Bye, Bye Love

by K. J. Larsen

  Mama sniffed. “That’s cruel, Caterina. Your partner has a medical condition that makes her infertile.”

  I rolled my eyes. She has a medical condition all right. It’s called the pill.

  Mama softened her voice. “Tony, when are you coming home? Practice your vows tomorrow. You know I can’t sleep when you’re not here.”

  Papa’s brows lifted. “Can I sleep in our room, tonight?”

  “Not in front of the children, Tony. The wedding is Saturday.”

  Papa muttered something under his breath that would almost certainly come up at Confession.

  She laughed softly. “Papa. It’s not that bad, is it?”

  I jabbed Papa’s ribs before he could answer. “Caterina’s picking on me. I’m on my way.”

  He disconnected the call. “What was that about?”

  Papa didn‘t get it. This was Mama’s moment. And in my book, he owed her. For thirty-five years she put the needs of her husband and five kids before her own. Just the thought of labor and diapers and colic and PTA meetings and raising teenagers is a scream for therapy. For every night that Papa had a cold one at Mickey’s bar while Mama nursed a sick kid or ironed his uniform, I say he owes her.

  “You’re giving Mama the wedding and honeymoon she’s always dreamed of. Until then, you’re in the guest room. Deal with it. Suck it up, and learn your damn vows.”

  His eyes widened. “Caterina, I’ve never seen you like this. You’re scary-bossy like your Mama.”

  “My work here is done.”

  Cleo sent Papa home with half of the rich, sensual chocolate cake, a sparkling bottle of champagne from my personal stash, and a bouquet of fresh flowers from my coffee table.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Just giving your papa a little boost.”

  “What boost?”

  “Chocolate, flowers, and champagne. A passionate woman like your mama just might drag her man to bed with her.”

  “Eeeuw.”

  Cleo topped our wineglasses and sighed. “I love weddings.” Wine splashed on her monumental ta-ta’s. Her double D’s were always getting in the way. She blew another sigh. “You know, Walter’s been gone a long time.”

  “Not that long.”

  “If Frankie asked me—”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “—to marry him—”

  “Enough booze for you, girlfriend.” I pried the bottle from her vice-like grip.

  I understand Cleo and Frankie are dating. But no amount of alcohol should make a woman want to marry my crazy, unbalanced cousin.

  OK. So they’re both crazy. And trigger-happy. Their eyes glaze over whenever they fondle a weapon. It’s a dangerous combination.

  “Face it, Cat. Frankie and I are made for each other.”

  “Made to kill each other, maybe.”

  Cleo gave me the evil eye. Or tried to. Mostly her eyeballs crossed. “What are you saying?”

  “You’re dating a nut, Cleo. And the jury is still out on you.”

  “That’s cold. I love Frankie.”

  “And I’m almost happy for you. But he’s just as hotheaded as you are.”

  She grinned as if that was a good thing.

  “I don’t know how Frankie handles relationship problems. But I remember what happened when Walter cheated on you.”

  She waved a hand, blowing me off. “Walter was a fool. It’s not like he didn’t know I’d have to shoot him.”

  “OK. The jury just came back.”

  “It’s the last thing I said in my vows. I said, ‘Walter Jones, I marry you and I give you fair warning. Keep your pants zipped or keep your ass covered. You belong to me now.”

  “Wow.”

  “Powerful stuff, right? There wasn’t a dry eye at my wedding.”

  “Wow,” I said again.

  She sighed happily. “I’m such a romantic.”

  ***

  After a while, I wandered to my office and started tackling e-mails and phone messages before checking my Facebook page. When I trotted out again, Cleo was passed out on the couch with two dogs, an empty bottle of wine, and a tub of popcorn. I didn’t bother to wake her and ask if she wanted to go for a run. My assistant avoids exercise at all costs. To be fair, Cleo and Beau have joined us on occasion. They run as far as the closest bakery.

  A hard, sideways rain pummeled the streets of Chicago, but it didn’t trump the fat slice of cake I had for supper. I tugged on my Nikes, pulled my mahogany hair into a ponytail, slipped on a pink rain slicker, and dangled a leash in Inga’s face.

