Bye, Bye Love

by K. J. Larsen

  I squinted and studied the photo. “I’ve never seen that woman before in my life.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose between his eyes. “Look again at the pink hair. She bears a remarkable resemblance to the photo on Cleo Jones’ driver’s license. Do you remember her? The car you’re driving is registered to Ms. Jones.”

  I stared at the photo again, scrunching my nose uncertainly.

  His voice was ice. “Should I instruct my driver to escort the woman cowering in the car to join us. Maybe then we’ll see if it helps jog your memory.”

  I caught my breath in mock surprise. “My god, that’s Cleo Jones. I can see the pink tips now. I didn’t recognize her at first from that angle. Thankfully, I hadn’t looked up her skirt before.”

  He clamped his mouth into a tight line.

  “And I’m sorry I’ve seen it now. That scarlet red thong is disturbing. I can only hope there weren’t children in the yard.”

  “The guards were disturbed as well. My men won’t make the same mistake again. Intruders are a serious threat to my family. They will be shot.”

  “In the face like Bernie?”

  A flicker of pain crossed his face and then it was gone. “Do you understand?”

  “Okay then. Thanks for the heads up. And now if you’ll have your driver move out of my way.”

  “Just one thing more.”

  I tapped my foot. “What?”

  He looked me in the eye. “Bernie knew a Joey DeLuca. Is he your father?”

  “Uncle.” I stomped back toward the Camry. Cleo’s pink tipped spiked hair poked above dash.

  “Tell me, Caterina,” he called after me. “How does a public servant like Joey afford a new Ferrari?”

  I answered without looking back. “You should know, Mr. Provenza. You had the same bookkeeper.”

  I waved to the glaring suits who had smashed Cleo’s bumper and slid behind the wheel.

  Cleo whispered from the floor. “What did Provenza say? Did he mention me at all?”

  “He did mention something about shooting you next time he saw you.”

  She shuddered. “Oh god. Did you tell him I’m on his side? Does he know I think he’s innocent?”

  “That’s our secret, Cleo. I didn’t want him to think you’re a complete dumb ass.”

  I cranked the engine and we rounded the block in a three-car parade. Provenza and his suits made a left turn on East 63rd, continuing on toward Bridgeport. I made a right and retraced the route to the cemetery. I picked up speed and Cleo began a tentative, wide-eyed climb back up to her seat.

  “Are they gone?” she whispered.

  “Nope.” I pushed her head down again.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Beneath a blue Chicago sky, Cleo and I stood over the bones of Andrew Michael Love. We didn’t have much trouble figuring out whose ghost Nicky Provenza had visited earlier. Several graves had fresh flowers. But only one included a brilliant spray of blue irises.

  “Andrew Michael Love,” I read. “Beloved Husband, Father, Friend.” I did the math. He was forty-four when he died.

  “Who the hell is Andrew Love,” Cleo demanded.

  “It’s gotta be Bernie’s dad. He was the Provenza family chauffer when Nicky was growing up.”

  “Ah, yes. Candy Andy,” she said airily.

  Cleo spent twenty minutes with the cook and suddenly she’s an expert on all things Provenza.

  “Candy Andy?”

  Cleo tossed her head back. “That’s what the kids called Bernie’s dad. Andy kept a few lollypops or tootsie rolls in his pocket for the kids. They were crazy about him.”

  “I bet.”

  “Gabby—that’s the cook—”

  “I knew that.”

  “Gabby says the Provenza kids saw more of Andy than their own dad. He drove the kids to school and gymnastics and soccer practice. He went to their games on his days off.”

  I wondered about Andy’s son, Bernie, and how much time he had with his papa.

  “Nicky took Andy’s death hard,” she said. “Andy was helping him put his first car together when he suffered a heart attack.”

  I thought about that. Nick Provenza had a close bond with the family chauffer while growing up. He was still visiting his grave after all these years.

  Cleo waggled a finger at the gravestone and threw me a broad, triumphant smile. “And there, Cat DeLuca, is your proof. Nicky Provenza didn’t kill his bookkeeper. He couldn’t have.”

