by K. J. Larsen
“Make that two,” Cleo said.
Some guy gave a course laugh. “I got her honey right here.”
“I don’t think so. I seen yours. It ain’t no double,” somebody snickered.
“I’ll kill her,” I said.
The bartender ogled Cleo’s chest. “There’s no shame in a woman admitting she has needs.”
“Damn straight,” she cooed. Blink blink.
I willed myself to not go for her throat. “You’re fired,” I said. “Just throwin’ it out there.”
Ellie patted my knee. “You’re among friends here. We don’t judge.”
Cleo laughed giddily. “There was a guy Cat liked the last time we were here.”
“What was his name?”
I butted in before she blabbed that we had sex in the bathroom. “He left before I could talk to him.” I looked thoughtful and bit a pretzel. “I think people called him, uh, was it Coby? Or Cody?
The bartender shook his head. “Not here.”
I twirled a finger in the red wig. “Uh, maybe it was Stokes.”
“Nope.”
“Or, could it be, uh, Toby?”
Ellie clapped her hands. “That’s it! Toby Smoak!”
“Goddam lucky dog,” Jack Daniels grumbled.
The bar door opened and the bartender whistled. “Speak of the devil, ladies.”
The sea of testosterone parted. I spun the barstool around and stared across the room into cold, dead eyes. His gaze locked mine and his mouth curled. An icy chill pierced through me. Toby Smoak was almost certainly the creepiest guy I’d ever encountered.
Ellie called out, “Hey, Tob. There’s a lady here to see you.”
“Lucky bastard,” somebody laughed.
“Cat DeLuca,” Smoak said and his growl was low and menacing. “You’re one dumb ass crazy bitch, to show up here.”
I couldn’t have been more stunned if he slapped me. How did this psychopath know my name?
“Not cool,” the bartender said. “Ain’t no way to talk to a lady.”
“She’s no lady,” Smoak snarled. “She’s working with the cops.”
“Bitch!” Ellie screamed.
Jack Daniels looked crushed. “It was a lie?”
“Not all of it,” Cleo said. “Cat really is a lush.”
Jack Daniels beamed at me.
I slid off the stool and stood there, legs slightly apart, looking fierce. I faced the guy who tased me in the park. I wanted to bring him to his knees with a stun gun. But instead I said, “I’m taking you in, Toby Smoak, for the murder of Bernie Love.”
“She’s insane,” Toby said.
I shrugged. “Captain Bob won’t argue with you.”
Toby pivoted and darted out the door. I tore after him. Three men with cue sticks beat me to the door. They blocked my way.
A bike fired up outside and Toby Smoak made his escape. He was in the wind.
“Are you a goddam cop?” one of them asked.
“No.”
“She’s a liar!” Ellie shrieked behind me.
Something struck the back of my head and my legs jello-ed. I crumbled to the ground and looked up. Ellie was holding a serving platter and my red wig.
I sat on my bum and cradled my head. “Dammit, Ellie, you said you didn’t judge.”
“What did Toby ever do to you?” she spat.
“He kicked her dog,” Cleo said.
Ellie sniffed. “Toby doesn’t need this right now. He lost his wife a few weeks back. She up and disappeared. No one can find her.”
“Try digging up his back yard.”
The door police returned to their game. Jack Daniels sauntered over from the bar and handed me the double shot of Tennessee Honey he’d ordered.
“If you ever get over Stokes, sweetheart, I’ll be here.”
I opened my mouth to say something and tossed the drink down my throat instead.
Cleo helped me to my feet. “Now aren’t you glad we didn’t bring Max. It would be downright embarrassing for him to see you like this.”
Chapter Eighteen
“That was a knee-slapper, what you said back there about firing me,” Cleo said when she dropped me off at my house.
“Yes it was.”
“I mean, you were kidding. Right?”
“Was I?”
She chuckled.
I threw her my mean look. “You said I was a jilted lover on the prowl, hanging out in a biker dive, desperate to get laid.”
“And this offended you, how?”
