by K. J. Larsen
I laughed. “Papa’s wearing a white tuxedo and powder-blue shirt. Mama says he looks like an Italian Don Johnson.”
“You might as well get into it,” Jackson said. “I’m going as Al Pacino.”
“You don’t look at all like Pacino. I bet you don’t know very much about him.”
“I know he’s a tough guy. And he didn’t wear powder-blue pants.” Jackson grinned. “I can do Al Pacino.”
Mama had asked the guests to dress “retro eighties” for the wedding. There would be big hair and shoulder pads as far as the eye could see.
“Frankie’s gonna dress like Indiana Jones. Including the whip.” Cleo gave a little shiver of excitement.
“Damn,” Jackson said. “I see him more as Rain Man.”
Tino appeared with a bright smile and two steaming plates of chicken scallopini in a light tomato and wine sauce.
Rocco’s face lit up. “My favorite!” he said and shoved my linguini back to me.
I looked down at my plate. He’d saved the broccoli for me.
“Thank you. Lunch is on me,” Tino said.
“Wow,” Cleo said. “What did we do?”
“You’re getting justice for Bernie. He was one of the good guys.”
“We’re on it,” Jackson said, greedily digging in.
A server with long legs and red hair brought the guys Cokes and extra breadsticks. Jackson flashed his bleached smile with a spot of spinach in his teeth. She sashayed away and Jackson twisted around in his chair, craning his neck to check out her bootie.
“Smooth, Popeye,” I said.
“How’s the investigation coming?” Tino said.
“We’re waiting on the blood analysis from the crime scene,” Jackson said. “It’ll be several days. Forensics is backed up.”
We got a hit on the stolen city parks van Cat saw last night,” Rocco said. “The port authority called it in. It had been abandoned on South Ewing near Calumet Harbor.”
My hopes of Bernie Love’s body turning up again took a long, wet dive.
“Forensics said the van was wiped clean,” Jackson said. “The back smelled like bleach.”
Tino snorted. “Sounds like Bernie’s swimming with the fishes.”
“Bye bye, Love,” Cleo said.
I looked at Tino. “You might want your lunch money back. We’ll find Rolex. But unless he gives up Provenza and signs a confession, we got squat.”
Tino’s eyes hardened but his voice was soft. “Sometimes, the blind lady of justice needs a helping hand.”
Cleo chewed a corner of her mouth. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means the fish are still hungry,” I said. “And Provenza will make tasty bait.”
Jackson put up his hands. “I didn’t hear that.”
My brother did. But if there’s one thing you can say about the DeLucas, we know how to keep our big mouths shut.
“Uh, hello!” Cleo said. “Bernie’s boss didn’t do it.”
“You might be right,” Jackson grunted. “We interviewed Provenza at his restaurant, the Tapas Spoon, this morning. When we told him we believe Bernie is dead, he totally lost it.”
Rocco nodded. “I gotta agree. I’ve been doing this a long time. Provenza seemed genuinely shocked.”
“Give him an Oscar,” I spat. “He’s a liar.”
Jackson shrugged. “Provenza has a solid alibi for last night. It was his wife’s birthday. She had a birthday party at Palermo’s. There were fifty guests that can vouch for his whereabouts.”
“All part of his plan,” I said.
“You’ll figure it out,” Tino said.
“We put an APB out on Bernie’s car. A Volvo late model sedan. It’s missing. Joey said the car was at the house Sunday afternoon.”
I switched gears a bit. “Did you guys find anything of interest at Bernie’s house? Like on his computer?”
Jackson shook his head incredulously. “You broke into Bernie’s?”
“I’m a hotshot detective. It’s what I do.”
“Did you miss the Do Not Cross police tape all over the door?”
“Um yeah. You might want to replace that,” I said. “Frankie claimed some one-legged woman made a mess of the tape.”
Rocco hid a smile. “The computer forensics has Bernie’s hard drive. I’ll let you know what the investigator learns.”
“Thanks, bro.”
Jackson said, “You know how it works Cat. It’s a two-way street. What do you have for us?”
