by K. J. Larsen
His phone blared “The Death March.” He made a face. “It’s my soon-to-be-ex.”
I swallowed a smile. “Aren’t you going to answer?”
He dragged out the cell. “Go to hell,” he said and dropped it back in his pocket.
“At least you’re not bitter,” I said.
“I’m a dumb ass for marrying her. I want Cleo to shoot her.”
“Sorry. She used all her buckshot on Walter.”
The tequila was totally messing with his vibe. “Uh huh. Well at least my wife can’t bother me here. She’s far away in a foreign country.”
“Where were you living?”
“Kansas. There’s a direct flight to Oz. What about you, Cat? Are you seeing anybody?”
Until recently, I would have said no. After my divorce, I had a long dry spell in the dating department. The only naked men I saw were through the lens of my camera. It wasn’t pretty.
When you’re in the business of catching cheaters, you’re exposed to more hairy backsides than any woman should have to see. Sometimes you see things you really wish you hadn’t. On a bad day, you could go blind.
“I’m dating Chance Savino. He’s a good guy. He works for the FBI.”
Bill chuckled. “Your family’s gotta love that. Everyone knows the DeLucas hate the FBI.”
“Yeah. For turning down my crazy cousin Frankie. But Mama hates the tick-tock of my biological clock more. I’m thirty. It keeps her awake at night.”
“Your mama likes this Savino?”
“She’ll embrace any man who’s reasonably sober, has a decent sperm count, and has insurance.”
“I got one out of three.”
I laughed. “Enough about Rudolph.”
***
I pulled to the curb in front of Billy’s mama’s house. A cocker spaniel barked in the window. A rerun of Murder She Wrote played on TV.
“Thanks for everything,” he said. “The ride, the pizza, and this really sweet coaching uniform. I’ll add it to the repertoire of my very own soon-to-be disguise box. ”
“I’d like to meet your client.”
“Our client, partner.”
“I’ll come by your office in the morning and meet your client. We’ll do lunch.”
“My office is a little hole in the wall on the south end. Next to Olga’s Swedish Massage.”
“That place gets raided all the time.”
“Not for almost four days.” He grinned. “It’s just until I get set up and a good clientele rolling through here. Then I’ll look for better digs. But look at that.” He nudged me with his elbow. “We’re on the same wavelength. I’m meeting Cristina at Taqueria La Mexicana at eleven. I’ll introduce you then.”
“Eleven. Taqueria La Mexicana.”
He stepped out of the car and poked his head in the door. He gave a crooked smile. “You’ll always be the one that got away, Cat.”
I blew him a kiss. “We were eight, Bill.
After dropping Bill off at his mom’s door, I cruised by Tino’s on my way home. Tino is a round bear of a man with a secret 007 past and a mysterious present. He usually knows what goes down in Bridgeport before the cops do. He’s the go-to man for information.
The deli was closed, but the lights were on. Max’s Hummer was parked in front.
I bypassed the closed sign and scooted inside. The wonderful aromas of giardinera and fresh pasta filled my senses. Tino’s is like being in Mama’s kitchen, but with more wine and less guilt.
I found Max and Tino hunched over a chess board.
“Caterina! Come. Sit. Tell us about your day.” Tino’s boisterous voice filled the room.
“Hi, guys. Whatcha doin’? Spy stuff? War games? Taking over the world?”
“Such a wild imagination you have, my sweet. We speak of sausages here.”
“Uh huh.” I winked.
Max leaned back in his chair, with hands laced behind his head. His body was long and lean with the kind of chiseled muscle definition that had been reproduced by sculptors’ hands for centuries. And I was one woman who was eternally grateful.
“Today was an exciting day in Bridgeport,” Max said.
“You’re changing the subject.”
“I am.” Max’s golden brown eyes sparkled. “Santa Claus was spotted in Bridgeport today.”
“Really?” I said. “How about that.”
“Kyle Tierney’s guys came around asking about him. And his accomplice.”
“Let me guess. About three feet tall, wearing funny shoes?”
“You would go straight for the shoes for identification.”
“And, your point is…?” I winked at Tino.
“As I was saying…” Max waited for Tino to stop chuckling. “…Santa was at the Irish Pub, ran out the door, ditched his Santa suit and ran down the streets of Bridgeport. Naked.”
“Bet that wasn’t pretty,” I said.
“It wasn’t,” Max said. “I wouldn’t mind seeing his elf naked, though.”
I frowned, “Elves are notoriously frumpy.”
“This one wasn’t. Five nine or ten. Long, chestnut hair. The kind of dreamy green eyes men go to battle for.”
“Tierney’s men said this?”
Max winked. “I may have embellished a little.”
“I am not the only woman in Bridgeport who has green eyes and brown hair.” I grabbed a clump of my hair and shook it at him for emphasis.
Max took a breath. “The waitress said Santa’s assistant had a huge flowered purse.”
“That’s it?” I whipped out my Dr. Pepper Lip Smacker from my flowered bag and coated it on my lips. “Circumstantial evidence at best.”
When I lie, my lips itch. It’s my tell. Ever since I was eleven I have been addicted to that little maroon Lip Smacker tube.