  “Come on, girl. We’re going for a run.”

  The beagle opened one eye just enough to take in the wet misery beating at the windows. She squeezed it tight again.

  “Seriously?” I said and popped the leash on her. I pulled up my hoodie and I dragged her ass out the door.

  The night was quiet and traffic light. Our feet pounded the wet sidewalk. We passed a few neighbors walking in the rain with their dogs.

  The rain eased to a drizzle and stopped soon after we reached the park. The city felt washed and clean and we had the park pretty much to ourselves. We passed a couple diehard runners. A Chicago Parks employee messed with something in his van. And two soggy, teenage lovers groped each other on a park bench.

  Inga led the way. We ran the perimeter of the park and were about three-quarters of the way around our loop when she picked up a scent. Without warning, she stopped dead in her tracks right in front of me. My arms flailed. I dropped the leash, stumbled, and vaulted over her, narrowly averting a crash. When I recovered my balance, she was gone.

  My partner was hot on a trail. Mumbling a few choice words, I tore after her through a tangle of shrubbery, following her ear-shattering bay. Oh yeah, beagles don’t bark. They scream.

  My foot caught on an immovable object, no amount of arm flailing could save me. This time I crashed and burned. The landing was alarmingly lumpy. I was sprawled over something big and wet. I hoped it was Bridgeport’s first beached whale. But I wouldn’t be so lucky.

  In one terrible moment, I knew what Inga had got a whiff of. I smelled it too. Blood.

  Chapter Five

  A terrified scream welled in my throat and I teetered on the brink of hysteria. I was primed for the plunge. And then, in one sanity-saving moment, my mind nudged me back with a distraction. I had a mental image of blueberries. Big, fat, juicy blueberries.

  I thought, if I’d eaten a few blueberries like my anorexic Aunt Linda instead of a big fat slice of Cleo’s cake, I wouldn’t have had to run in the rain. And if I hadn’t run in the rain, I wouldn’t be straddling a dead body right now.

  I knew, sure as hell, my Aunt Linda wasn’t.

  I swallowed the blood curdling scream and shot off the body like it was a hot bed of coals. The white tip of Inga’s tail wagged happily in the dark. She was showing off. Like she was all that.

  I get it. She’s a partner in a topnotch detective agency. She found a dead body. It’s a lot bigger trophy than nailing a cheater with his pants down. She actually thought she was getting sausages for this.

  Think again, princess.

  I steadied myself with a slow breath and dragged a flashlight from my pocket.

  The victim was on his back, the front of his jacket bloody. I looked down. Some of the sticky red blood had transferred to my pink slicker. The body was unnaturally contorted. He didn’t free-fall into these bushes. He had to have been dragged here.

  The ground was soft from the recent rain and Inga’s and my footprints danced all over the place. I winced. Captain Bob was gonna be pissed. He’s not a big fan of the Pants On Fire Detective Agency, and that’s before we botch his crime scene.

  I moved the flashlight up the black and white Spats shoes, over the black pants, past the bulging white shirt under a gray
trench coat, to the victim’s face. My knees went rubbery and a black wave swept across my vision.

  In my defense, I don’t faint at the sight of death. I’m a professional, dammit. OK. So Captain Bob says I’m a hootchie stalker. But I come from a family of Chicago cops. And the Pants On Fire Detective Agency has investigated a few homicides. It’s not as if I haven’t stared death in the face without throwing up.

  But this guy’s face was gone. I tried to run, but only got a few steps away. My stomach lurched and I tossed my chocolate Italian cream cake.

  That alone is a crime.

  I wanted to keep running all the way home and make an anonymous call to 911. But I’d already deposited my DNA all over the crime scene. So I pulled up my big girl panties and wobbled back to the body.

  I crouched down beside him, carefully diverting the flashlight from the no-face. I touched the vic’s wrist, checking for the pulse that couldn’t be there. His skin was gray and clammy.