“You can run some prints.” I opened my purse and dragged out the plastic baggie with last night’s lottery ticket. “This ticket was in the trash can in Bernie’s office.”
Jackson stuffed a bite in his mouth. “You never bought a losing lottery ticket?”
“Weekly,” Tino said.
“Here’s the thing,” I said. “The numbers were drawn after Bernie was killed.”
Rocco’s nodded slowly. “Someone was in Bernie’s house last night.”
I smiled, “We should know who that is.”
Jackson flashed a winning smile. “Nice work, Sherlock. And now we’d like that name you found in the mug book.”
“Good God. Is there anyone Booker doesn’t blab to?”
Tino disappeared to the kitchen laughing.
Cleo’s eyes bulged and she fairly danced in her chair. The woman cannot keep a secret. I half-expected her head to spin around and Rolex’s name spew from her mouth.
I resorted to sign language. I looked at Cleo hard, locked my lips, and threw away the key. She booted me a good one under the table. I kicked her back.
Jackson’s radio crackled and the dispatcher’s nasally voice announced a 10-14 in progress a few blocks away on Aberdeen.
I was momentarily saved. A big goofy grin hijacked my face. Sometimes a burglary can be downright cheery.
“We gotta jam.” Jackson grabbed the end of the breadsticks and flagged the leggy redhead to pack up their meals.
He tossed a generous tip on the table. “We’ll be back for these. I’d like extra breadsticks and your phone number in mine.”
She scooted away giggling.
“Does that ever work?” I asked.
“You’d be surprised,” Rocco said. “Women are into Jackson, until they get to know him.”
His partner stabbed his heart with his fist.
“Be careful out there,” I said. “Go and save the world.”
Rocco pushed away from the table and whispered in my ear. “This isn’t over, Sister. I need that name.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Chapter Fourteen
Cleo parked across the street from the Tapas Spoon where Rocco and Jackson had interviewed Bernie’s boss earlier that morning. Provenza must have put on a good show to bamboozle the boys. It would take more than a few crocodile tears to convince me otherwise.
Cleo pushed her car seat back and filed her nails. “We’re wastin’ time, girlfriend. Provenza’s not our guy.”
“And you say this because—”
“I was at his house. I got the facts from Gabbie.”
“Gabbie’s the wife?”
“Sharon’s the wife. Gabbie’s the chef. You know what they say. The kitchen staff knows all the gossip.”
“Nobody says that.”
‘I’m pretty sure they do. Gabbie’s been with the family twenty years. She never wants to leave.”
“Maybe that’s because she doesn’t want to get shot in the face.”
“You’re a comedian.”
“How did you get inside the kitchen anyway?”
“I wore a boxy red singing telegram hat and carried a big box of chocolates. I told the guy at the gate it was National Staff week and I had a delivery and song for the employees from Mr. Provenza.”
“He confiscated the chocolates at the gate, didn’t he?”
She nodded bitterly. “I hope he gets acne. He didn’t even want to hear the song.”
“You climbed the fence.”
“Sort of. It’s kind of a long story. I don’t want to bore you with the details.”
“Well, did anyone see you?”
“Just Gabbie. But she stopped screaming when I showed her my gun. We’re good now.”
Geesh.
“Anyway, Gabbie says Bernie was a frequent dinner guest at the Provenzas. And he spent Christmas and Thanksgiving with them. He took the boys on photo shoots at Lincoln Park Bird Sanctuary.”
“What’s your point, Sherlock?”
“The kids call him Uncle Bernie. Nick couldn’t have whacked him. He was family, for godsake.”
“This coming from a woman who chased her husband down with a shotgun.”
The restaurant door opened and Provenza stepped outside hugging a phone to his ear. He was followed by a muscle guy with car keys who beeped a buttery yellow Lexus sedan and opened the back door for his boss. The driver slid behind the wheel and merged into traffic. Cleo kicked the Camry in gear and we followed them.