I threw the hideous wig at her.
“It was off the cuff. I improvised.’
“If you kept your mouth shut, we would’ve had Smoak when he walked through the door. We could’ve trailed him home and I would’ve drug his tased ass to Captain Bob’s office.”
She shook her head. “Not happenin’. Your cover was blown, girlfriend. Maybe it’s your green eyes. I dunno but he made you. Red hair and all.”
I glared at her. “My cover was blown because he knew my name.”
“Well, he’s on to you, girlfriend. Since he knows your name. He probably knows where you live.”
“Provenza told him.”
She snorted. “Provenza isn’t our guy. He doesn’t know Smoak.”
It was my turn to snort.
Cleo gave me her best bitch stare. “That asshole is comin’ for you,” she said ominously. “You saw him in the park. He’s gotta shut you up.”
“Would you shut up.”
I closed my eyes and massaged my head. It had been petty and stupid of me to not let Rocco bring Smoak in. If Smoak was behind bars, he couldn’t fixate on the one person who can connect him to Bernie Love’s corpse.
I knew I had to call my brother. But not tonight. Today was Rocco and Maria’s youngest daughter’s birthday and they were taking the girls to Rodger’s and Hammerstein’s Cinderella—The Musical. If I told Rocco about Toby Smoak tonight, he’d be all over it. Preoccupied, making calls from the Palace Theater’s lobby. I thought of the birthdays Papa missed when I was growing up. It’s tough on a kid.
I dragged out my cell and Cleo frowned. “What are you doing?”
“It’s time to call Tino.”
She slapped the phone shut. “Forget Tino, girlfriend. I got mad skills.”
She whipped a rhinestone studded pistol from under her short skirt and spun it on her finger like a wild-west gangster.
“I’m a dead woman,” I said.
***
I waved to Cleo from the porch and inserted my key in the lock. It hadn’t been easy to convince her I wouldn’t need her gun slinging skills tonight. I’d be surrounded by law enforcement. At seven I was meeting a cop at a cop bar. And I fully intended be in a hot FBI agent’s very skilled hands all night.
Cleo finally agreed to go home and have dinner with Frankie. I stepped inside my house and breathed the deep soothing essence of lemon-oil and lavender. While I was away the blessed Merry Maids had done their magic. Everything sparkled. There were fresh flowers on the table and clean sheets on the bed. Rosie, the merriest maid of all, left a loaf of ginger pear bread on the kitchen counter she’d made especially for me. It’s the one thing I do to spoil myself. If my finances go south someday, I’ll ax new shoes, Jackalope Coffee, and White Sox season tickets before losing Rosie and her team of clean.
I showered and dressed in my favorite black lace fit-and-flare dress. Then I chilled a bottle of Italian white, placed scented candles around the house, and popped Savino’s favorite Eric Clapton CD in the player. I poked my head in a bag of goodies I purchased while following Cookie around the love store and selected a black lace chemise and a piña colada warming massage oil. Chance was coming over tonight and I wanted everything to be perfect.
I still had a little time befo
re meeting Tommy so I lit a fire and hunkered down with Chance’s file on Bernie’s boss. Provenza’s record was squeaky clean, without so much as a traffic ticket. Which didn’t necessarily mean he doesn’t speed. He could have a really cool uncle who makes his tickets go away.
There was a familiar rap at the door and Uncle Joey let himself in. He sniffed the air. “What’s for dinner? Linda went to Vegas to stay with her sister.”
“Is Kathy all right?”
“Maybe she has a sniffle. The other sisters have major surgery and Linda sends flowers. Kathy sneezes and my wife’s right there, wiping her nose in a casino.”
I laughed.
“Linda kicks ass at blackjack.” He sniffed the air again. “It smells like flowers in here. Seriously, what’s for dinner?”
I laughed. “How about Mickey’s. Tommy’s meeting us there at seven.”
He tapped his stomach. “Good. I’m starved.”
I drummed the stack of papers on my lap. “I asked Chance to dig up Provenza’s bio and financials. There aren’t any surprises yet, but it makes for interesting reading.”
