Tim hopped up just as Joey spun around to see what the racket was. “What the hell? Tryin’ to eat here. Why is the Ewok here?”
Lucie shoved a hand in front of Brie’s mouth to stop the onslaught of wet tongue. “That’s okay, Joey. I’m not hurt or anything. You jerk.”
Tim strode up, grabbed the dog, holding her in one hand while helping Lucie up with the other.
Those hands. They created miracles in the world of Lucie Rizzo.
And how awesome was it having a hunky alpha to take care of her?
She smiled up at him, looking handsome in his rolled-up shirt-sleeves and open collar. A few wisps of strawberry-blond chest hair poked out of the open button. Lucie’s mind went naughty places. How she loved her red-headed detective. “Thank you.”
“You okay?”
With him around? Perfect. “I’m fine.”
“What’s that animal?” Dad hollered from the table. “I don’t want animals in here.”
Meeting Tim’s gaze, Lucie grunted. “I’m so sorry I left you alone with the lunatics. The Kennedy was a parking lot. As usual. I swear they should bomb that thing.”
“No big deal. We watched SportsCenter.” He leaned in close to her ear. “And I got career advice from your Dad, who advised me to stay away from certain Area 3 cops. He thinks they’re dirty.”
That warning coming from Joe Rizzo, mob boss? Priceless.
Brie stared up at Tim then launched herself up in an attempt to sneak a lick of his chin. Lucie couldn’t blame her. She often felt that way around him. Ro didn’t call him O’Hottie for nothing.
Tim, apparently unable to resist the cuteness, scratched the underside of the dog’s chin. “Luce? Is this really a dog?”
Joey waved a fork. “It’s the Ewok.”
Lucie rolled her eyes. “Shut up with the Ewok jokes. She’s a Griffon. It’s a rare breed. You should have a little respect.”
“Lucia,” Mom said, “stop this nonsense and come eat before it gets cold. Wash your hands.”
Second grade. That’s what living here felt like. “Yes, ma’am.”
Joey caught her eye as they wandered by. “I’ll ask again. Why do you have the Ewok?”
If her brother made it to thirty without Lucie burying him at a SuperFund site, it would be a miracle. The toxicity alone would make him disintegrate. When it came to being annoying, he’d settled down some since he’d started dating Ro. But, he had a ways to go yet before Lucie might consider him human. Total work-in-progress.
While Tim held Brie, Lucie unclipped the leash and wished they had more doors on the first floor to contain pee-girl. Better to keep her in sight. “I went to see Antoine.”
“The casserole guy?”
“Yep. I walked Brie for Lauren today. When I brought her back, a fire broke out at the restaurant.”
“Oh, my goodness,” Mom said. “Was anyone hurt?”
“No. It was a kitchen fire. They put it out, but I told Antoine I’d keep Brie while he dealt with the mess.”
“You’re such a good girl, Lucie,” Mom said. “Always right there to help.”
Dad nodded his agreement without disturbing a single hair on his perfectly groomed salt-and-pepper hair. “We did good with her.”
“Really, Joe? We?”
Tim cleared his throat and nudged Lucie along. Alrighty then. No need to get into the deets on Dad’s absence during Joey and Lucie’s formative years.
Before the debate broke out, Lucie marched into the kitchen. “I was in the middle of negotiating with him to be an investor in the dog food deal, so it wasn’t totally altruistic.” She gestured at Brie still in Tim’s hand. “You can put her down.”
Tim set her on the floor and she sniffed her way around the room. If this dog peed in here, Lucie would never hear the end of it.
After washing their hands, they took their places at the dining room table.
Joey cocked his head. “You met with Jo-Jo this morning?”
“We did,” Ro said. “Your sister is all fired up about this dog food deal.”
Lucie handed the bowl of potatoes off to Tim and watched him shovel a mountain of them onto his plate. Lord, the man could eat. “I wouldn’t say I’m all fired up. I’m feeling it out.”
“She’s fired up,” Ro said.