He made a stop at Marty’s Steakhouse on West Kinzie. The restaurant was on the list of Provenza’s businesses Chance e-mailed earlier. The beefy driver parked at a fire hydrant and Provenza went inside. The driver wore a dark suit and dark shades. He was like the Men In Black. He smoked Camels without a filter and ground the little butts on the curb before tossing them in the street. A Traffic Management guy came by and began scribbling in his little book. The driver jammed a beefy hand deep in his pocket and extracted something so amazing, both the ticket and the traffic cop disappeared. My Uncle Joey is magical too. He makes all my tickets vanish and my hand doesn’t touch my pocket.
I did a quick google search. Marty’s Steakhouse got five stars on the Hot List in Chicago Magazine. The website boasts a photo of a grinning Provenza beside Mark Wahlberg and the cast from Transformers 4. Customer comments confirm Marty’s has a loyal fan base. I wondered where they’ll get their beef when Provenza takes his meals in Joliet.
Cleo filed the nails on both hands and was slipping off a shoe when Provenza exited the restaurant and climbed into the backseat.
We were on the road again.
Our next stop was Leo’s Metropolitan Florist. There wasn’t a parking spot or fire hydrant in front of this place. The ever resourceful driver let Provenza out in front of the florist, walked to the front of the car, and lifted the hood. Traffic slowed to a crawl as cars made their way around the Lexus blocking the lane.
“Seriously?” I said. “He can’t drive around the block?”
“I like this guy,” Cleo said with unabashed admiration.
A passing truck offered a tow but the man in black shouted, “Help is on the way!” and waved him on. Provenza returned with a big bouquet of blue iris, white traditional daisies, and yellow lilies. The driver dropped the hood and opened the door for him
“Now we see who the flowers are for,” I said.
“I bet they’re for a lover. Sexy secretary? Unscrupulous maid?” Cleo grinned. “It’s employee appreciation day, you know.”
“Only in your universe. It could be an employee, but probably not a lover. The bouquet is bright with bold colors but there’s nothing soft going on. It’s not whimsical or romantic. No yin, all yang.”
Cleo nodded. “There aren’t any roses. Roses scream sex.”
Cleo skillfully tailed the creamy yellow Lexus across Chicagoland, keeping a buffer of three or four cars between us. I had to give her credit. Surveillance is a challenge for Cleo. God knows she’s sneaky enough. But she lacks the subtlety gene. Her preferred approach would be to rear end Provenza’s car and demand a conversation.
Provenza’s driver turned off East 67th street and drove through the Oak Woods Cemetery gates and followed the narrow winding road.
“Keep driving,” I said. Cleo breezed past the entrance, made a U-ey when she could and found a place to pull off the road with a good view of the cemetery. Provenza walked away from the car, flowers in hand. He climbed up a knoll and we lost him after that. His driver stood outside the car, fishing in his pocket for a smoke.
I didn’t know who Provenza was visiting, but it was a twenty-minute chat. He returned to the car, and it was another twenty before the Lexus rolled out the gate.
I took the wheel while Cleo texted Frankie, and sucked on a bag of M&Ms. The Lexus drove north on Minerva avenue, passed by the Flying Squirrel Park on Marquette and made a surprising right turn on to a residential side street. I slowed the Camry to a crawl and a chill ran down my spine.
Something wasn’t right. It’s not that six figure cars can’t drive down streets where people might struggle to make ends meet. It’s just that they don’t.
Cleo’s furious fingers stopped texting and she glanced up at the road. “Where’d they go? You’re letting them get away.”
“I have a bad feeling about this.”
“Buck up and drive already. We’re losing them.”
A car honked behind me and I checked my rear view mirror. Two suits gave me the finger. I was holding up traffic.
Cleo hung out her window. “Douche-bags!”
I negotiated the turn and Cleo gave a startled gasp. My stomach clenched tight.
The Lexus was parked halfway down the block in the middle of the narrow street. Outside the car, leaning against the trunk, was Nicolas Provenza. He was spinning a yo-yo.
Our eyes locked. His shot daggers.
“Abort! Abort!” Cleo shrieked.
