by K. J. Larsen
Some Like It Hot
A Cat DeLuca Mystery
K. J. Larsen
www.kjlarsenauthor.com
Poisoned Pen Press
Copyright © 2013 by K. J. Larsen
First E-book Edition 2013
ISBN: 9781615954377 ebook
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.
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Contents
Some Like It Hot
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
More from this Author
Contact Us
Dedication
To our beautiful family and friends.
You’re the inspiration behind Cat DeLuca and her outrageous family. You keep us laughing.
Acknowledgements
Our heartfelt thanks to Barbara Peters, Editor Extraordinaire; Jessica Tribble, our brilliant, blue-caped Publisher; and the amazing staff at Poisoned Pen Press.
And our love and appreciation to our sweet Papa, family, and friends. For their support, understanding and unending patience through our writing adventure.
Chapter One
When I was a kid, I knew I could fly. I cut a cape from Mama’s blue silk dress and rocketed up the apple tree in our backyard. Sophie wouldn’t fly with me. My chicken-shit sister hated getting dirty.
I teetered on the highest branch and threw apples at my sister.
Mama ran outside screaming. “Caterina! No!”
“Jump! Jump!” Sophie sang.
“I’m flying! I’m—”
Okay. I was wrong about that.
That was the day I learned two terrible truths about my life.
I can’t fly.
And my sister Sophie was switched at birth.
I still climb trees and scale balconies. I peer into hotel windows and snag photos for my 8x10 glossies. Mostly I love my job. I’ve dodged a few bullets. And I’ve taken some pies in the face. I prefer chocolate.
My name is Cat DeLuca, PI. I own the Pants On Fire Detective Agency. Right now I own Bernie Martini’s sorry, dumb ass.
I peered over my glass at the couple in the next booth. She was a bleach-bottle blond in a cherry red sweater that stretched tight in all the right places. Bernie was a turtleneck and sports coat guy. His fingers rubbed the tan line where his wedding band should be. The ring would be in his pocket.
I know this because I was married to a man whose ring dropped into his pocket like his finger was coated with WD-40. The cheater at the next table could be my ex. Except Johnnie Rizzo was much hotter. He was smokin’ hot. He was also a lying sack of shit.
Okay, so here’s the thing. My marriage to Johnnie Rizzo may have been a bust. But it taught me the low-down, sneaky ways of cheaters. And every sly, devious way to catch them.
The blond torpedoed her knockers into his chest and kissed Bernie hard. When he came up for air, his glasses dangled off his nose.
Bernie is married to my client, Olivia Martini. Yesterday, Olivia found condoms in Bernie’s pocket. Two left in a four-pack. Today she’s emptying their savings account and buying a condo. Tonight she’ll serve up my 8x10 glossies for supper.
My flower-print purse is a camouflaged camera. I adjusted the angle to snag a shot of blondie’s nimble hands beneath the table. The candy apple red finger nail polish would be a striking contrast to Bernie’s khakis for the photo extravaganza.
The server delivered appetizers and drinks to the lovers’ table and a lunch menu to mine. She wore gold hoops in her ears and one in her nose. She had frank, clear eyes and a decade on me. The four-leafed-clover nametag read Katie.
She rolled her eyes at Bernie and Blondie. “Ain’t love grand. You know what they say.”
“What? Get a room?”
Katie laughed and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Romeo is a regular. But the chick is new. I think the guy has a revolving door on his zipper, if you know what I mean. He probably has a wife with four kids trapped at home. ”
I shot the love-birds a sidelong glance. Bernie hand-fed the blond a plump, buttery shrimp appetizer. When he was finished, she sucked his fingers. Eeeeuw.
“You think he’s married?”
“Girl, I got thirteen years in this bar. I can spot the hitched ones.”
I smiled. “I never would have guessed.”
The pub door opened and a blast of cold air blew in a half-dozen longshoremen. They were beefy, loud, and tanked. Tierney’s Irish Pub was not their first stop.
A shit-faced guy howled from the door. “Whiskey for me and my friends.” His red, unfocused eyes swept the bar and settled on me. “And I’ll have her.”
“Seriously?” I said.
Katie sighed. “I should have gone to college.”
She left a menu with me. “I like your flowered bag,” she said over her shoulder. “It looks roomy.”
I smiled. “It holds a multitude of sins.”
I cut my eyes to the lovebirds playing footsie under the table. The blond laughed easily and was more fun. Bernie’s perpetual dour, Eeyore-ish look had etched deep lines on his face. He resembled a Shar Pei.
Another blast of brisk air blew Santa into the bar. He was chubby and plump in his red suit, even without the stuffing. Blue eyes danced above the fluffy, white beard.