  “What proof?”

  “The flowers are the proof. Nick couldn’t possibly have done the dirty deed. If he had, he wouldn’t have come here.”

  “I’m not feeling it.”

  She exaggerated a sigh like I was dense. “Hello! Nobody kills a man’s son and brings flowers. Why would he do that? It’s like sayin’, Hey, Andy! I got you some company.”

  “That’s your proof? He brought flowers?”

  “No jury would convict him.”

  “You’re delirious. Maybe the flowers are saying, Sorry, Andy. I hope you recognize your son without a face.”

  “Not even close. Here’s what happened. Rocco and Jackson go to Tapas Spoon and tell Nick that Bernie pegged out. Nick’s shattered. He’s overcome with grief.”

  “Really? Cuz he wasn’t all choked up when he ambushed us. Mostly he was pissed at his guards for not shooting you.”

  She swallowed hard. “He had to be out of his mind with grief.”

  “You are going with that. Whatever.”

  She popped a piece of bubblegum in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “Nicky needed to say goodbye. He stopped at the florist and bought flowers for Bernie. He threw in a few tootsie rolls for Candy Andy and drives to the cemetery.”

  I peered closely at the bouquet and spied the Tootsie rolls stuffed inside. Nice touch.

  “A totally insane theory. Why would Nick put flowers for Bernie on his father’s grave?”

  Cleo threw me a look like I was the crazy one. “Because Nick figures Bernie’s right here hanging out with his dad. And that’s precisely why these flowers prove Nick Provenza is innocent.”

  She zipped out her camera phone and captured the image. Presumably for Nick’s defense. I was at a loss for words.

  “Bernie’s still here if you want to say something to him,” she said.

  “Oh, I do.”

  “Go ahead. What do you want to say?”

  I cleared my throat and spoke into the flowers. “You’re a dumb ass, Cleo.”

  ***

  We drove across Chicago in search of Rolex Man’s apartment. A smoking hot FBI agent had e-mailed me an address and I retrieved it from my smartphone.

  According to the Illinois Department of Corrections, Tony Smoak lived in an apartment a few blocks off Foster Avenue in the Albany Park neighborhood. Cleo punched the address in her GPS and found a hideous red wig in her trunk for me to wear. The cherry red hair concealed some of my face and Cleo was confident Toby wouldn’t recognize me. I said she’d have to leave her guns in the car. I suspected she wanted to get close enough to Toby to shoot him.

  I was familiar with Albany Park. A few months ago I had a case at North Park College and Max invited himself to tag along. Mostly because his favorite restaurant is across the street from the college. Tre Kronor boasts some of Chicago’s best Swedish fare. We brought dinner home every night and washed it down with Carlsberg beer and Aquavit. Max is a good Dane. A Scandinavian diet, rich in cream and butter, adds muscle mass to Max’s gorgeous hotness. I, however, after a week in culinary Valhalla, had to shake five pounds of princesstarta off my ass.

  The Magellan directed us to the address the Illinois Department of Corrections provided for Toby Smoak. Cleo drove until the mechanical female voice said You have arrived. We got out of the car and looked around.

  I peer
ed over the bridge. “There it is. Toby’s Smoak lives smack in the middle of the Chicago river.”

  Cleo hissed. “I hate this guy. Maybe he’ll drown.”

  “The river’s not deep enough.”

  “It is if I hold his head down.” She popped a big piece of bubblegum in her mouth. “You’d think the Department of Corrections could get his address right. Aren’t they supposed to send a parole officer over?”

  “Maybe they’re ignoring him, hoping he was rehabilitated.”

  “What did he do anyway?”

  “He broke legs. He was a loan enforcer until he broke the legs of a guy whose uncle was a judge.”

  Cleo grinned. “Maybe he was rehabilitated. He didn’t break Bernie’s legs.”

  My phone blared the James Bond theme and I flipped the lid.

  “Hey, Tino,” I said.

  “Caterina. How’s it going?”

  “Not great. Unless he’s a river rat, our lead on Toby Smoak was a bust.”

