why would I care about some spreadsheet?”
“I can’t find it. And Mom hasn’t seen it.”
“Sorry, kid.” He went back to his room and shut the door.
“You need to walk Otis at ten o’clock.”
“Whatever.”
“I’m serious.”
No answer. Clearly, he understood. She smacked her hands together. Now all she had to do was figure out what happened to that damned spreadsheet.
***
Lucie arrived at the Bernards’ just after nine o’clock and found Mrs. B. talking with Detective O’Brien. Him again. Great. The detective wore a black suit with a crisp white shirt and Mrs. B. looked equally polished in a pair of cream slacks and a matching blazer. Lucie, in her jeans and Notre Dame sweatshirt, missed the memo about the dress code for this party.
Josie and Fannie barreled down the hallway and landed in front of Lucie, dancing by her feet and pawing at them. She dropped to her knees and gave each dog an enthusiastic rub. “Hi, girls. I’m so happy to see you.”
An onslaught of licking ensued and Lucie giggled at the feel of their warm tongues against her neck.
“I guess they’re happy to see you, Ms. Rizzo.” Detective O’Brien smiled, and the ease of it made Lucie think he might be a dog person.
“I’m happy to see them.”
“How’s the shoulder today?”
“A little sore.” Lucie set the girls back and stood. “Party is over, girls. We need to leave in a few minutes.”
The girls scampered down the marbled hallway into one of the bedrooms, and Lucie turned to Detective O’Brien. Looking at those green eyes and freckles would never be hard labor, but the man wasn’t her type. Besides, he always looked at her as though he wanted to figure out her angle.
No angle. Just an out-of-work banker trying to flee her father’s reputation.
“Do you have any idea why anyone would take the dogs?” Lucie asked. Talk about a fishing expedition.
O’Brien gestured to Mrs. B. “We were just talking about that. It’s fairly common among show dogs. It could also happen with rare breeds. The dog is stolen so it can be bred and the perpetrators sell the puppies.”
Lucie gasped. “That’s awful. Don’t they know what these animals mean to their families?”
O’Brien responded with that patronizing half smile people gave her when it came to issues surrounding her father.
“Right,” she said. “They don’t care.”
He flipped his notebook closed and slid it into his jacket pocket. “The good news is the dogs are safe.”
“That’s the important thing.”
“Ladies, thank you. Call me if there’s anything else.”
Lucie sidled up behind him. “Is the case closed?”
“We’ll keep a lookout for the van, but it’s unlikely we’ll find it. You never know though.”
Basically, the case was closed. She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. At least she wouldn’t have the police sniffing around as she hoarded a monster of a stolen diamond.
***
Joey hustled down the short block to the Lutz place. Being a half-second off schedule would get him in a load of trouble with Lucie, and he didn’t want to hear her yapping.
All in all, it wasn’t a bad day to be helping. The sun shone at high-voltage and the temps were supposed to hit sixty. This deal could have been worse. Maybe he’d schlep the mutt down to the lakefront. Weren’t dogs chick magnets?
He glanced at the
house next to him, a rockin’ three-story brownstone with a gated front yard. Who the hell put a gate around a four-foot lawn?
Whatever. The Lutz place was yet another sweet-looking brownstone. This one didn’t have a gate so he marched up to the garage, punched in the code and the door eased open. Any other day, it would have shocked the living hell out of him that Lucie trusted him with the code. But what the hell? Did she think he’d rob the place? She was his sister. Even if he liked annoying the crap out of her, he wouldn’t screw her over by robbing one of her clients.
The dog started howling inside the house. Otis. Good name for a bulldog.
As he was told, Joey bent low to block Otis from bolting when the door opened. Sure enough, the little bastard tried to run, but a body block took care of that and Joey edged his way into the house.
“Step back, you little turd.”
Otis responded by clamping his jaw around the bottom of Joey’s jeans and snarling like a son of a bitch.
“These are new jeans. Back off.”
The dog, still attached, showed his teeth and tried to back away.