“Ho ho ho,” he said.
“Hey, Nick,” Shit-face shouted over the crowd. “You’re uh…way early, man. What’s wrong? The old lady kick ya out?”
Santa ho-ho-ho’ed his way over to the bar and spoke to a couple of guys there. The bartender checked his watch and jerked his thumb to the door that read “For Employees and Leprechauns Only.” Santa nodded and disappeared through it.
I checked out the menu. Even though I was hungry, I was reluctant to order more than a light appetizer while stalking. It’s the high cost of surveillance. I have to be able to leave when my mark does.
Ditching an untouched meal is risky. It may as well be a neon sign for a wary cheater. An abandoned half-empty drink and some appetizers are far less suspicious.
Shouts and a loud ruckus erupted from the back of the bar. SLAM! A door hit the wall and the menu flew from my hands. Santa charged through the leprechaun door, black boots pounding the floor. Two muscled gangster trolls were hot on his tail. They had guns in their coats. One waved Santa’s beard in his hand.
I gazed into Santa’s beardless face and Billy Bonham grinned back at me. He tweeked a thumb and pinky to his ear. “Call me.”
I didn’t think. I shot out a leg. The posse went tumbling over my Uggs. In a sputtering nosedive, they crashed and burned onto the backs of the tanked-up longshoremen. A drunken howl sliced the air. Chaos exploded. The fight was on.
Santa made a clean escape though the door.
I drained my glass, dropped a wad of cash on the table, and slung the camera/purse over my shoulder before scooting out the door behind Santa.
And that’s how I saved Christmas.
Chapter Two
The last time I saw Bill Bonham was the year we graduated from high school. Bill was the class clown. He mooned Bridgeport from our school bus. He super-glued the principal’s bum to his chair. Bill was also the smartest kid I knew. The day I told Bill I wasn’t ready for an algebra test there was a mysterious explosion in his chemistry class. School was closed for two days. Bill helped me study. I aced the test.
The antics he pulled in high school didn’t serve him well in college. He was expelled in his freshman year. He came home and got a job at the K.G. Brewery making Schmidt beer. Papa and Captain Bob were beat cops back then. They were partners. One night they found Billy’s car parked behind the bowling alley. The windows were fogged up and the car was bouncing like a cheapo McDonald’s toy.
Billy was hot and heavy in the backseat with Bob’s daughter. Papa pried Bob’s hands from around Bill’s neck and made a deal with his partner. If Bill wasn’t out of town by 10 a.m., Papa would help Bob dispose of the body. At 9:53 a.m. Bill Bonham became a soldier. Uncle Sam snagged him from Bridgeport. As far as I knew, he hadn’t come back. Until now.
I darted out of Tierney’s Irish Pub and scanned up and down the street. Santa was nowhere to be seen. I hotfooted across the street to the Silver Bullet, yanked my door open, and slid behind the wheel. Inga licked my ear.
“Which way did he go, girl?”
The beagle wagged her tail joyfully. Then she let out a bay and pranced her feet south toward Halsted where a vendor scooped chili on hot dogs. A different dog’s howl would be all about the wienies. But I knew my partner. Inga was on the scent.
“Gotcha.”
I opened my surveillance cooler and tossed her one of Tino’s fat sausages. Then I whipped a U-ey and cruised south on Halsted. I caught up with Santa two blocks away. He’d ditched the red suit and was jogging incognito in reindeer boxers and black boots. I doubted he’d worked up that much of a sweat since basic training. His body was soft and his belly was a temple for Big Macs and Ding Dongs. But today Bill Bonham ran like a hunted gazelle.
I cruised to a stop and pitched the passenger door open. Santa gasped for breath.
“And what would you like for Christmas, little girl?”
“I’d like for children never to have to see Santa in his underwear again.”
He dived inside and kissed my cheek. “Thanks, Cat. You saved my ass.”
“Why yes, I did. Where’s your car?”
“Stolen. Last week.”
“Oh my God.”
“Yeah. Those repo guys are jerks.”
I laughed. “Same ol’ Bill.”
I got out and searched through my box of tricks in the trunk. Wigs, changes of clothes, jackets, a Japanese kimono—nothing for 230 pounds of junk-food junkie. I dragged a blanket from the trunk and tossed it to Bill. He pulled it around him gratefully. I slid back into the car.
“Where are you staying?” I pulled away from the curb and merged into traffic. “I’ll take you home.”
“With Mom—temporarily. Just until I get back on my feet. Here’s the thing. She said if I come home in my underwear again, she’s kicking me out.”
“This has happened before?”
“Last week. Strip poker with two gorgeous women.” He grinned. “Trust me, I wasn’t trying to win.”
“So what happened to your clothes?”