“The waitress said the elf spent the whole time staring at some schmuck cheating on his wife.” Max did a palms up. “Santa’s elf and a Hootchie stalker? This woman obviously has mad skills.”
“You don’t know the half of my mad skills,” I smiled conspiratorially.
“I am always willing to learn. Anytime, day or night.” Max looked deep into my eyes.
I blushed profusely and jumped a foot into the air when the timer buzzed in the kitchen.
Tino pulled a tray of bruschetta from the oven. Max selected a bottle of Chianti from the wine rack while I grabbed plates and glasses.
“So who is this Santa?” Tino said.
“Billy Bonham.”
“Ahhh, I heard he was back in town.”
“Of course you did.”
“Billy went to school with Cat,” Tino said for Max’s benefit. “Smart kid. Reminded me of myself.”
Max grinned. “Because he was so smart?”
“Because he spent so much time in the principal’s office. Captain Bob chased him out of town a decade ago.”
“What did he do?”
“He got too friendly with the Captain’s daughter.”
Max laughed. “I thought you said he was smart.”
I poured the wine. “If men were smart when it comes to women, I wouldn’t have enough clients to buy Inga’s sausages.”
“When it comes to women, men are weak,” Tino said philosophically. “Cat has the sausages and photographs to prove it.”
“What does Billy do?”
“He’s a private dick. He’s watched too many old movies. He thinks he’s the modern day Humphrey Bogart.”
“Sam Spade,” Max said. “Now that was a tough guy.”
“I‘m working a case with him. His client was a bartender at Tierney’s when that guy was killed four years ago. She says she saw her boss pull the trigger. A deliberate, cold blooded homicide.”
Tino’s brow shot up. “That’s not how it played out in cou
rt, and I never heard any different.”
I recapped what Billy told me about the bartender, Cristina. It was harder to swallow without the tequila.
“Let me understand,” Tino said. “Billy’s client returns to Chicago, and hires the least qualified, least experienced investigator in Bridgeport, if not all of Chicago. And she signs up this guy? Something is not kosher.”
“He’s a Sam Spade wannabe,” Max said. “I know women. They love that macho bravado.”
I shrugged, “Billy’s client thinks Tierney owes her. She’s here to collect.”
“Maybe a dozen private dicks turned her down already,” Tino said. “This Billy lacked the experience—and the good sense—to do the same.”
“She told Billy she chose him because he was new in town. She figured if he didn’t know Tierney, he wouldn’t be tempted to sell her out.”
“And the Santa gig?”
“It was a ploy to get into Tierney’s back room and find a hidden safe.”
“What a dumb shit idea,” Max critiqued.
“What can I say? Billy took an online detective course. He knows just enough to be dangerous to himself.”
“Billy Bonham will be a good detective someday,” Tino said. “He just has to get the knack of it.”
“Maybe, if he lives that long,” Max said. “I hear he’s a fast runner.”
“What do you remember about the guy who died at the pub four years ago?” I said.
Tino stroked his double chin. “Name was Mitchell, I believe. I’ll ask around. Let you know what I learn.”
Taking the last swallow of my Chianti, I snagged a bruschetta to go and kissed Tino on the cheek. “Thanks, Tino.”
“Hey, you forgot my kiss.” Max tried to grab my arm but I scooted to the door.
I smiled and winked. “No, I didn’t.”
***
The phone blared beside my bed, jolting me from own “Boulevard of Broken Dreams.” My words slurred with sleep.
“Pants On Fire Detective Agency. We catch liars and cheats.”
The voice was grave. “Cat.”
“Rocco?”
I squinted at the clock. 2:07.
“Why is your old boyfriend wearing my coaching uniform?” my brother said.
“You’re not seriously waking me to ask that question.”
“Just answer me, Cat.”
There was intensity behind his words. And something else I didn’t immediately identify. Anguish. The foreboding that twisted my gut earlier was back with a vengeance.
“Why?”
The question was a lie. I didn’t want to know. I wanted to crawl under my covers and return to dreamland.
“Bill Bonham was walking his mother’s dog around one this morning,” Rocco said. “There was a shooting.”
Billy? The fear in my gut intensified, piercing at my chest and knotting my throat.
“I’m sorry, Cat. I was called in because the victim was wearing my jacket. It’s too early to tell, but it may be a random drive-by.”
I rocked on my bed, unable to speak.
“Cat?”
When my words came, a sob carried them. “Somebody killed my Santa.”
Chapter Six
I sat in Billy’s hole-in-the-wall office and stared at the Philip Marlowe trench-coat hanging by the door. I wasn’t entirely sure how Inga and I got there. I didn’t remember firing up the Silver Bullet. Or finding Billy’s detective agency with the poster of Bogie on the door. I was somewhat surprised, and relieved, that I wasn’t still wearing my Betty Boop night shirt.
I studied a crumpled receipt tossed on Billy’s desk. It was dated yesterday morning. Billy’s last breakfast was an omelet at Belle’s Cafe. I hoped it was a really good one. There were three omelets on the ticket. The bartender and her daughter ate with him.
