by K. J. Larsen
Geesh. Tino was as bossy as my interfering Italian family.
“My car drives just fine,” I said, and thumped Max’s chiseled chest. “This is embarrassing. Put me down.”
Max said, “We’re taking Tino’s car. The Buick is bulletproof. You’re not.”
“Aha! Admit it, Tino. Only thugs and spies drive bulletproof cars. And you’re not a thug.”
Tino laughed. “The world can be a treacherous place for a sausage maker.”
“Max, I am fine. The pepper spray hit my mouth more than anywhere. Put me down, please.” He looked into my eyes, seeing my determination. I was going to be put down with or without his help.
“I was enjoying that,” Max grinned and lowered my feet to the ground.
Tino handed Max the Buick keys and held out his hand. He wasn’t backing down.
“We’ll take the Buick,” I conceded. “First I have to get Inga. She’s in my car.”
“I’ll take her with me today,” Tino said. “We’ll make meatballs, and I’ll feed her the leftovers.”
I squeezed my arms around the ample sausage maker’s middle and kissed his cheek. “Thanks, Tino. I didn’t know who else to call.”
Tino shrugged palms up. “Who else do you need?”
I raised my wrist to my eyes but still couldn’t focus through the pepper spray. “What time is it?”
Max peered at my watch. “Ten fifty-four.”
I tossed Tino my keys and hooked Max’s arm. “Hurry, Max. I hope you like burritos.”
***
Max weaved in and out of cars. I lost the blond wig, finger-combed my hair, and threw off the coat. By the time Max pulled up to the curb in front of Taqueria La Mexicana, I was slathering my lips with Dr. Pepper Lip Gloss.
“Eleven oh-four,” Max said and opened his door. “Let’s rock ‘n’ roll.”
I towed him back. “Red Subaru. California plates. There they are.”
Max’s gaze settled on Cristina. Her sun-kissed skin was like silk. “Hot mama.”
“Don’t be fooled. Those women are armed and dangerous.”
“There’s a peace sign on their car, for chrissake.”
“That woman’s purse packs a punch.”
The incident at the hotel had put the women on alert. Cristina had backed her car against the building. She had an uncompromised view of people coming in and an unobstructed escape going out. The engine was idling. Black smoke billowed from the tailpipe. Cristina’s fingers drummed the steering wheel. Hot mama wouldn’t wait around long. She didn’t know it yet, but her lunch date was hanging out with Bogie. Billy Bonham, PI, had eaten his last burrito.
“I’ll go talk to her,” Max said. “She doesn’t like you.”
“She’s gonna bolt. She’ll run you down.”
Max flashed a grin and cranked the engine. “You underestimate my charm.”
He stomped the gas, veered a hard right, and skidded across the parking lot. The Buick pinned the Subaru to the wall. Max and I spilled onto the pavement running. Flanking the red car, we jerked the rear doors open and fell on the backseat as the wide-eyed women scrambled to lock them.
“Hi, ladies. This wouldn’t be necessary if you’d given Cat a chance to talk to you at the hotel.”
I poked the daughter’s shoulder. “Show your hands, pepper queen.”
Mother and daughter twisted their heads around. “You!” The young girl gave me that contemptuous scrutiny only teens can muster. I tried to return the look.
“What’s wrong with your face?” Max leaned over, checking for signs of concussion.
I ignored him and turned to hot mama. “I’m Private Investigator Cat DeLuca. Billy asked me to help with your case. This is Max.”
“Where’s Bill? Why isn’t he here?”
My throat caught. Max stepped in.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you that Bill Bonham was murdered last night.”
Cristina gasped, stunned. Finally after a long minute, she spoke. “How?”
“He was shot. In his neighborhood, on the street.”
Cristina stared out the window. “This is all my fault.”
Max shook his head firmly. “The blame rests with the guy who pulled the trigger.”
“And the guy who ordered the hit,” I muttered.
Halah’s breaths came quick and shallow. She gasped for air. Her mom reached across the seat and patted her shoulder.
“Halah Rose hyperventilates.”
