by K. J. Larsen
“I’m not an idiot. His name is—er was—Bernard Love.”
Bob leaned against his car, turned to me, and blew out air. “Is it a cry for help, Caterina. Is that what this is?” He tapped his right temple. “You haven’t been right up here since you were hit in the head last spring by an exploding building.”
“It wasn’t a building, Bob. It was a Vacancy sign.”
“It took,” somebody sneered.
“Look, we’re on the same side here,” I said. “I like to think we’re partners in law enforcement.”
“Partners!!?” Bob’s face contorted.
“Now that was rude. We’ve solved some critical cases together. I’m not one to toot my horn but I’m a valuable detective. You might consider working with me more often.”
He choked on a laugh.
“That’s just ungrateful. And at least I found a body for you.”
“What body? There’s no body.”
“OK, so I lost it. No one’s perfect. But the vic will show up again. There’s still a crime scene to process.” I did a palms-up in front of my coat. “This isn’t chicken blood on me, for God’s sake. How do you explain this blood on my slicker?”
“To be honest, I’m afraid to.” He removed my hand from his arm and stomped to his car. “What’s telling is a decided lack of blood at the crime scene. Puke, yes. Blood, no. How do you explain that?”
“Uh, give me a minute.”
“We’ll leave it like this. You found a body. And you lost it. Don’t tell me about it. Tell a doctor.”
He stood beside his car and radioed the cops swarming the park. “False alarm, officers. There is no body. Repeat. No body. Return to what you were doing.”
“What is this?” someone demanded. “A joke?”
“Yeah. A bad one.” Bob cast an evil eye on me. “I’m late. My wife’s pissed. I swear, Caterina, if you pull a prank like this again, I’ll have you arrested.” He turned to my brother. “You coming, Rocco?”
“Sorry, Captain. If Cat says there was a body, I believe her.”
I threw him a grateful look.
The captain made those facial twitches I seem to bring out in him. He climbed in his car and burned rubber driving away. I winced and watched his taillights disappear.
The men and women in Bob’s parade marched past me to their cars. Some snickered. Some were pissed. They barreled off as if they had something more important to do. I wasn’t impressed. I come from a family of cops. I knew they were getting donuts.
My brother put an arm around my shoulder. Rocco is my best friend. He’s bossy and overly protective at times. But when I find myself in trouble, his is the first number I think to call.
“Thanks for believing me”
He shrugged.
“Bob didn’t.”
“The captain doesn’t like surprises. He wants a body to hang around until the cops get there.”
“How predictable. So now what are we going to do?”
“We’re going to find a body to show the captain. Even if we steal one from the morgue.”
I smiled.
“No. I’m serious.”
Rocco dragged out his cell and jabbed a number with his finger. He hit speaker. His partner answered.
“Jackson.”
“Yo. I need help processing a crime scene.”
Jackson groaned. “I’m on a date. The woman is a masseuse.”
“You’re a lucky guy.”
“Not tonight, apparently.”
“Sorry, man. I need you on this one. If we don’t come up with some compelling shit, the captain will boot me down to traffic duty. That means you have to break in a new partner. You could get my Cousin Frankie.”
“All right. You’re scaring me. Whadya do to piss off the captain?”
“It was Cat. She—”
“Say no more.”
I groaned. “I heard that, Jackson.”
He laughed. “It’s OK, sweetheart. I can use the overtime. There’s a sweet Harley on Craigslist.”
“Oh,” Rocco said. “About that bike—”
“Yeah?”
“Did I mention you won’t get paid?”
Rocco shoved the phone in his pocket before his partner could object.
“Now let’s get you out of that jacket.”
I followed Rocco to his trunk and he removed a large evidence bag, some antiseptic and wipes, and a clean coat. I emptied my pockets and Rocco bagged the pink slicker. I cleaned my hands and face and tugged on my brother’s big coat. Then we joined Inga in the car and Rocco cranked up the heat while we waited for Jackson.