“We’re playing and there’s footsteps on the stoop. The red-head says, ‘Shit. It’s my husband.’ I say, ‘Husband? Shit!’ And they both push me out a window. How was I supposed to know one of ’em was married?”
“You’re a dog, Bill.”
He winced. “I lost my wallet, money, my new Chicago Bears jacket, and my spanking new kicks.”
I threw him a look. “And it didn’t pop into that brain of yours they were after your new things all along?”
“What are you saying?”
“I dunno. When’s the last time two gorgeous women were so hot to get you drunk and out of your clothes?”
“Shut up. It could happen.”
“Uh huh.”
“Women adore me. As I recall, you wanted to marry me.”
“I was eight.”
“You were sober.”
I laughed and dragged one of Mama’s cannoli from my surveillance cooler and poured coffee from my thermos while we waited at a red light. Bill wrapped his cold hands around the steaming mug.
“Their house was across the street from that creepy zombie house that scared the crap out of you on Halloween.”
“And you ran all that way, naked?”
“Well, nearly.” He grinned. “I’ve run it before.”
I checked my rearview mirror. It didn’t look like anyone was following us, but I made some fast twists and turns and rocketed down a few back streets to be sure.
“OK, Romeo,” I said. “I’ll take you home and find you something to wear.”
He exaggerated a sigh. “I guess tonight one gorgeous woman will have to do.”
“I guess tonight you’ll make it home with your wallet.”
Bill sank his teeth into the chocolate cannoli. His eyes rolled back in his head. “I’ve dreamt of your Mama’s pastries. How’s she doing anyway? Does she still grab her chest when you don’t do what she wants?”
“She thinks her attacks are full blown coronaries now.”
He gulped. “That sucks. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. The doctor says it’s gas.”
I hoisted the cooler into the backseat and wagged a finger at Inga. “Stay out of the sausages. You don’t want to spoil your supper.”
“You realize it’s impossible to open that cooler without opposable thumbs.”
“You have no idea what my partner can do.”
“Hey, you’re not getting nuts like your mama, are you?”
“I’m not the one in reindeer boxers and Santa boots.”
“Point taken.”
“Our mamas talk at church. They say you and I are their ‘problem’ children.”
Bill gasped in mock dismay. “Not you!”
“Mama blames my profession on my wrecked marriage with Johnnie Rizzo. And she tells Father Timothy everything. He knows every humiliating event in my life.”
“Really? Do share and don’t leave out any of the details.”
I pulled a face. “What about you. I heard you started a computer software business.”
“I did. That went belly up.”
“But you invented that spinning brush that sold on an infomercial.”
“Not well.”
“Okay. But at least you got married.”
“Strike three. My wife hooked up with some loser from work. I come home one day, my clothes are on the porch, and his car is in my garage.”
>
“Bummer.”
“I hit rock bottom. It seemed everything I touched turned to shit. One night I was watching an old movie channel on cable I hijacked from a neighbor. I put a pistol to my head and pulled the trigger.”
“Oh. My. God.”
“The gun jammed. I couldn’t even get that right.” He gave a self-deprecating smile. “I guess I dozed off. When I woke, Humphrey Bogart was on the screen.”
He mimicked Bogart’s laconic voice. “‘Such a lot of guns around town and so few brains! You know you’re the second guy I’ve met today that seems to think a gat in the hand means the world by the tail.’”
“The Big Sleep,” I said. “You’ve got a huge man-crush on Bogie.”
“No. Okay, yes. But don’t you get it?”
“Not even a little bit.”
“That was my epiphany. At that moment I knew what I was made for.”
“Oh boy.”
“I was born to be a private eye. A detective. A dick. A gumshoe.”
“I get it, already.”
“I was born to be you. I watched every detective movie I could find on Netflix. I bought a trench coat. Took an online investigator’s course. I came home and opened a little hole-in-the-wall office in Bridgeport.”
“You’re a real Philip Marlowe.”
He slipped into Bogie again. “‘Okay, Marlowe’ I said to myself. ‘You’re a tough guy. You’ve been sapped twice, choked, beaten silly with a gun, shot in the arm until you’re crazy as a couple of waltzing mice. Now let’s see you do something really tough—’”
I groaned.
“Do you want to hear more Bogie?”
“What I’d like is for you to put your pants on. And I want to know what happened back there.”
“Okay. Here I am, working my first big case. I’m undercover. In disguise. Chapter fourteen in the correspondence course.”
“You could’ve been killed.”
He flashed his disarming smile. “But I wasn’t. You were there. It’s a sign. We should go into business together.”
“I have a partner.”
“But I can open a cooler.”
“The job is filled. Back off. Just out of curiosity, do you have a license?”