  “I might have something for you. I asked Ronnie to locate Toby Smoaks. He doesn’t have a home address yet but he will.”

  “You rock, Tino.”

  Ronnie is Tino’s go-to guy. I don’t know what his business is called and I doubt you’d find it in the yellow pages. Ronnie does investigations for the ex-spy. He has a quiet, steady demeanor and a knack for making troubles disappear by the sheer charm of brute strength.

  “Ronnie says Smoak hangs out at the Whiskey Run on the Lower West Side. You might find him there.”

  “I’ve seen the place. It’s a biker bar,” I said. “Tough crowd.”

  “Not as tough as we are,” Cleo blabbed into the phone.

  I stared at her.

  “I’ll call Max and have him meet you there,” Tino said.

  Cleo blew a hot pink bubble. “Cat doesn’t need Max. She has me. I’m her partner, her back up, and her extra muscle.”

  “Lies, lies, so many lies.” I shook my head.

  Tino grunted. “Don’t do anything stupid, Cat. If you see Smoak, don’t try to bring him in. Just call me.”

  “Gotcha,” I said.

  “Like that’s gonna happen,” Cleo mouthed.

  “I heard that,” Tino said.

  She laughed. “What are you, spy man. A freakin’ wizard?”

  I punched her arm.

  “Ouch!”

  “Cleo’s just messing around, Tino, we’ll call.”

  “She’s a goddam loose cannon. She’s gonna get you seriously hurt, or worse, if you don’t get your assistant under control,” he said grumpily and disconnected.

  “Assistant! Hah!” Cleo loosened two shirt buttons and hiked up her pencil skirt right there on the street. Then she gave me a critical once over.

  I was wearing my J Brand Skinny Jeans, boots, and a low scoop-neck pullover exposing a creamy silk camisole beneath my sweater.

  “Lose the pullover,” she said, all bossy like she’s the fashion police. “We’re goin’ to a bad-ass biker bar.”

  “I like this sweater, and it’s cold out.”

  She made a lemon-sucking face. “My sister, the nun, has that sweater. It’s boring.”

  “Jennifer Anniston wore this sweater on The View.”

  “She wasn’t in a biker bar. The jeans and that sexy under-thing you’re wearing scream biker bitch.”

  Walking into a biker bar in my underwear wasn’t my idea of a good time. But it was, in the grand scheme of things, small stuff and not worth a fracas over. With Cleo, you learn to choose your battles.

  “OK,” I relented. “I’ll wrap my sweater around my shoulders if you leave your arsenal in the car.”

  “Dammit.”

  I tugged off my sweater and gave a little shiver. Cleo adjusted my camisole and drew a slow whistle. “Now, you look like my sister the ho.”

  “Oh, yay.” I clapped my hands.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A dozen bikes were corralled outside the Whiskey Run when we pulled up to the bar.

  “Next time I’ll borrow my neighbor’s Harley.” Cleo said. “We’ll wear leather and get those little bugs in our teeth.”

  “You really know how to show a girl a good time.”

  She grinned. “You can ride bitch.”

  “I didn’t know you rode.”

  She shrugged. “How hard can it be?”

  Cleo led the way. I have to say the woman knows how to make an entrance. She paused in the doorway and her eyes devoured the room. She made a yummy noise in her throat.

  “Mmm. Sausage fest.”

  The bar smelled of booze, cigarettes, and leather. I checked out the sausage and didn’t see a lot of yummy. The other thing I didn’t see was Toby Smoak. But it was early yet and a man’s gotta make a living. So many faces to shoot, so little time.

  We sat at the bar and Cleo loosened yet another button on her shirt. The woman’s got some double whammy sweater stretchers. If she leaned forward, the girls would almost certainly make a break for it.

  The bartender slapped down a couple coasters. He was pushing fifty and his remaining hair was banded in a ponytail. I guessed his missing front teeth had kissed the floor in a bar fight. He grinned at Cleo’s chest and the girls perked up and winked back. Cleo doesn’t share a lot of genes with her sister the nun.

  “What’s your pleasure, ladies,” he said.