I should strangle this bastard.
Instead, Joey reached down, unhooked Otis’s jaw and shoved him back. “No.” He put a little mean into it to show this hound who the alpha was. Otis plopped his ass down.
“You know it.”
With the alpha-war settled, Joey grabbed the leash off the hook and snapped it on. He needed to get this walk done. Helping his sister would only take him so far.
“Let’s hit it. You need to do your thing so I can get out of here.”
Otis blasted through the door, nearly taking Joey’s arm with him. The runt stopped just outside the garage and Joey punched the button. Otis shot off, forcing him to reel in the leash.
“You are not gonna drag me around, pal. Just telling ya.”
Dogs needed to know who the pack leader was. Joey loved being pack leader.
He stopped a few times along the route and let the junior alpha do his thing. No problem there. The poop-scooping bags were holed up in a small dispenser attached to the leash, and Joey eyeballed them with the disdain of a man going to the electric chair. He hoped the dog would crap in an inconspicuous place so he could avoid the off chance somebody he knew would see him cleaning up the mess. This was embarrassing.
The sound of fast footsteps behind him sent a stinging warning up his neck.
He shifted the leash to his left hand before turning. Sure enough, some butthole—a big one—holding a steel choker-chain, came right for him.
Whoa. Now at full stride, the guy raised the chain overhead and shouted, “The dog. Give up the dog.”
With a second to spare, Joey flicked his wrist and the leash jettisoned from his hand.
“Run, Otis.”
Otis charged away, leash trailing behind. The butthole glanced at Joey, raised the chain overhead and swung. The loop at the end bit into Joey’s left shoulder and a sweltering burst of pain blasted across his back. His legs buckled and he fell to one knee.
Get it together, man.
“I wanted that dog,” Butthole said.
A juicy adrenaline buzz ripped through Joey and he knew he could kill this son of a bitch. If he wanted to. Right now, he needed to defend himself.
A rattling sound drew his attention. He looked up; saw the glint of steel coming at him, and the chain sliced across his forearm. He winced at the contact but caught the loop end of the chain and yanked.
Butthole toppled forward, taking the chain with him. He rolled to his back and swung at Joey’s legs, but the links sailed out of his grip and dropped to the lawn.
Joey dove and straddled his attacker’s chest. He was about to unleash a downward punch when Otis ran back, snarled and latched onto the attacker’s pants. The guy kicked out and blasted Otis close to his ribs. The yelp shattered Joey’s eardrum. He clamped his hand over the guy’s throat. “You kick that dog again and you’re done.”
“Arghhh.”
Joey eased the pressure and stuck his knee into the guy’s chest. “Are you out of your friggin’ mind coming at me? Do you know who I am?”
A gurgling came from Butthole’s mouth. “Want…the…collar.”
“I’ll ask again. Do you know who the hell I am? Because if you do, you’d know there is no way I’m letting you near this dog. He’s a pain in the ass, but word gets out that I got dogjacked, I’m a laughingstock. I should beat you for being stupid.”
Joey leaned in and the guy groaned. “Are you the guy that boosted those dogs from my sister?”
“No.”
The guy’s face turned a nice tomato red. Liar. “Leave her alone.”
“Can’t.”
The sound of screeching tires sent Otis into a growling fit. A white van barreled around the corner and Otis jumped for it. On instinct, Joey reached for him and, using the opportunity, Butthole bucked hard, knocked Joey off-balance and sent him to the pavement. His hip connected with the concrete and a tearing sensation shot down his leg.
The dogjacker rolled to his feet and Joey made a grab for him, but the guy slipped away.
Otis lurched forward and Joey snatched up the leash before bursting into a run.
No dice. The dogjacker reached the corner and jumped into the van before they could catch up.
Joey skidded to a stop, accidentally clotheslining Otis who was still in a dead run. He gagged once before giving Joey the what-the-hell look. “Sorry, pal.”
The sharp odor of the van’s wheels burning rubber sent the dog sniffing all around. Joey bent over, sucking air through his nose as the sinking edge of adrenaline disappeared. He hated the come down.