“Stuff her head in a bag,” I suggested.
Max said, “There’s more bad news. Someone broke into Bill’s office. Your file is missing.”
“Holy mother of God.” Cristina crossed herself. “What does that mean?”
“The life you created four years ago has been compromised.”
“You can’t go back to your hotel,” I added. “Tierney had two men parked outside. I was trying to warn you when you knocked me senseless.”
Cristina winced. “How bad did I hurt you? Do you have a concussion?”
“I’ve had worse.” I tried to give her a smile but my mouth refused to move that direction.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I hope you have insurance.”
“Now you’re sounding just like my mother,” I said.
“My detective is dead. The people I have been running from for four years know where I stayed last night.” Cristina did a grimace. “So what’s the bottom line? Are you saying we can’t go back to California?”
“I’d advise against it,” Max said.
Halah wailed. “I have to go back. I won’t lose all my friends again.”
Cristina gnawed her lip. “What if it wasn’t Kyle. Anyone could’ve killed Bill.”
“Really?” I said holding on to my head trying to keep it together. “Bill was walking his mother’s dog around her block at midnight. He was probably the only person living within a four-block radius under the age of forty-five. And that’s because he was staying with his mom until he got back on his feet. It’s not exactly Bridgeport’s high crime area.”
Max stepped outside and opened Cristina’s door. “Whatever you decide, you still have to eat.”
Her mouth trembled and the brown, doe eyes welled. Max melted into them. This time my eyes rolled.
“I don’t think I can start over,” she said.
“Maybe you won’t have to,” Max said. “We’ll figure this out.”
Cristina was unsteady, and Max put a strong arm around her and helped her toward the entrance. Maybe it felt good to have a big gorgeous hunky guy shoulder your troubles for a change. Or perhaps the brain tumor made her dizzy. I had to wonder if she should be driving.
Halah Rose glanced around for her bag.
“You won’t need your death spray,” I said. “I’m buying.”
***
The Taqueria La Mexicana, one of Bridgeport’s treasures, is tucked into a building just west of Halsted on 35th. By the time we made our way inside, the lunch crowd was trickling in. The tables were soon filled with people short on time and patience. But at our table, lunch was mostly a quiet, sober affair.
Halah Rose pushed her tostada around her plate.
“You’re missing school,” Max said.
“The teachers post my homework online. My science teacher videotapes his lectures.”
“You’re not missing too much, then.”
Halah made a face. “Just my winter concert. I made first chair in violin this year.”
“Bravo,” Max said.
“Then we had to go on this stupid trip.” Halah chewed a chip thoughtfully. “I want to play in the Chicago Symphony someday.”
“You will,” Cristina said.
Max punched a bunch of numbers on his Droid. When he finished, he dropped the cell in his pocket and flashed Halah a pleased gri
n. “Eight o’clock tonight. Chicago Symphony. Two tickets are waiting for you and your mom in the lobby.”
Halah squealed. “OMG! I am so psyched!”
“Not tonight.” Cristina threw her head back in defiance. “I have plans. I’m finishing what Bill started. I’m going in.”
“Whoa,” I said. “Bad, bad idea.”
“In?” Max said. “In where?”
“It’s too risky,” I said.
“You can’t stop me,” Cristina glared.
“Stop what?” Max said.
Cristina dabbed an eye. “Bill was a decent guy. He wasn’t afraid of Tierney.”
“How did that work for him?” I said.
“I’m not running anymore,” Cristina said. “I want my life back.”
Halah took a drink of her coke. “Count me in after the concert.”
“Seriously?” I said.
Max raked his hair. “What the hell is everybody talking about?”
“Suicide,” I said. “Three to five in the pokey.”
Halah waved a fry. “My mom says she’s breaking into Tierney’s Pub tonight.”
Cristina sniffed. “That asshole owes me. I’m gettin’ back.”
Max grinned. “I am so psyched.”
Chapter Eleven
I texted Cleo. Eight minutes later the canary yellow Corvette whipped into Belle’s parking lot and screeched to a stop at our feet.
