Bye, Bye Love

by K. J. Larsen

  “Whoa,” I said. “You can’t shoot him.”

  “Ha!”

  Our server gaped at Tommy’s gun and reached for the sky. A middle-aged couple screamed coming through the door.

  We exploded onto the sidewalk and raked the street with our eyes. Smoak was gone. Joey and Booker burst through the door, hot on our tail.

  “Where’d he go?” Joey shouted.

  BOOM! The explosion was deafening. In an instant, Joey’s red Ferrari was reduced to a sucking, sweltering fireball. The explosion lit the block and flaming car parts shot into the night. Joey’s license plate broke free and soared spinning through the air, landing at Joey’s feet. The metal plate smoked and the edges seared red but I could easily make out the letters. FYRDRGN.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The bar emptied onto the street. Guns drawn, cops shouted and darted about, looking for someone to shoot. Only Doug Schuchard remained inside. I studied him through the window; laughing to himself and slamming another shot of whiskey. He was working on a drunken stupor.

  “Provenza!” Joey roared. “You really wanna mess with me? I’ll effin kill you!”

  If I’d had a tranquilizer, I would’ve stabbed him with it. I needed to take him down a notch before he did something crazy.

  “We don’t know Provenza was involved. Smoak could be acting alone,” I said in a soothing voice. “He saw me driving the Ferrari and he was scaring me off.”

  “An extraordinary coincidence, don’t you think?” Joey said bitterly. “Provenza asks about my Ferrari and suddenly it’s a goddam inferno.”

  “Cat’s got a point, man,” Booker said. “If Provenza was sending you a message, you would’ve got the call. Not Cat.”

  “Uh, you don’t wanna go off halfcocked,” Tommy said and took a step back before Joey could cuff the rookie.

  My phone buzzed again. Unknown. This time I put it on speaker and pressed Talk.

  Joey snatched the cell from my hand. “You blew up my Ferrari, asshole. I’m coming for you.”

  “It’s a message. Tell the bitch to back off. Or next time she’ll be in it.”

  Joey’s voice was terrifyingly calm. “Here’s a message for you and your boss. Dead men don’t scare me.”

  He tossed the phone back. I caught it and tucked it away. Sirens blared in the distance. Fire trucks were descending.

  Joey held out a hand. “Your keys, Booker. I’ll drive.”

  They tromped off to Booker’s car and Tommy and I chased after them.

  Joey called over his shoulder. “Go home, Cat. This isn’t your fight.”

  “The hell it’s not. Go home, Tommy. This can’t be legal. You don’t want to jeopardize your career.”

  I felt his breath on my shoulder.

  “You think I’m missing this?”

  Joey slid behind the wheel. Booker rode shotgun and Tommy and I scooted into the back before the partners could protest. Joey stared once more at the smoldering Firedragon before burning rubber.

  I didn’t ask my uncle where we were going. I just knew he was driving the wrong way to shoot Provenza. That was good enough for me.

  No one said a word until Joey pulled in front of Bernie’s house. It was Tommy who broke the silence.

  “Where are we?”

  “Bernie’s house,” I said. “We’re breaking in.”

  “Cool,” Tommy said.

  Parking hadn’t been an issue when I was here this morning. But it was evening now. People were home and cars lined up and down the street. Joey found a fireplug, parked, and killed the engine. He propped a Police Business Parking Permit in the window. Like the one I stole last year from Rocco.

  “Caterina,” he said. “Open the door.”

  I charged up the steps and beat off the sticky yellow police tape. My set of picks were in my bag, back at the bar. I remembered Bernie’s iron bird sculpture on the stoop and I hoisted it in my hands. I breathed my apologies to Bernie and muttered two quick Hail Mary’s to save Father Timothy time. Then I broke a glass door pane and we were inside.

  I pushed the door open and gasped.

  The neat, orderly home I’d walked through this morning had been thoroughly tossed. The violence was unnerving. The perps could’ve used a knife and sledgehammer. Cushions were cut and walls gaped holes. Drawers were emptied. Books swept from their shelves. A couple brainless morons had turned the place inside out and upside down. They’d hit every room.