I handed Rocco the envelope I found in Bernie Love’s pocket.
He glanced at the name scrawled on the envelope. Joey DeLuca. He looked inside and whistled.
“What’s this?”
“Some serious cash. It was in the vic’s pocket.”
“Jeezus.” Rocco slapped the envelope against the steering wheel. “This could be cause for an immediate suspension and an Internal Affairs nightmare. Joey has resources I don’t even want to know about.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“I suppose there could be another Joey DeLuca.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
A car pulled in behind us. Headlights flashed.
“Jackson’s here,” Rocco said. He stuffed the envelope in my hand. “Talk to Uncle Joey. If this investigation leads back to him, he’ll want to get his shit in order.”
I chewed a lip. There might not be enough order for all of Uncle Joey’s shit.
Chapter Seven
“Watch where you step,” Rocco said. “Cat tossed her cookies back here.”
Jackson beamed his flashlight over the ground and grinned. “Cannelloni? And something chocolate. You eat a lot for a skinny girl.”
“The guy had no face.” I said, as if that explained everything.
I moved the beam of my own flashlight to the scene of the crime.
“Here. This is where I found him. On his back. Two hundred pounds of Big Macs and beer.”
Jackson said, “One guy didn’t move the body. He had to have help.”
“Does a wheelbarrow count? The guy was wearing a Chicago Parks Department uniform that said Juan Gonzalez. The pants were too short. And the shirt didn’t fit.”
“He should speak to his union rep.”
“Juan was blue eyed and blond. He wore a Rolex. And black designer dress shoes.”
“So he was an imposter.”
“If he wasn’t, I want to work for the city,” I said.
Rocco gave a short laugh. “No you don’t,” he said scratching his head thoughtfully. “The question is, how does someone wheel a body around a public park without the neighbors lighting up the 911 switchboard?”
I thought a moment. “He stole a city van. Inga and I passed a Chicago Parks vehicle on our run. It didn’t ring any bells. I guess it worked for the neighbors too.”
Rocco moved his light around. “Where’s the blood? You shoot a guy’s face off, there’s a lot of blood. We’re looking for another scene.”
Jackson nodded grimly. “We find the primary, we’ll have Captain Bob’s attention. You might dodge traffic duty after all.”
The guys spread out and widened their search. I zipped back to Rocco’s car. This was a job for the Pants On Fire Detective Agency.
I snapped the leash on Inga. “Find the crime scene, partner.”
Inga howled and dragged me into the park, nose to the ground. We blazed past Chicago’s Finest, bolting headlong toward a stand of maples. The last leaves had fallen from their branches. I held Inga back from the soft bed of yellow and red leaves that covered the ground. She sniffed, her feet danced, and she howled bloody murder.
That’s my partne
r. I scratched her ears and she licked her lips. That’s beagle for “sausage.”
Bernie Love had been killed here. Rolex Man dragged his body to the bushes and came back with a van.
“Over here!” I called.
I found a long branch and poked around a clump of leaves, exposing a dark, gooey glob. Blood. The killer had made a hasty, half-assed attempt to kick leaves over the carnage. It could have worked, I suppose. The snows would come and cloak the ground. Any trace of the horrific crime could melt with the snow before the real Juan Gonzalez came around to mow next spring.
The guys flashed their lights on the glob.
“I’ll call it in. We need a forensic investigator out here.” Jackson said.
Rocco grimaced. “The captain isn’t going to like this. Cat made him look like an asshat.”
“He didn’t need a lot of help,” I said.
“Don’t you have to be somewhere? Somewhere other than with the captain?”
Jackson chuckled. “I’ll drive her home.”
I kissed my brother’s cheek. “Tell Bob I’ll stop by tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll want to thank me personally.”
“Yeah, I’m not seeing that happening any time soon. When you see Uncle Joey, have him call me. We need to talk about that envelope. I want to keep it on the down-low until we get a handle on this.”