With the excitement over, Otis squatted and took the mother of all dumps right on the sidewalk.
“Oh, man. That’s nasty.”
Regardless, he let Otis finish and then did the deal with the poop-scooping bags. Lucie had supplied antiseptic wipes and he cleaned his hands before pulling his phone from his pocket to call Frankie, who had the day off. He’d better freaking answer.
“Hey,” Frankie said.
“Some dumbass just tried to boost Otis.”
“No way.”
“Yes way. This guy has got to be whacked to come at me. And he wanted the collar.”
“Lucie guessed right.”
“Looks like.”
On the other end of the phone, Frankie stayed silent. Otis gave the leash a tug. Might as well finish the damn walk.
“Joey, don’t tell Luce about this. She’ll freak. I’m calling my father. Maybe he can figure out where that diamond came from. Then we’ll tell her. Meantime, we’ll have to keep walking with her.”
“What?”
“I can take the morning shift, but I need to be at work by two. You’ll be with her in the afternoons.”
“Hey, I got my own business to run.”
“Please,” Frankie said before hanging up.
***
Craving some answers along with a meatball sandwich, Frankie walked the two blocks from his house to Petey’s. Maybe his father would be there and he could get with him on this dognapping thing. The only good news so far was that it was Joey who got hit this morning rather than Lucie. Joey could defend himself better.
Lucie had her own form of toughness. Precisely why Frankie was only mildly concerned over ignoring her request to keep his father out of this diamond issue. But when it came to her safety, some things were worth the risk. The way Frankie figured, he hadn’t actually said he wouldn’t speak to his father.
Reaching?
Probably.
Too bad.
Keeping Lucie safe was the priority, even if she didn’t agree with his methods.
He turned the corner and spotted a Franklin P.D. cruiser double-parked in front of the luncheonette. Jimmy Two-Toes’ Caddie was right behind it. Chances were Frankie’s father would be here because wherever his father went, Jimmy was usually close by.
The bell on the door jangled when Frankie ope
ned it, and the cop at the counter—an old high school classmate—looked over.
“Hey, Brian.”
“How ya doin’, Frankie?”
The chatter from the tables mixed with Sinatra and the smell of garlic and baking bread converged on Frankie. Not much beat fresh-baked Italian bread with crust so hard it could split a lip.
The place, the people, the smells, might as well be part of his DNA. That’s how well he knew it. And Lucie wanted him to give it up.
“Ho!” Jimmy Two-Toes yelled. “Frankie’s here.”
Sitting with Jimmy at the four-top table were Slip and Lemon. Slip got his name because the government could never get any charges to stick. Lemon; who knew? But that poor bastard had jumped off a two-story building some years back and landed with one foot in a garbage can and one out. That would teach him to run from the cops.
Frankie looked around. A few of the tables were occupied, but the people weren’t locals or he would have recognized them.
“Your father is in back,” Lemon said. “He’ll be right out.”
Translation: he’s talking business, don’t go back there. Somewhere along the line, Frankie had gotten used to this life. He couldn’t say he was comfortable with his father’s occupation, but had grudgingly accepted it. What else could he do?
He made his way to the counter to order. “Anybody need anything?”
“We just ate,” Jimmy said.
Petey, dressed in his usual track pants and white T-shirt, handed Brian his sandwich and he took it to one of the corner tables.
“Meatball?” Petey asked, retying his grease-stained white apron. The apron tended to slide under his growing belly and he had to keep hiking it up. Between the gut and the thinning gray hair, Petey looked way beyond his fifty-five years.
“Throw some mozzarella on it,” Frankie said.
“Living a little today, eh?”
Frankie considered responding with scathing sarcasm but decided to let it go. He probably deserved it since a meatball sandwich was the only thing he ever ordered. And wasn’t that one of Lucie’s complaints? That he liked his meatball sandwiches from Petey’s? And why not? Petey made an exceptional meatball.