  “Holy shit,” Tommy said.

  Booker grunted. “Whatever they were looking for, they didn’t find it.”

  “Why do you say that?” Tommy said.

  “Because if they had, they would’ve stopped. But these guys kept going. They trashed room after room and they didn’t quit.”

  “What do they want?” Tommy looked from room to room.

  “They want the same thing that we’re here for,” I said.

  We both looked at Uncle Joey. He smiled.

  “Bernie kept two books for Nick Provenza. The fictional copy is at Bernie’s office. It’s a work of art. It’s satisfied the IRS for almost three decades while omitting the bulk of Provenza’s assets.”

  “And Bernie’s real ledger is here,” I said.

  “It’s here all right.”

  Joey moved through the house to Bernie’s bedroom. “It was Provenza’s idea to keep the second book at Bernie’s house,” he said. “He said it was safer if the ledgers weren’t together.”

  Tommy frowned. “Maybe the boss didn’t do it. I mean, why put a hit out on your bookkeeper before you have the ledger in your hand.”

  “Cuz Provenza’s an asshole,” Joey growled. “And you’re a rookie, Tom. You’re not a detective.”

  I didn’t say I was a detective and I’d wondered the same thing.

  Joey opened the bedroom closet door, pulled up the carpet, and exposed a small safe embedded in the floor.

  “Once Bernie was out of the country with his new identity, I was to get this to Provenza. He gave a twisted smile. “Bernie almost made it. He was so close.”

  “Horse shoes and hand grenades,” I said.

  Joey reached into the hidden safe and pulled out a black leather book. He handed it to me and I opened it greedily.

  There were columns of numbers and abbreviated words. It could be written in code.

  I flipped the pages. “What is this?”

  Uncle Joey took the worn ledger in his hand and flashed a grin. “This is Nicolas Provenza buying me a new Ferrari.”

  Booker muttered under his breath. “I’d like to put some cash on my kids’ education.”

  Joey needed ten minutes and a cool little black book to spend four-hundred eighty thousand smackeroos. The fierce red F12 Berlinetta had dramatic, swooping lines and does zero to sixty in three seconds. It helped that Joey knew exactly every detail he wanted; the Ferrari Official website is his home page.

  Joey cleared out Bernie’s safe and stuffed all Bernie’s files and folders and personal records and documents in a box. There appeared to be various investment and advisory projects he was working on when he died.

  “There’s a lot here to sort through here,” Joey said. “But nothing that won’t keep.” He scooted us back to the car and drove me home. I stepped outside and Tommy gave a chuckle.

  “We never got that drink. But tonight was the most fun I’ve had in this town.”

  “I’ll take a rain check,” I smiled.

  “That boy needs to get out more,” Joey muttered under his breath. He hoisted the box of goodies from Bernie’s safe and walked with me to the door.

  “You and Savino should take a nice romantic trip to Italy this winter. Cruise the Almafi coast. Explore Pompeii, the Piazza del Campo…”

  I laughed. “Compliments of Nick Provenza?”

  He shrugged. “Why not? He’s not
seeing that money, Caterina. He killed Bernie.”

  “If he killed Bernie. Let’s be sure first.”

  He kissed my cheek. “Hide this box where no one can find it. And don’t let anyone know you have it.”

  I took the box. “Like Nonna DeLuca used to say. It’s as safe as if it was in God’s pocket.”

  ***

  I placed the box in the secret compartment, behind my pantry that hid the spirits during the Prohibition. It had been an intense twenty-four hours and I was exhausted. I missed my running partner and I wasn’t motivated to go out alone. Last night hadn’t worked out well for either of us.

  I imagined Inga would be having a late night snack of warm milk and Mama’s lamb stew. My stomach rumbled at the thought. I was hungry but I mostly wanted to crawl into bed and sleep. I lit the candles instead and two forgotten oil lamps I discovered in the attic when I moved in. Then I turned on Eric Clapton and had just poured a glass of wine when Chance called.

  “Hey, babe.”