“Blah, blah. I asked Antoine’s opinion. That’s all. Given his experience with the FDA and food packaging plants, I thought he might be able to help. While we were talking, he said he wanted in on the deal.”
Ro let out one of her Queen-of-All-Things-Fabulous sighs. “Great.”
“And then the fire broke out.”
Dad’s fork paused midway to his mouth. “How?”
“Antoine said it was a grease fire.”
“Well,” Ro said, “You don’t get a bigger sign from the universe than that.”
Lucie took the bowl from Tim and set it down next to her. “You’re being negative, hoping I’ll change my mind about the deal.”
“Is it working?”
Lucie laughed. “No.”
Dad sat back and tapped his fingers on the edge of the table. “As much as I don’t want to agree with the wacky one, it’s a bad omen.”
For years Ro and Dad had shared some kind of twisted affection. Somehow, coming from Dad, Ro considered being referred to as wacky—or a broad—a compliment.
“Bad omens aside,” Tim said. “I’m guessing it was an accident.”
Lucie poked her finger. “You are a good man, Tim O’Brien.”
Dad stopped tapping and waggled a finger at Ro. “Why don’t you wanna do it?”
“She thinks it’s out of our wheelhouse.”
“I don’t think,” Ro said. “I know.”
“Eh,” Dad said, “plenty of companies expand into other markets. Look at all my business ventures.”
This evoked a sigh from Mom. “I’m not sure loan sharking is comparable.”
And they’re off.
Dad pinned Mom with a look she appeared unfazed by. His recent prison stint had unleashed an independent streak in Mom. For years she’d been the obedient wife, raising kids, cleaning the house. Cooking. All of it for a barely present husband who’d managed to be an excellent provider. Even if the source of income came from questionable places.
The dichotomy of Dad.
Time for a subject change. “Did Ro tell you her news?”
Mom’s eyebrows shot up at the same time Dad’s fork clattered to his dish. “Jesus Christmas,” Dad said, “you’re pregnant.”
“Joe! What’s wrong with you? If she was pregnant, I don’t think Lucie would be bringing it up.”
Still, Mom reached for Ro’s arm, squeezing tight enough that her nail beds flamed red. “You’re not, are you? The Franklin Press would have a field day. I’m not up for that.”
The town gossips, otherwise known as The Franklin Press, didn’t waste time when it came to rumors about the Rizzos. Then again, Joe Rizzo had given them enough material to satisfy them for the last fifteen years.
Tim grinned at Lucie. “Dinner in this house is better than Second City. Hands down.”
“If she was knocked-up,” Joey said, “I think I’d know.” He paused for a long second, his mouth tipping down at the corners before he tilted his head at Ro. “You’re not, are you? I mean that would explain—”
Steak knife in hand, Ro pointed it, circling slow enough to make Lucie’s heart pound. “Whatever you’re about to say, stop. With that lead in, it can’t be good and then I’ll have to stab you in the eye.”
“I didn’t hear that,” Tim cracked.
“She’s not pregnant,” Lucie said, hoping it was true. Joey was right. The weight gain couldn’t be denied. “You people are insane. The big news is I made her a partner in the business.”
Lucie’s phone rang and she shoved out of her chair to retrieve it from her messenger bag. “Sorry. This might be Antoine looking for his dog.”
“Let’s hope,” Dad said. “I don’t like animals in here.
So,” he turned to Ro, “you’re a partner now. That’s good. Congratulations.”
After retrieving the phone, Lucie jabbed at the screen, barely catching the call before it went to voicemail. “Antoine, hi. That was fast. Are you done already?”
“No. Not yet. I’m in my office though.”
His voice sounded funny. Raspy and…rushed. Probably the stress of the day. “Is everything okay?”
“When you grabbed the leash off the hook did you see a blue card anywhere? Maybe on the floor?”
A blue card? She thought back, but the only thing she’d noted was the binder. And the open safe. “Not that I remember. Why?”
“The card is my casserole recipe. I keep a hard copy in the safe.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.”
His recipe. The world-famous one that made him a billionaire. The secret recipe with more security than a nuclear facility. A sizzling panic shot up Lucie’s neck. “Are you sure it’s not there. Maybe it’s under something?”