Joey’s mouth twisted. “Does it say he blows people’s faces off?”
I smiled. “That detail was overlooked in the report. Here’s a Tribune article titled ‘Chicago’s New Philanthropists.’ Nick and Sharon Provenza are mentioned for their work with at risk youth.”
“Stop. You’re making me cry.”
I waved another page. “Nick went to Yale where his double major was in History and Philosophy. He might’ve been anticipating a career as a college professor or historian. I’m guessing running the family business wasn’t his big dream back then.”
Uncle Joey held my coat while I slipped it on. “Boo hoo. So daddy Provenza pressured him into taking over the family business.”
“Not necessarily. The career switch could’ve been his choice. But a degree in business or marketing would’ve served him better.”
“Do you have a point?”
“I’m guessing Nick Provenza is a liberal arts right-brained kind of guy. He gave Bernie categorical control over his books because he’s clueless with corporate finances. It’s over his head or maybe the math doesn’t interest him.”
“Bernie used to say his boss didn’t know where all his money was stashed. Bernie gave him a brief overview of the money situation from time to time but Nick wasn’t interested in the details. He trusted his bookkeeper a hundred percent. Bernie made his boss freaking rich. And he never stole a dime.”
“He was a class act.”
“Damn straight.”
“Joey, I get why Provenza didn’t want Bernie to retire. You can’t replace a guy like Bernie. What I don’t get, is why Provenza would off him. It doesn’t make sense.”
Joey shrugged. “He got paranoid and thought Bernie went to the other side.”
“What other side? Provenza isn’t on any FBI watch lists for criminal activity or rubbing elbows with the mob. He’s a successful business man who lies to the IRS and hides money in the Caymans. It’s a common practice among those in his income bracket.”
“Nick Provenza’s a snake. Wait ’til you meet him. He’ll—”
He stopped abruptly.
“What?”
“You talked to Provenza,” he said incredulously. “He schmoozed you over to his side.”
“Stop with the sides,” I laughed. “I was waiting until dinner to tell you about my day. I saw the guy but he wasn’t trying to win me over. He asked about you though. Said something about your Ferrari.”
“He knows I’m onto him,” Joey smirked with satisfaction.
He tossed his keys to me. “Let’s see watcha got,” he said.
I grinned like a kid in a candy store. Joey doesn’t usually surrender the wheel easily. DeLuca men have control issues.
Mickey’s is five minutes from home but I gunned the gas and took the twenty-minute scenic route. When I screeched up to Mickey’s, a parking spot opened in front of the bar and I whipped in without having to back up or adjust my wheels. My uncle couldn’t help himself. He was impressed.
“You can leave this baby with me when you and Linda go to Hawaii next month,” I said.
Joey barked a laugh. “I wouldn’t leave my keys with Joey Jr. In fact, he’s never driven this car.”
“That’s because he’s eighteen, a relatively inexperienced driver, and you have an obsessive, dysfunctional relationship with this car.”
“I let you drive it. Didn’t I?”
I smiled. “Because you want something. I’m waiting to find out what.”
Joey looked offended. “Can’t an uncle let his favorite niece take a spin in his Ferrari?
“Spill it.”
He shrugged. “I’m bringing down Provenza for killing Bernie.”
“You have a plan. And I’m in it.”
“Yes. But you have total deniability.”
I searched his face. His eyes were dark, brooding circles and I knew he hadn’t slept. He’d been blindsided by the death of a close friend. Grief and exhaustion can be a dangerous combination. Especially for a man like Joey who makes up the rules as he goes.
“We’re gonna get the guys who killed Bernie,” I said. “But we’re gonna do it right. If Provenza is our man—”
“He is.”
“Then we’ll get the evidence to convict him. You can arrest him and testify at the trial that Bernie feared his boss would kill him. Suffering the public humiliation of a murder rap and living with what he did to Bernie is the sweeter revenge.”