  “Cat, thank God. You’re OK?”

  “Of course.”

  He expelled air. “I just got a report of a car bombing in Bridgeport at Mickey’s. You said you were meeting Tommy.”

  “We were there with Joey. It was the Fire Dragon that blew.”

  He winced. “The Ferrari?”

  “I know, huh? That’s a bomber with no soul.”

  “Joey better have some kick-ass insurance.”

  “A brand new upgraded model is already on the way. I’ll tell you about it when you get here.”

  “There’s a lot to tell. I haven’t heard about last night at the park.”

  “As it turns out, it’s all one story.”

  He digested that. “You mean the guy in the park and the bomber are -”

  “You got it, my FBI Agent in Charge. They’re one and the same.” I grimaced. “Thanks to Toby Smoak stealing my body, now Captain Bob thinks I’m incompetent.”

  “Yeah, like that’s never happened before.”

  I ignored that. “I’m looking in the refrigerator. Will you be here soon or should I go for a cold slice of pizza.”

  “I’m almost there and the Thai is hot. I got phad Thai and Panang curry and even got those spring rolls you like.”

  “It’s so hot when you feed me.”

  “Anything else?”

  I opened the freezer door. “We’re out of Ben and Jerry’s.”

  “Preference?”

  “Something chocolate.”

  “Whipping cream?”

  “Definitely. And, uhm, maybe a little extra for the ice-cream.”

  Chance brought Ben and Jerry’s Chocolate Therapy ice-cream and a dozen yellow roses. I remembered what Cleo said about roses and swallowed a smile. We were on the same page.

  We ate on the couch by the fire and I told my story. I just didn’t tell him everything.

  I told about running at the park last night and crash landing on the corpse of Bernie Love. I told him Bernie worked for Provenza and how Bernie almost made a new life for himself in Costa Rica. I told him about Cleo dropping from Provenza’s wall onto the estate and talking to Gabbie, the cook. And I said the address he gave me for Toby Smoak is in the middle of the Chicago River.

  I totally skipped my humiliating ambush on a narrow side street and seeing the image of Cleo’s hoo-haa on Provenza’s cell phone. My eyes still ached.

  I also neglected to share those last humiliating moments at the biker bar. The part when I was flat on my back, staring up at tattoo biker babe and her dodgy serving tray. I’m thankful she wasn’t wearing a skirt.

  If I bleeped other stuff it was cuz I don’t want Savino to think the Pants On Fire cast are idiots. And I didn’t want him to overreact and think I was in danger from Toby Smoak. Savino can be as interfering and bossy as the DeLuca men. I could handle the river rat myself.

  We snuggled on the couch in front of the fire. Chance talked about his day. A critical witness in a federal case had fled to Nevada. Jury selection was in process and the court case was scheduled to begin in a few days. Someone got to the runaway witness. And there would be no case without him

  I listened to the soothing tremor of his voice. I let the music run over me and the wine lull me to a slight euphoric state. I could feel my neck and shoulder muscles relax and the tension leave my body. I leaned into Chance, resting my head on his shoulder. The next thing I knew he was carrying me to bed.

  I was done. Put-a-fork-in-me finished. The last thirty hours had been rough. There was the faceless body at the park. The explosion at Mickey’s. A biker bitch clonked me over the head and when I closed my eyes, Toby Smoak lurked in the shadows.

  Savino put me on the bed. I awoke enough to pull my clothes off and slip into a Minnie Mouse tee. The sexy teddy from Cookie’s love store would wait for another day.

  I lay my head on my pillow and stared into Chance’s deep cobalt blue eyes.

  He kissed my nose. And then my cheeks. I was as fun as a corpse.

  “You’re ruined,” he said. “You’ve had a rough couple days.”

  “Hmm,” I said sleepily. “Unless you have a secret fantasy to have sex with a dead woman…”

  He smiled. “Not even a little bit.”

  “Then this isn’t your lucky night.”

  “It’s OK.” He wrapped his arms around me and I felt his warm breath in my hair. “Tonight this is enough.”

  Without meaning to, my breathing slowed and deepened until my breath matched Savino’s.