Halah’s eyes widened. “Wow,” she said.
Cleo leaned out the window. Her eyes were puffy and red without the help of pepper spray. “Kyle Tierney shot a hole in the greatest guy I ever knew.”
“You do realize you met Billy last night.” I said.
She pulled out a tissue and blew. “We’re gonna bump off that jerkwad. Tonight.”
“Bump off?” Halah said.
“Kill,” I said.
“We’ll do it slow,” Cleo said.
“Damn straight,” Cristina said.
“Geesh,” I said.
Cleo smacked her gum. “Nobody offs Santa and gets away with it. It’s like whacking a priest.”
I blinked. “A priest?”
“Bill wasn’t the real Santa, you know,” Max said.
“Watch your mouth,” Cleo snapped.
She lifted a blanket from the passenger seat and exposed a small arsenal. A Desert Eagle, a Sig Sauer, a Smith & Wesson MP, a Glock, and a Beretta with a pearl handle.
Her eyes gleamed. “I came prepared. What’s the plan.”
A giant hammer pounded my brain. “You are taking Halah to dinner and the Chicago Symphony. Maybe ice cream later. Take her home with you tonight. Bring her by my house in the morning.”
Cleo selected the pearl-handled Beretta from the passenger seat and slipped it into her bag. “Good plan. I’ll off Tierney in the theatre. Like Abraham Lincoln.”
Cristina nodded. “I like it.”
I massaged my temples. “Uh, we have a slightly different plan. Halah will fill you in.”
Max slipped around to Cleo’s passenger door. He gathered the other guns in the blanket and scooped them up in his arms. “I’ll keep these in Tino’s trunk for you. There’s a kid in the car and all.”
“I’m not a kid. I’m fifteen!” Halah said, all huffy.
“I was talking about Cleo,” Max said.
“Can I drive your Corvette?” Halah asked Cleo.
“Sure.”
“She’s only fifteen,” Cristina gasped.
“You know, she’s gotta learn sometime.” Cleo slapped an arm around Halah. “But first things first. Girlfriend, we are going shopping.”
Halah dove into the passenger seat. “I can’t believe I’m going to the symphony.”
Cleo kicked the car in gear. “Do you like tattoos?” she said and sped away.
Cristina cringed. “Is my little girl safe with that woman? I mean she’s not really unhinged or anything, right?”
I stared at her. Cristina pulled her daughter out of school, drove her across country in an unsound, gutless wonder, checked into a sleazy hotel in a city where a big, bad man was itching to gun her down. I wasn’t getting Mrs. Brady here.
“No worries. I’d trust Cleo Jones with my life.”
***
Max and Cristina drove to the deli and swapped the sputtering late-seventies Subaru for Max’s Hummer. I tucked my hair under the blonde wig again and drove Tino’s bullet-proof Buick back to the hotel. Halah’s violin, computer, and clothes were waiting to be rescued on the second floor. Every teenager thinks she can’t live without a few things. These were hers. Room 225. The key was in my pocket. I promised I’d get them for her.
The black Lexus sedan that Tierney’s guys were driving was parked in front of the hotel. No sign of their sorry, battered faces though. They could be waiting in the lobby, but I doubted it. Whatever plan they had for the missing bartender wouldn’t beg for witnesses. I was guessing they got a room. And it would be as close to Cristina’s room as possible. Waiting, probably smoking cigarettes and sucking on black licorice whips. Or even worse, waiting in Cristina’s room.
I plucked my phone from my pocket and called Mama.
“Caterina, is that you?” Mama doesn’t trust caller ID.
“You know it’s me, Mama. I wanted to ask if Inga can have a sleepover tonight. You can pick her up at Tino’s.”
“What’s to ask? You should be out with that nice boy from the FBI. The one with insurance.”
“I wish, Mama. I’ll be working late.”
Mama made a disapproving clicking sound with her mouth. “This work of yours. A hootchie stalker. Taking dirty pictures. Seeing things a good Catholic girl should never see.” She shuddered.