I stomped the brake and threw the car into reverse. I waved a frantic hand to the suits behind me.
“Go back!”
The driver bared his teeth in a mirthless grin and nudged forward.
“Holy crap,” I said.
“Ambush!” Cleo screeched and hit the floor. Her body doesn’t fold well. Her knees were on the floor but the pink tips of her hair poked up over the dash.
I tugged at her sleeve. “Pull up your big girl panties, Cleo, and sit in your seat.”
She smacked me. “No! He’s probably after me. Uh, you might want to say I went on a really long vacation. I know you’ll think of something. Go with your gut. Your gut is good.”
I smacked her back. “You wanna tell me what happened at Provenza’s house that might have slipped your mind earlier?”
“Nothing, really.”
“Really?”
“It was just a minor misunderstanding really. You know, some people got no sense of humor.”
“Yeah. You want to go tell it to the guy with the yo yo? Or should I?”
The Camry gave a vicious jolt as the car behind us rammed our bumper.
“That jerk dented my car!” Cleo said savagely.
“Well I would suggest you stop kissing that carpet over there, and go get his insurance information.”
Chapter Fifteen
Cleo cursed under her breath. I threw the Camry in drive, and crept toward a cold-blooded murderer. I didn’t get this guy. Uncle Joey said Bernie was honest and fiercely loyal. The cook claimed he was a family friend. I mean, how horrible can a guy who’s crazy about birds possibly be?
Perhaps I should’ve been scared or at least embarrassed that I, super sleuth and stalker, had been busted on a tail. I wasn’t. I was too mad at myself for making this stupid turn. And for waiting outside the cemetery while Provenza sat in his car and got his soldiers in place.
I locked eyes on the dark daggers and shot a few back of my own.
“Go ahead,” I muttered. “Make my day.”
“You tell em, girl,” Cleo cheered me on from the floor.
I edged the Camry forward and braked maybe twenty feet from the Lexus. Climbing out of the car, I squared my shou
lders and counted ten steps. Provenza pocketed the yo-yo and signaled his driver to wait in the car. He met me halfway.
He was stocky and barrel-chested and the sun reflected off his bald head like glass. His hands clenched and unclenched.
“Your big fat car is blocking the street,” I said.
“You’re following me.”
He had me there. I shrugged.
“It’s a bad idea.”
I made a scoffing sound. “Killing people is a bad idea. Stalking is,” I searched for a word, “annoying at best.”
His eyebrows arched and then dropped to a flat line. He was looking for signs of cray cray. He made a quick assessment.
“You’re insane,” he said.
I slapped a card in his hand.
“Pants on Fire Detective Agency. We catch liars and cheats.”
He paused and choked. “My wife sent you?”
“Not yet.” I made a mental note to send her a business card. “We also catch murderers.”
He looked at the card again. “It doesn’t say that.”
“It’s implied. Mr. Provenza, we’re investigating the death of your bookkeeper, Bernie Love. I’m working closely with the Ninth Precinct.”
“Right,” he said super sneery like.
“And my fully qualified staff.”
That would be Cleo, cowering on the floor mat. And Inga, who doubles as a beagle.
“I’ll need to verify this collaboration with Bob. Er, Captain Maxfield.”
Just my luck. “You and Bobby are friends.”
“Golf buddies.”
He produced a cell phone and scrolled down with his finger. I was busted. There weren’t enough lemon crèmes in Bridgeport to save me from Captain Bob’s impending nuclear meltdown.
Nick found Bob’s number and his finger was poised to Send when he paused thoughtfully and looked me in the eye.
“A member of my security team sent me a photo. I intended to ask Bob to look at it. It occurs to me that you may be the one to help me with the identification.”
The smile didn’t reach his chilling eyes. His finger scanned the screen until he found what he was looking for. Then he shoved it in my face.
I gaped. The woman was Cleo. She was escaping back over the fence that surrounds the Provenza estate. Somehow she’d neglected to mention that she was chased off the property. A guard’s hairy hand grappled at her skirt as she hurled herself over the fence.