  “DeLucky,” he said softly in my ear. “Do you know when I knew I loved you? I mean, the first moment I realized I was head-over-heels, going-down-with-the-ship in love with you?”

  I didn’t know.

  “Hmmm,” I murmured.”

  “It was when….”

  I was asleep before he told me.

  Chapter Twenty

  Chance was gone when I awoke in a tangle of blankets and bad dreams. A scar-faced douche had chased me on his Harley. A tattooed biker bitch wanted to clobber me with a whiskey bottle. I fought off the covers and sat up in bed. I mentally karate-chopped the bikers and wrestled-in a new day of awesome.

  The coffee was hot when my bunny slippers shuffled to the kitchen. Savino had placed the newspaper and an apple-cinnamon muffin on the table. A sticky note on the fridge directed me to yogurt and a glass of orange juice. He left a few sweet, sexy notes around the house as well. Chance is an incurable romantic. It’s a hard act to follow. I’m easily distracted with life and I suspect my romance gene has some holes in it.

  I skipped my morning run. Inga was with Mama and I didn’t feel like running alone. I drank more coffee, did a little yoga, and took a long, toasty shower. When I was ready to take on the world, I grabbed a jacket and my secret camera bag and zipped out the door. I skipped down the steps and stumbled on the last one. A man with no hair and a yo-yo leaned against my car. A buttery yellow Lexus blocked my driveway.

  I smoothed my jacket, trying to look cool after almost tripping on my feet and wiping out on my face.

  “Nicky,” I said. “Once again you’re blocking my way.”

  He had an expensive, white-capped smile. “Good morning, Ms. DeLuca.”

  I gave him my best smile. “Good-bye, Mr. Car Bomber.”

  He looked confused for a moment and then went straight to business. “I need a detective. I want to hire you.”

  “Make an appointment.”

  “I just did.”

  He wasn’t being difficult or confrontational. Nick Provenza was a man who expected to get his own way. Because he usually did.

  “Would you rather we speak in your office?” he said.

  Being alone with a homicidal car bomber didn’t seem like a good idea. Regretfully, my 9mm was tucked away in a drawer.

  “I doubt there is that
much to say. There are other qualified detectives in South Chicago you can contact.”

  The eyes that had been cold yesterday, smiled. “Are there so many gumshoes better than you?”

  I shrugged. “No.”

  I wasn’t bragging. DeLucas have been cops or crooks since anyone can remember. The men in my family have won medals and achieved some notoriety in law enforcement. When they get shot, it’s usually not their fault. Besides the whole gene thing, the DeLucas train for this work from childhood. When my friends got Barbie dolls and kitchen playmate sets, I was learning to pick locks and Mirandize suspects. To be fair, Sophie and I had the Strawberry Shortcake Kitchen Set too. But I preferred climbing trees with my older brother Rocco. We were Starsky and Hutch and we shot people.

  “Why do you need a private investigator?”

  He blinked hard and his voice choked a little. “My bookkeeper, Bernie Love, has apparently died.”

  He was good. I had to give him that. “Somehow, you always manage to seem surprised,” I said dryly.

  He let that go. “Bernie kept a ledger at his home of my business and personal accounts. It’s irreplaceable. I want you to find it for me. I’m offering a generous reward.”

  “Are you asking me to break into Bernie’s house?”

  “It’s not in his house. My guys were there.”

  “What makes you think I can find it?”

  “Bernie was a hard man to get close to. There was one guy in the world he trusted. If that man doesn’t have the ledger, he knows where it is.”

  “Why don’t you ask Uncle Joey?”

  “He doesn’t like me much.”

  “I don’t like you either.”

  “You don’t know me.” He sighed. “I’m offering you a simple business proposition. Did your uncle tell you about the ledger?”

  “No.”

  I said it like a seasoned liar. I didn’t blink. Or let a faint flush travel up my cheeks. I don’t fib very often but I’m good at it. It my line of work, it’s as elementary as tailing someone. I can bamboozle just about anyone I know. But I didn’t fool Provenza.