“Envelope? What envelope?” Jackson said.
“I’ll explain when we stop for a beer.”
“You’re not as cute as my masseuse. But if you’re buying...”
“Cat’s definitely buying.” Rocco cocked his head at me. “My partner and I need drinks and dinner at Mickey’s.”
“Tell Mickey to put it on my tab. Come on, Inga. Let’s get out of here before the big bad captain gets back.”
I turned and my foot kicked something. I shined my flashlight around the ground and picked up a metallic reflection. My heart jumped.
“It’s a phone,” I said. “It could belong to the killer.”
“It could belong to anyone in Bridgeport,” Jackson said.
I made a face. “Killjoy.”
Rocco dragged two plastic gloves from his pocket. He scooped up the phone with a gloved hand. I held my flashlight on it, as he examined it.
“It’s your basic Verizon cell. No Internet. Not enough bells and whistles for a kid.”
Rocco flipped it open. “OK. Let’s see what number was dialed last.”
He pushed redial.
“Put it on speaker,” I said leaning in.
The phone was picked up on the first ring. As if someone were waiting for it.
A familiar, gravelly voice answered. “Hey, Bernie. You heading out now?”
I gaped at the phone and then at my brother.
“Bernie? Are you there?”
Rocco’s jaw tightened and he dropped the cell in his pocket.
“Go see Uncle Joey. I wanna know what the hell he’s gotten himself into this time.”
***
Jackson hustled Inga and me to his car and hauled us home before Captain Bob blazed in with his posse.
Beau met us at the door. Cleo had ditched the couch. I followed a trail of popcorn to the guest room where she snored softly. Inga took care of the popcorn; I picked up the empty wine bottle and dropped it in the recycling bin.
I needed a long hot shower with absurd quantities of antiseptic soap. I’d been sprawled out on a corpse. I had dead guy germs on me. I scrubbed vigorously until my skin was pink. I dressed in a pullover lavender sweater with a pair of Levi’s, blow-dried and finger-combed my hair. I told Inga to stay with Beau and was walking out the door when my cell phone played “Just Breathe” by Pearl Jam.
It was Chance.
I wrestled my bag for the phone. “Hey.”
“Babe,” Chance said. “My mom called. They’re flying in Tuesday. They want to have dinner with us.”
“Us? As in you and me?”
“Yes.”
Whew.
“And your parents, of course. Oh, and your mama’s bringing Father Timothy.”
“Of course she is.”
“Your mom’s making the reservations.”
I groaned.
Chance is an only child. God help me. Since we started dating, his mom’s been on a mission to meet me and my interfering, dysfunctional family.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my family and I wouldn’t trade them for a bunch of people who don’t make me crazy. However, Chance’s parents are ex-hippies. They’re anti-gun, tree-hugging vegans. Which is great. My parents however, are hippie-hating, gun-toting, carnivores. I may not be psychic but even I can see this huge freaking train wreck headed for Bridgeport.
I had sworn our parents would never meet. I’d been successful avoiding their trips to Chicago, until now. Last month, a near-disastrous meeting between the parents was diverted when Mr. Savino was hospitalized with a rather terrifying burst appendix. It renewed my faith in God.
I coughed and choked a bit.
“Cat, what’s wrong?”
“Sick,” I croaked in a hoarse whisper. “Dying here.”
“I suppose you’re contagious,” he said dryly.
“God yes. Call your parents. They shouldn’t be here.”
“You don’t know my mother. She’ll come to the hospital.”
“I’m in quarantine.”
“She’ll wear a mask.”
“Dammit.”
“You can’t get out of this, babe. It’s happening. My parents and your parents are meeting.”
“Fine,” I snapped recovering my voice.
“Love you, babe.”
“Yeah, whatever. Maybe somebody will lose another body part.”
He laughed. “I’m almost finished here. I’ll bring Thai food if you’re hungry.”