“What if the evidence is there but Provenza was too smart for us. I mean, the Prosecuting Attorney can’t touch him cuz he covered his tracks and alibied out.”
I kissed my uncle’s cheek. “Then we can talk about deniability.”
***
We pushed through Mickey’s heavy oak door and Joey gave a deep throated laugh. Standing on a table, his glass raised in a dramatic pose, was Doug Schuchard. His voice caught in his throat.
“Corey Corcino wouldn’t pay into the office football pool because he said he was the unluckiest guy in the world.”
“I guess he proved that when he fell out a window,” someone snickered.
“It was a freak accident,” a voice growled. “Corey was fiddling with the satellite dish outside his window when he fell.”
“He was a good kid,” somebody sniffed.
“Corey’s parents live in California,” Doug said. “His dad’s on disability and his mom has failing health. She was hospitalized for shock but she’s home now.”
Mickey held up a donation jar. “There’s a jar on the bar for donations to help the family with transporting and funeral expenses.”
Someone shouted from the back. “Give generously. Mickey has offered to match what we can squeeze in this jar.”
Mickey faked a growl. “And everybody drink up so I can pay for this.” He grabbed the jar off the bar and carried it around to the tables.
“Dig deep, men,” Joey called behind me. “The next round’s on me.”
“Make mine a double,” Doug called and clambered down from the table.
Mickey came by with the jar. I gave him a hug and dropped some money inside. A picture had been taped to the jar of Corey and his black German Shepherd. I didn’t know Corey but he had honest brown eyes and an easy smile. He looked like someone I would have liked to know. And he was a dog-person. Need I say more?
“Corey’s dog is gorgeous. Where is she now?”
“Dixie’s at the shelter. She’s a great girl. I’d take her in a heartbeat if my kid wasn’t allergic.”
“I bet she misses Corey.”
He nodded. “She went everywhere with him. They had something special.”
Joey, Booker, and Doug sat at a front window table and I joined them. The server brought a
few pitchers of Perone, an extra glass for Tommy, and double shots of Crown Royal. I kept my promise to Joey and ran down my day while Doug finished off shots. Doug got cheerier as I went along and totally cracked up when I told about Provenza’s ambush. When I got to the part about the tattooed biker bitch bonking me over the head, he almost lost it.
“Stop!” he gasped. “I’m laughing so hard I’m gonna piss my pants.”
“A blow to the head isn’t funny, asshole,” Booker said.
“I know. I know,” he gasped for air. “Not funny at all.”
“Whatever,” I said and gave Booker a let it go look. Grief is a process and people manage it differently. Doug’s approach seemed to involve a lot of alcohol and stupidity.
“What am I missing?” Tommy said behind me.
“Doug’s being Doug,” I said and patted the seat beside me. “If you don’t mind, we’ll have a beer with everybody before we get our own table.”
“Woo woo woo,” Doug said, cracking up with the emotional maturity of a twelve-year-old.
“Doug’s been drinking all day,” Joey said quietly. “He’s dealing with his loss.”
That sent Doug into raucous peals of laughter.
My head started pounding and I rose to my feet. “Let’s find that table now, Tommy. We’ll catch these guys later.”
Tommy didn’t budge. He was staring out the window.
“Hey, Joey. What’s that guy doing by the Fire Dragon?”
We followed Tommy’s gaze outside where a guy leaned against the Ferrari. He pulled a cell phone from an inside pocket and his wrist, beneath the street light, glittered gold. Oh yeah. Rolex Man.
He stared through the window and our eyes locked. A dark smile tugged the sides of his mouth. He thought he was a real badass.
But he didn’t know Cat DeLuca.
My phone vibrated and I checked the screen. Unknown number.
“Who’s that guy?” Joey demanded.
“The monster who kicked my partner.”
I raised the phone to my ear. “What?”
“Boom,” Toby Smoak said.
A chilling awareness pierced through me. I sprang from my seat. “No!” I shouted.
Everything happened in slow motion. The rookie, Tommy, pushed past me, leading the charge. He wrestled a gun from his holster.