“I tore the whole place apart. It’s not here. Someone took it.”
Chapter Three
Someone, meaning Lucie?
Come on! Seriously? After helping him with the dog he thought…
“Antoine, I hope you don’t think it was me.”
From the other room, Tim shifted in his seat, his entire body now facing her.
“All I know is it’s gone.”
“Well, don’t panic. I’ll bring Brie back and help you look.”
Before Antoine could respond, she hung up. If he thought he’d accuse her of stealing and not give her an opportunity to face him, he’d have to think again. Lucie Rizzo, mob princess, had dealt with people thinking less of her for too long to let that go unaddressed.
She stowed the phone in her messenger bag and headed back to the dining room.
Tim’s hyper-focused green eyes unnerved her and gave panic a new life. “What’s up?”
Lucie picked up her barely touched plate of food. “He can’t find the casserole recipe. I told him I’d help him look.”
From across the table, Mom huffed. “Now? First you were late and now you’re leaving?”
“Mom, I’m sorry. I have to go.”
“It’s a recipe. You’d think it was fine art.”
“In a way,” Tim said, “it is. He’s built an empire on that casserole.” He glanced up at Lucie. “I thought he had CIA-proof security?”
“Yeah,” Joey said, “He’s always going on about how it’s stored in a vault that has both eye and palm scanners.”
“I guess he keeps a hard copy in his safe as well. It’s one of those giant ones that weighs a bazillion pounds. The safe was open when I was in the office. Then the fire alarm went off and he ran.”
Dad slapped a hand on the table sending the plates bouncing. “That son of a bitch thinks you stole it?”
Great. All she needed was Joe Rizzo getting his shorts in a wad. “No, Dad.” Liar. “He’s only asking if I saw it. I have to bring the dog back anyway, so I’ll go there and help him look.”
Tim stood. “I’ll come with you.”
“Good,” Dad said. “If this guy thinks he’s gonna accuse my baby girl, I want a detective there with her.”
“Luce,” Joey said, “this better not be another one of your screwy situations. I’m maxed out on those.”
And she wasn’t?
Tim spent the ride downtown grilling Lucie on the details of her meeting with the chef. As a detective, he’d learned not to overlook seemingly inconsequential facts. Even the minute ones, like where the dog was when all this was going on. Walking into a situation blind, particularly one involving a theft, wasn’t his style.
He cruised down the off-ramp from the expressway, stopped long enough to ensure he was clear to turn and hooked a right. Street lights set the darkness ablaze, the buildings above them offering a perfect backdrop.
Damn, he loved the city. Everything about it, the frenetic energy, the constant movement, all of it was home to him. Having grown up on the Northwest side, he couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.
He parked in a garage two blocks from the restaurant. They made their way back, hunching against the wind, the dog leading the way and stopping to christen every freaking tree or sign post.
While the twerp did her business on a sturdy oak, Lucie used a free hand to slide her red beanie hat higher on her head. Her blue eyes were steady on his, her mouth pinched enough to create tiny lines around them.
“Honey, relax. Let’s get in there and see what’s what.”
“You seriously think the dog ate the recipe card? What is this? Grammar school?”
“It’s a possibility. If it fell on the floor, maybe she helped herself. At the very least, we need to search that whole place. She could have picked it up to play with it and carried it to another room.”
“Now that wouldn’t be out of the question. She does have a rascal side to her.” Lucie reached for Tim’s arm and squeezed. “I can’t believe Antoine thinks I stole the card. Given the value of that recipe, could this be a criminal matter?”
Brie finished sniffing and squatted for a bowel movement. Good. Might as well check it for a blue recipe card. “Babe, please, don’t get ahead of yourself. We’ll find it.”
“I’m not getting ahead of myself. You know me, I need facts. If he accuses me of stealing that card, what am I in for?”
His girl. Always wanting to be prepared. One of the things he adored about her. In crisis, she formulated a plan—albeit a nutty one—and implemented it with fearless, determined drive.