  There wasn’t a wedding ring, on the calloused, working man’s hand. I made out a few fresh cuts on his fingers but couldn’t know if they were defensive wounds or marks from a barroom brawl.

  I sucked up my courage and dragged my cell from my pocket. I would have to call it in. Rising, my gaze glimpsed paper in his jacket pocket. Taking a tissue from my pocket, I wrestled the envelope from his jacket and read the hastily scrawled name.

  Joe DeLuca.

  Uncle Joey? I peered inside the envelope. There were a helluva lot of Ben Franklins in there. Maybe forty or fifty. I couldn’t breathe.

  I had no idea who this dead guy was. Or how he knew Uncle Joey. It’s possible he rented one of Joey’s properties. But I was savvy enough to know that if a cop’s name is on an envelope of cash in a homicide victim’s pocket, it’s gonna raise a red flag. And every red flag at the Chicago PD has Internal Affairs written all over it.

  Of course all cops don’t take bribes. But no one is so squeaky clean—and sufficiently insane—to tempt IA’s bloodthirsty scrutiny. Least of all my Uncle Joey, with his bright red Ferrari.

  I jammed the envelope into a pocket. I squatted down again and wrestled a hand under No-Face’s bottom. He had been a big guy. His body would have been cumbersome to move in life. In death he was cement. But I was on a mission for Uncle Joey. And we DeLucas stick together.

  I gave three heaves and a groan. I couldn’t feel my hand anymore. But the wallet was in it.

  The dead guy had some cash on him, about three hundred bucks. Sort of rules out a robbery. There was an ATM card. An organ donor card. And a driver’s license.

  His name was Bernard Love, and he looked better with eyes. The license said they were blue. I guess he could forget about donating them.

  Inga growled. I felt, rather than heard, that the three of us weren’t alone any longer. Fear gripped me and my heart pounded in my chest.

  I darted my flashlight into the night. The park employee I had seen earlier emerged from the shadows. I blew a huge sigh of relief. Then I decided I’d better explain myself fast. If he thought I was the killer, he could clobber me with a shovel.

  “This man has no face. I was calling the cops.”

  Inga growled more urgently.

  The smile didn’t reach his eyes. “That won’t be necessary. The cops are on their way.”

  He checked his wrist.

  “Wow. Nice Rolex.”

  My gaze traveled down the Chicago Parks Department uniform. His pant legs were too short. The better to see his expensive designer shoes.

  The name on the uniform was Juan Gonzalez.

  Seriously? This guy was a poster boy for Hitler’s master race. I didn’t have to be a hotshot detective to wonder if he knew a taco from an enchilada.

  I backed away, forcing a smile that felt like wood. “OK then. I’m done here. Looks like you got this.”

  “Stick around.” It wasn’t a request.

  He stepped toward me and Inga lunged for his leg. He yelped in pain. I dropped No-Face’s wallet and grappled for the taser in my pocket.

  It wasn’t a fair fight. I’m not saying his taser was bigger or that he was quicker to the draw. When he approached me, his taser was in his hand. I never got mine out.

  Fifty thousand volts ripped through me. My body became rigid and I couldn’t move. It felt like being violently kicked with each jolting pulse.

  My attacker’s teeth clenched and his lips pulled back in a sneer. He dashed a hand into his wheelbarrow and pulled out a nasty smelling rag. He stuffed it in my face and everything went black.

  Chapter Six

  A warm, wet tongue brought me back. My eyes swam and I held Inga against me. I managed to sit up and examine her body with my hands. She whimpered when I touched her right shoulder. That monster had kicked my partner. Thankfully, she was OK. I promised her I’d hunt him down and deliver his body to Alpo.

  I was a mess of death and dirt. Something on that filthy rag gave me a raging headache. My skull felt as if it was in a vise.

  I staggered to my feet and looked around me. Then I rubbed my eyes and looked again.

  Holy crap.

  I called Rocco.

  My brother’s voice was hushed. “Yo, Sis. I’ll have to call you back. I’m waiting for Captain Bob.”