I wasn’t the first person that night to let myself in uninvited. The office had been tossed when I arrived. Drawers were dumped. Papers and files strewn everywhere.
I picked up the mess and thumbed through files. Billy had picked up a few clients in his short career. A guy seeking an old girlfriend. An adoptee looking for her birth parents. A woman in a bitter custody battle over a Bichon Frisé named Coochie.
One case file was pointedly missing: Cristina McTigue, bartender and witness to a grisly murder.
Max and Tino said Tierney’s goons came sniffing around looking for Billy. Well, they found him, all right. Tierney got the file and he got Billy. Now he had everything he needed to silence the bartender.
I had to find Cristina before he did. I closed my eyes and replayed everything Billy told me about his case. I went over it and over it again and again until I must have fallen asleep. I was jarred awake by jabbing fingers. Or maybe it was the guy’s bad breath.
I pushed him away. “Step back. You’re in my bubble.”
He had graying, sleeked back hair and bushy black brows. I knew who he was. He had dollar signs for eyes.
He was the landlord.
“Where’s Billy?”
“I’m Cat DeLuca, Billy’s partner.”
“Billy didn’t tell me he had a partner.”
“He’s the strong, silent type.”
“I’m Davis. I own this dump. Bonham is two weeks overdue. I’m here to collect.”
“I expect Billy paid first and last month?”
“What of it.”
“Last month was his first. This month is his last. I’ll have the office cleaned out before the end of the month.”
“The lease requires a thirty day notice.”
“Take it out of the deposit.”
I jotted my name on a scrap of paper and handed it to him. “Call me if you need anything else. I’m taking care of things from now on.”
I kicked my chair back and nudged him to the door.
He sputtered, all pissy. “Bonham owes me two more week’s rent. I’ll collect.”
“Good luck with that.”
I looked around for my cell and decided I left it in the car. I used Billy’s phone to make a call.
“I’m sorry about Billy,” Uncle Joey said. “We’ll get the guy who did this.”
“It was Kyle Tierney. I’m sure of it.”
“Have you talked to Captain Bob?”
“I’m heading there now. I’m hoping you can pull some strings for me.”
“I’m a frickin’ puppeteer.”
“The murder at the Irish Pub four years ago. I’d like to see the photos and evidence collected at the crime scene.”
“The boxes are sealed and gathering dust in the evidence room.”
“Is that a problem?”
“I got a guy on the inside. He’ll give me anything I want for a good bottle of Scotch and two tickets to a Bears game.”
“Thanks. Let me know what I owe you.”
“I got it covered. An assistant coach owes me. I made some messy charges go away.”
“And the booze?”
Uncle Joey laughed. “I got a case of Blue Label Johnny Walker at home. Fell off the back of a truck.”
I smiled. I didn’t even want to know how he got the Ferrari.
Chapter Seven
I was at the door of the Ninth Precinct, chomping on a bear claw, when Captain Bob showed up to work. I knew he wouldn’t be glad to see me. He’s been known to slam the door in my face. So I softened the blow with two coffees and a bag of donuts. I’ve never seen him turn down a lemon crème.
Bob groaned when he saw me. His eyes were a sleep-deprived red. He looked as bad as I did.
“Caterina DeLuca.”
I waggled the white bakery sack.
“Are there lemon-crèmes in that bag?” he asked.
“You know it.”
He reached for the bag, and I held on tight.
“I come with the donuts.”
“Dammit.”
I gave up the bag and trotted behind Captain Bob to his office.
“I know why you’re here. I’m sorry about Bonham.” He said it almost like he meant it. “I know you were close.”
“We were engaged once,” I said soberly.
He blinked. “I didn’t know.”
“People loved Bill.”
“Maybe people who don’t have daughters.”
He moved around the desk and dropped hard on his chair. I sat down and set my coffee on his desk.
“I was with Bill yesterday.”
“Of course you were.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“People die around you, Caterina. If I were superstitious, I’d run like hell.”
“It’s not my fault. It’s not like I kill them.”
“It’s not like you bring them luck. When I hear there’s a homicide in Bridgeport, I look around for you.”
“That hurts, Bob. I’m here to help you arrest the man who killed Billy Bonham.”
He took a bite out of his donut. “How do you know he wasn’t in the wrong place at the wrong time? I’m leaning toward a random shooting.”
“The shooting wasn’t random. It was a deliberate attack on Santa Claus.”
“The Irish Pub?” Captain Bob smacked a palm on his head. “I should’ve known it was Bonham. He can piss off the wrong people almost as good as you. No wonder he’s dead.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Witnesses saw a man in a Santa suit running from Tierney’s Pub. He was stripping layers of red and white as he ran.”
“I didn’t know someone reported it.”
“People report naked men. 911 lines light up. It’s not pretty.”
Bob grunted. “It was all over the radio. Do you know what it’s like to have to tell your grandkids that Santa’s a perv?”
“Poor Billy. He finally got his fifteen minutes of fame and he missed it.”
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out between you two. Believe me, you’re better off without him. He’s just another loser who broke your heart.”
“Why do you assume he dumped me?”
“You haven’t had the best luck with men. Nothing’s kept a secret for long in Bridgeport.”