And she wouldn’t be put off by his don’t-worry platitudes. Which, yeah, drove him nuts. That came with loving Ms. Independent though. She didn’t need him to solve her problems. She’d do it herself.
“At best,” he said, “it’s more of an intellectual property matter.”
“Not criminal?”
“Not unless someone gets killed or hurt during the theft. Barring that, it’s a property offense.”
The dog finished taking her dump, and Lucie did her thing with the baggies attached to the leash.
“Try to keep the, uh, samples intact so it doesn’t look like they were tampered with. There may be remnants of a blue card in there we can use as proof.”
“Ha. When have I ever gotten that lucky?”
Tim bent over and shined the light from his phone on the pile of poop. Jeez, who knew such a little dog could produce such long turds?
A couple walked by them, slowing to see what exactly was so interesting.
Nothing to see here, folks.
He eyeballed them, waved the flashlight, and they got the hint to move their asses along. This is what his life had been reduced to.
Analyzing dog shit.
Lucie made a humming noise. “I don’t see anything. Maybe we should mash one of them and see if there’s anything in the middle?”
Bile backed up in his throat. Gag reflex. The day job exposed him to a lot. Blood, wounded animals, torn flesh. All of that, he could handle.
The smell of dog shit? Killed him. Every time. He straightened up, shoved his shoulders back, and inhaled the moist lake air until his stomach settled down.
From her bent position, Lucie looked up at him. “Oh, come on. The big bad detective can’t handle dog poop?”
“It’s the smell.”
“Once again, it takes a woman.”
At that, Tim laughed. “Normally, I’d say go right ahead, but it might be evidence. Keep it intact.”
Using the baggie, Lucie scooped up one of the samples and analyzed it, rolling it around in her hand.
Tim gagged again and took three steps back. “Ack. That’s so nasty.”
“My hero.”
“Wait till we’re done here and I’ll show you a hero.”
That put a smile on her face. And he hadn’t even touched her yet. One thing about Lucie, she never hesitated when it came to them dropping their clothes.
“I’l
l look forward to that, Detective.” She stood tall, tying the baggie and holding it up for his perusal. “I didn’t see anything unusual. If Brie ate that card, it hasn’t processed yet.”
Processed. Good one. “How long does it usually take?”
Lucie shrugged. “It depends on the dog. Raw food can take four to six hours. Kibble might take ten to twelve. I have no clue about paper.”
“We’ll have to monitor that. Get Chef Ramsay to watch it.”
Lucie smacked his arm. “Don’t call him that. You might slip in front of him.”
When Lucie had first landed Antoine as a client, Tim had jokingly referred to him as Chef Ramsay, the famous television chef. The name had stuck and Tim was having trouble breaking himself of it.
They reached the side entrance of the restaurant. Brie let out a yip.
“I know, sweetie. You missed Daddy.”
Tim fought an eye roll as he opened the door. “When we’re inside, stay calm. Don’t let this guy rattle you.”
“I’m not a drama queen—”
“I’m not saying you are.”
“Then what are you saying?”
He popped a kiss on her lips. “You have a hot button when it comes to people making assumptions about your character.”
“A hard-earned hot button. I’ve been judged my whole life.”
“I know. Which is why you can’t get emotional. I’ll take the pressure off by telling him I’m a detective.”
Lucie glanced inside at the staircase leading to the second floor. “Don’t make it sound official. That’ll spook him.”
“It’ll be a side note.” He grinned. “Right before I search the place.”
Sometimes a detective boyfriend made for nice perks. Like now when someone was about to accuse Lucie of theft.
Brie darted through the door, tugging on her leash, and Lucie followed her inside as the acrid odor of charred wood and dampness assaulted her senses. To her left, the door to the kitchen stood open. Lucie peeped in, spotted the black soot marring the previously pristine walls and various pots and oversized frying pans still standing on the stove. The roar from industrial fans tasked with drying puddles of standing water drowned out any possible noise. She shook her head. What a mess.
Dog Collar Cuisine (A Lucie Rizzo Mystery Book 5) Page 3