  “Well, it’s sort of important.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “I found a body.”

  “Are you OK?”

  “Yes. But I’m not eating cake for a long time.”

  “My god, Cat. Do you need a doctor?”

  “I’m pretty sure I saw the killer.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Some asshole with a Rolex. He’s dog food, Rocco.”

  “Wait. What? Tell me where you are.”

  “The park by my house. My partner ID’ed him for you. She chomped his right leg.”

  I could make out Captain Bob’s voice, calling Rocco into his office.

  “Rocco, don’t tell Bob—”

  Rocco said, “Captain, I’m putting Cat on speaker.”

  Crap.

  “She’s found a body.”

  “Of course she has,” Bob snapped after an explosion of expletives. “Your sister is the poster girl for murder in Bridgeport.”

  “That hurts, Bob” I said.

  “I’ll call dispatch,” Rocco said.

  “Wait. There’s something I have to tell you about the body.”

  “When I get there.”

  “But—”

  Captain Bob growled. “I’m coming too, goddammit. We’ll take my car.”

  “Sir, your wife will be waiting at the restaurant.”

  He growled and I could almost hear his face twitch. “When your sister’s involved, it’s best to stay on top of the damage control.”

  “Again. Not nice, Bob.”

  Rocco’s voice was choppy. He was running now. “Don’t let anyone compromise the crime scene.”

  A little late for that.

  Bob yelled, “We’re on our way. Stay with the body.”

  “Yeah. About the body. There’s something you should—hello?”

  They were gone.

  Awkward.

  I plopped down on the curb and waited for Chicago’s Finest. Not to disappoint, they came with sirens screaming in a parade flashing blue lights, with Captain Bob leading the way.

  He hopped from the car barking orders.

  “O’Malley and Hall, secure the crime scene. Pacelli, set up lights. I want four officers to sweep the park. If there are witnesses, bring them back here.”

  Apparently I looked worse than I thought. And I thought I looked like shit. Rocco dashed over, his face pinched with worry.

  “My god, Cat, you’re bleeding. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

  I stared at my slicker. “This isn’t m
y blood. “It’s the vic’s.”

  Rocco’s voice was wary. “How did—”

  The captain stomped over and his gaze fell on my jacket. “I need a medic here,” he yelled.

  I guess Bob loves me after all.

  “It’s not her blood,” Rocco said.

  The captain’s bushy brows shot up. This couldn’t be good.

  And it wasn’t.

  “Inga and I were out for a run. She broke away and discovered the body.” I patted her neck. “She’s the real hero here.”

  “Where’s the body?”

  I led the way into the bushes. O’Malley and Hall tromped behind us with an adequate supply of red and yellow crime scene barrier tape, evidence markers, and weapon recovery kits.

  Everybody whipped their flashlights around.

  Rocco said, “Something stinks back here.”

  “Yeah, I threw up. Watch your step.”

  “Nasty,” Rocco said.

  “The man had no face. I think someone shot it off.”

  Bob growled. “I’m missing more than a face here. Where’s the body?”

  “I tried to tell you on the phone. The killer took it. He stole a van, impersonated a Mexican, and took off with the body. After he tased and knocked me out, of course.”

  “Of course he did.” Bob’s face twitched.

  “Set me up with a sketch artist. I’d recognize his Rolex and designer shoes anywhere. And Inga left marks from her choppers on his leg. That’s how they got Ted Bundy.”

  Bob opened his mouth to say something. He closed it again and stomped back to his car instead.

  I chased after him. “Hey! Where are you going? This is a crime scene. It needs to be processed. There’s forensic evidence on the ground, for God’s sake.”

  “What can you tell us about the body?” Rocco followed.

  “Six feet tall. two hundred pounds. Brown hair. Blue eyes. Square chin. A mole on his right cheek.”

  “That’s a lot of detail for a guy with no face.”

  “I’m going with the driver’s license here. It expires this year. But that’s not going to be a problem.”

  “And you didn’t think it was important to mention a license? Did you think to get a name?”