“Mama, I wish you’d stop telling people I’m a hootchie stalker. I’m a professional private investigator. It’s like being a cop.”
“A cop without insurance. This life is no good for a girl who should be married and having babies like her sister.”
My sister Sophie is a baby factory. She loves to point out that I’m thirty, divorced, and missing all the fun of childbirth. When we were kids, Sophie was busy playing with her perfect little family in her perfect little dollhouse. I was busy skinning my knees and hanging from trees with my brother Rocco. Don’t get me wrong. I like kids. And who knows? Maybe someday I’ll give Mama grandkids instead of gas. Right now, my future’s a mucky blur. I don’t know what’s gonna happen. But with the way Sophie pumps out those kids, I’m pretty sure her uterus is going to fall out.
Mama groaned. “Oh! There’s a horrible, stabbing pain in my chest.”
I made a soothing sound. “Oh, Mama. Take some Tums.”
“It’s not gas. It’s a daughter who breaks her mama’s heart.”
I worked my throbbing temples. “I have to go now, Mama. Thanks for taking Inga.”
Mama sniffed. “She wants to come home to grandma. Tino feeds her too many sausages.”
I tucked the phone away, slipped out of the car, and made my way to the alley around back. I maneuvered around two big, stinky dumpsters heaped high with garbage. I tried not to breathe. I picked out a wooden crate from one, rotting at the edges, but sound enough to stand on. Scooting close to the brick wall, I counted to the fourth iron-barred window from the left of the building. Cristina and Halah’s room. Climbing on the box, tip-toed and craning my neck, I peered through a gap in the curtain. They were still there—the violin was on the dresser, a laptop on the bed. I blew a breath of relief. It appeared Cristina had found refuge in a gentler, more insulated California community. Because somehow, in four years, she’d forgotten the precautions one takes in a big city.
Hugging the wall, I made my way down the row of windows. At each one I dropped the wood box on the cracked asphalt and stretched to spy through the faded curtains. Some rooms were unoccupied. So
me guests watched TV. And I saw some things a good Catholic girl shouldn’t have to see. At the end of the long row I found what I was looking for. Two beat-up, hamburger-faced guys stretched out on their beds. The driver sucked on a cigarette. Beefy boy’s supersized hands gripped a James Patterson thriller. I was mildly surprised he could read.
I trotted back to Tino’s car. A woman and her young son tossed a ball on the sidewalk. Her name was Irene. Colby was five, and the tooth fairy has his two front teeth. They were new in town, here from Georgia. Her husband was a mechanic. He was out looking for work.
“Is he any good?”
Irene nodded proudly. “He has a certificate from Universal Technical Institute. But nobody’s hiring.”
“My mechanic is. He’s the best in Bridgeport. Maybe Chicago.” I jotted Jack’s number on the back of my card. “I’ll let Jack know your husband’s stopping by.”
“How can I thank you?” She looked at the card. “Pants On Fire Detective Agency? Caterina DeLuca?”
“Oops. Wrong side.” I flipped the card over for her. “Jack is no picnic to work for. He’s tough but he’s fair. And he pays his guys well.”
“You’re a real detective?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Is there a mystery at the hotel? Is that why you’re here?”
I smiled. “Sort of.”
“You’re like Kinsey Millhone. I’ve read all the ABC mysteries.” She waved my card. “Maybe I’ll call once we’re settled. See if you have a little undercover work for me.”
“Do that. In fact, I may have a little something right now. It’ll take five minutes.”
She almost jumped up and down. “What do you want me to do?”
I reached into my bag and pulled out a Benjamin. “For this, I need to borrow your son.”
Chapter Twelve
I slid behind the wheel of Tino’s Buick and dialed Rocco’s number.
“Yo. Cat. Talk to me.” My brother believed the caller ID.
“If you and Jackson have a few minutes, I need a favor.”
“You got it. Where are ya?”
“At the Marco Polo Hotel. Two of Tierney’s thugs are staking the place out. They know Billy’s client is here.”
“The bartender you told me about?”