  Cleo put her elbows on the bar and leaned forward.

  “Down,” I murmured to the girls.

  “We’ll start with two blue motorcycles,” Cleo said all sultry.

  He nodded to the girls and walked away. I smacked her with an elbow.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Don’t be daft. If Toby’s a regular, this guy knows him. I’m feeling him out, reeling him in.”

  “Get a room. And what’s a blue motorcycle? Who drinks that?”

  “Biker babes.”

  “And you know this, how?”

  “Remember the salesman from Toledo who helped me get over Walter? He rode a chopper. He knows all about us biker chicks.” She smiled wickedly. “Wanna know what else he taught me?”

  “No! And I’m not riding on the back of your neighbor’s Harley.”

  “Bahk! Bahk!” She made little chicken noises.

  Here’s the thing. Cleo drives a car like a suicidal maniac. I make my peace with God every time she’s behind the wheel. And that’s with three thousand pounds of steel around me and a seatbelt. But I refuse to make my peace with God on the back of a motorcycle. It’s a conversation I’d rather not have with the big guy face to face.

  The bartender plunked our drinks on the bar, eyes all over Cleo. “Wanna run a tab?”

  I slapped a Jackson on the table. “No thanks.”

  Surveillance is a drink and dash business. I learned a long time ago to pay as I go or keep my money on the table. You never know when you might have to shoot off the barstool and hit the floor running.

  There were only a few other women in the bar and one was serving drinks. The barmaid was crowding fifty and her body was a tribute to piercings and body art. Her arms were tattooed with skulls and crossbones and words like Die Trying and Road Warrior. A full color likeness of herself on a Harley Davidson was tattooed across her back. She was a large woman with an easy smile and a lot of canvas to work with. She screamed drink orders from across the room and picked them up at the bar.

  I’m not a big fan of blue food coloring but the drink was tasty. It was, however, a little strong on a day I intended to stuff an apple in Toby’s mouth and drag him into Captain Bob’s office. I shoved my blue drink over to Cleo and ordered a Perone instead.

  The bartender brought me a Budweiser and a bowl of pretzels.

  “We ain’t got no Perone beer here,” he said.

  “What else do you have?”
<
br />   “Budweiser.”

  “Perfect.”

  The barmaid collapsed on a stool beside me. She kicked off her shoes and rubbed her feet.

  “Hardwood floors are a bitch on the trotters.”

  Cleo made a sympathetic clucking sound. She was still channeling a chicken.

  “I waitressed in a titty bar and all I got was bad tips and aching feet.” Cleo gave a self-deprecating smile. “And a no-good husband. He broke my heart.”

  “Bastard.”

  “He’s dead now.”

  “Karma’s a bitch.”

  Cleo sighed. “All I got was a house, a Corvette, and a bunch of ill-gotten money.”

  “And they say money can’t buy happiness.”

  Cleo smiled. “They lie,”

  The bartender poured the woman a drink and she shot him a grateful smile. He called out to the sausages. “We’re giving Ellie a break, guys. Order your drinks at the bar.”

  “Nice place to work,” I said.

  “Wanna job?” Ellie said.

  A half dozen guys gathered around the bar to place their orders and check out the estrogen in the room. Cleo ate up the attention. She was clearly not raised with three brothers and a hundred boy cousins. They were invading my bubble. I wanted my nun-sweater back.

  Ellie tossed back her head and emptied her glass. “I haven’t seen you girls in here before. Unless you come in after my shift.”

  “We’ve been in a few times,” Cleo said breezily. “Cat got hammered last time we were here. Her boyfriend had just dumped her—”

  The guy drinking Jack Daniels breathed in my face. “Asshole. Want me to hurt him?”

  “Hurt Cleo,” I said.

  “This girl was a mess,” Cleo raved on. “I think we all know what she was looking for.”

  There was a sudden surge of testosterone in the room. I couldn’t breathe.

  Jack Daniels slung an arm around my shoulder. “Bartender! Bring this woman a double shot of Tennessee Honey.”

  I shook his arm off. “Please don’t.”