“I am hungry,” I admitted. “I tossed my cookies in the park. Inga and I were running. I fell on a dead guy. With no face.”
“My god, DeLucky. Are you OK?”
“I’m fine.”
“Who was the vic? Have they identified him?”
“Well, there’s a teensy bit of a problem with that. The body kind of disappeared.”
“Kind of? What happened to it?”
I jammed my hand deep in my bag, found my Dr. Pepper Lip Smacker and smeared my lips.
“Body snatchers. But we have a likely identification on the vic. A guy named Bernard Love. He goes by Bernie.”
“Uh huh.”
“Uncle Joey knows the guy. I’m heading over there now to talk to him.”
“Would you like me to come with you?”
“I’ll probably be late.” I said quickly. “And besides, you have court in the morning.”
There were too many questions about the envelope marked for Uncle Joey in Bernie Love’s pocket. The last thing I needed at this point was to involve the FBI, even if he was my boyfriend.
“You can trust me, DeLucky. What are you holding back?”
“Me? Hold back?”
“I’m a trained agent. And I know you. You’re voice does the slightest lilt when you lie. You’re digging for your Dr. Pepper Lip Smacker, aren’t you?”
It’s true. Smacker is my tell. I slather it on my lips whenever I lie.
“Nope,” I said double smacking my mouth.
He gave up. “Okay, babe. Be careful. And call me if you change your mind.”
“I’ll tell you everything tomorrow.”
I crossed my fingers just in case.
Chapter Eight
I stepped onto the porch and locked the door behind me. Next door, a curtain moved and Mrs. Pickins’ binoculars follow me to my car. I waved to the neighborhood snoop, slipped into the Silver Bullet, and headed to Uncle Joey’s.
Joey’s house is bigger and badder
than you might expect for a public servant. You could say the same about his Ferrari. To my knowledge, Joey has never won the lottery. But when other people make that assumption, I don’t correct them.
I like to think my uncle is a complex person with amazing entrepreneurial skills. He sees the world differently than most people. Moral norms are fuzzy, gray areas to Joey. This can be a problem in law enforcement.
I’m not saying my uncle’s a dirty cop. And I’m not saying he wouldn’t fix a parking ticket. Or make evidence disappear. Uncle Joey has friends in low places. I don’t ask him about them. He doesn’t bring his business home with him. Just their money.
It was a little after nine when I pulled up to Joey’s. Sunday is poker night for my uncle, and girls’ night out for Aunt Linda. Linda’s Mustang was gone, and my uncle’s poker buddies had crammed their cars in the circular driveway. Except Tino.
Tino runs the best deli in south Chicago. He makes Inga’s sausages and just about everything in my refrigerator that doesn’t come from Mama. He has a secret past. I’m pretty sure he was a government spy in his former life. I don’t know if he has enemies or if old habits die hard, but he keeps an eye peeled over his shoulder. And he parks his bulletproof Buick on the street, tires turned out for a rubber-burning escape.
I cut the engine and stomped toward the front door. A dark form jumped from the shadows and I gave a bloodcurdling scream. He stepped into the light and shot an impish grin.
I swallowed my heart back into my chest. “Do you have a death wish, Doug?”
Doug Schuchard is a self-absorbed forty-something man with a round face, soft body, and the emotional maturity of an adolescent. Doug’s an ex-cop. He worked some cases with Joey before ditching the force for a position as union treasurer. Sometimes they still hang out.
Doug’s eyes raked me over, looking me up and down. He pinched his fingers. “Va va voom.”
I smacked his arm as the front door ripped open and four guys brandishing guns fought each other to get out the door first. The youngest and unquestionably hottest guy with the biggest gun won the push-fest. He rocketed off the porch and wrestled Doug to the ground.
Max is ex-Special Forces. He’s six delicious feet of hard muscle and hotness. He played my bodyguard last spring when my life got a little crazy.
