by K. J. Larsen
He looked thoughtful. “Joey DeLuca isn’t foolish enough to keep the ledger at his house. It would, quite reasonably, be the first place I’d look.”
I shrugged and something flickered in his eyes. I wondered if I’d given something away.
“But he could give the ledger to someone he trusted.”
His gaze on me deepened and it was hard to breathe. It was as if he was doing some lame Obi-Wan mind trick.
I stared back. When we were kids, my siblings and I would gaze into each other’s eyes without blinking until somebody cracked. I could beat everyone I knew. Our eyes locked and I knew I had him. But Nick Provenza didn’t back down. At the very last moment, I flinched. He gave a satisfied snort.
Provenza glanced past me to stare to my house. It was as if he knew the ledger was there and could almost see through the wall. When he looked at me again, his face softened.
“The ledger is rightfully mine,” he said. “This is a nice place you have. Bring me the ledger and I’ll pay off your mortgage.”
He turned and ambled to his car. The driver opened the door for him.
Nick Provenza was a complicated man. Reckless, charming, deadly.
I watched them drive away. I didn’t start the Silver Bullet until I checked under the carriage for explosives.
***
I was waiting outside Animal Care and Control on Western when they opened their doors. I was on a mission to rescue Dixie, the black German shepherd whose human companion died adjusting his satellite dish.
Corey Corcino and Doug Schuchard were both ex-cops who’d found better hours, better pay, and less stress working for the police union. Last night I learned Corey’s dog had been taken to the shelter. I imagined how frightened she must be. Dixie lost everything when Corey plummeted from their fourth-story window. Her world shattered with him. It was too late for Corey but Dixie deserved a second chance.
I also knew big, black dogs are the last to be adopted, and the first to be euthanized in shelters. Dixie’s odds didn’t look good where she was. I figured they’d improve tremendously if she stayed with me until she found a new family. In fact, I already had someone in mind.
The volunteer at the shelter was energetic and helpful. There were hundreds of dogs with sorrowful faces and I wanted to take them all. I told her what I’d heard about Dixie and she knew exactly who I was looking for. She brought me straight to Dixie’s cage.
“Dixie has been with us four days,” she said. “The vet examined her. She’s about three years old, and she gets along well with dogs and cats. She’s seems perfectly healthy, but she’s just not eating. I think she’s traumatized. Her owner died in a fall.” She hesitated. “Did you know him?”
“No. But we had some mutual friends.”
“A terrible thing to see yourself plunging to the ground headfirst. Knowing you’re gonna be—”
I nudged her with an elbow. “The dog can hear you.”
“Roadkill,” she finished in a whisper.
The adoption process was quick and painless. It was the best sixty-five dollars I’d spent in a long time. I took Dixie to my car and opened the back door. She hopped inside and I scootched in next to her for a moment.
“You know Corey is gone. And someday, in the afterlife, you’ll be together again. That’s what I like to think.” I rubbed her ears. “I’m gonna do what I can to make sure you have the best life possible.”
Dixie’s eyes sparkled and tail thumped against the backseat. I could tell she was totally getting this powwow. At least, that was my interpretation of Dog Language 101.
“First we’ll walk in Oz Park. And then we’ll stop by your condo. I want to see what kind of food you like. If you have toys or a blanket or something you want to keep, we’ll take it with us.”
The address I had for Corey and Dixie was a four-story walk-up on West Dickens, a stone’s throw from Oz Park. The city park has statues of the Wizard of Oz characters. L. Frank Baum once lived not far from the park and Rocco’s girls are huge fans. Sometimes I take the girls there and they play in Dorothy’s playground. Then we go home and make popcorn and watch the movie.
I parked at the condo and we walked to the park. Dixie had been cramped in a cage for days and I let her walk off her stiffness before trying a tentative run. She had a graceful, athletic body and she ran like a deer. We ran for thirty minutes. I found a bench and sat beside her. She rested her head on my lap and looked at me with big brown eyes. My heart turned to marshmallow.
We walked back to the condo and I pressed the bell marked “Manager.” No response. Dixie looked at me expectantly.
“Gotcha.” I dragged out my lock picks and did my magic.
Dixie blew off the elevator and galloped up the stairs. Her condo, I remembered, was on the fourth floor. I wasn’t sure about the number but Dixie led the way. It was a no brainer. The brass knocker on Unit 4W was a German shepherd head. The door mat pictured a black German shepherd and read: “Dixie’s Digs.”
“Honey, we’re home,” I said and let us in.
The condo was cozy—earth tone walls, hardwood floors, and heavy wood furniture. There was a guitar in a corner and a little Buddha on the mantle. And there was a surfboard hanging from the ceiling. Corey had brought a bit of California with him. I would’ve liked the guy. I certainly adored his dog.
I followed Dixie to the kitchen. There was a half-filled coffee cup on the table and a small, forgotten dish of cottage cheese. I found an unopened can of chili on the stove beside a can opener and small pan. It appeared as if Corey was preparing his supper when he died. I wondered what he would have chosen if he’d known the meal would be his last. I’m guessing it wouldn’t have been chili.
I gave Dixie fresh water and poured her a big bowl of Science Diet. She snarfed it up. I packed up her food and dishes, bed, blanket, her Frisbee and stuffed toys, her bones, winter coat, yellow raincoat and hat, dental chews, her Dixie Girl embroidered bath towel, her medical file with vet’s name and emergency number, her AKC registration, her crate, and a few of her many photo albums. I made two trips to the car and when I returned the second time, a scribbled note attached to the refrigerator caught my eye. It said Bernie Love and a telephone number.
Cold fingers crawled down my spine. It was surprising enough that Bernie’s number would be on anyone’s refrigerator. Bernie had been a loner, a reclusive man with few friends or connections. In fact Joey said he was his only friend. Two strong, healthy guys, dead within days of each. An extraordinary coincidence?
I dragged out my cell and punched a number.
“Yello,” Rocco said.
His voice was gravelly. My call woke him.
“Hey, Rocco. It’s me.”
“Hmmmph.”
Oh yeah, he was still pissy.
“I wanted to give you the name of the guy in the park.”
“You can cut the crap, Sis. I got it. Toby Smoak. And it sure didn’t come from you.”
I winced. “You swung by Mickey’s after the birthday bash.”
“Uncle Joey called me. The fire was out by the time I got there. Everybody knew who blew up the Ferrari. Shit, the bartender even knew. The goddam bartender. I’m the lead detective on this case, and I’m left out in the cold. I felt like a freakin’ fool.”
“Rocco, I’m sorry.”
“Someone could’ve been killed. You know, if you’d given Toby’s name at Tino’s, Jackson and I would’ve picked him up. And Uncle Joey would still have his Ferrari.”
“You’re right. I should’ve given you the name. But it wouldn’t have made a difference. You would’ve driven to North Park, and stared into the Chicago River.”
“You don’t know what I would’ve done. You know why? Because, you are not a real detective, Sis. A detective that works for a real police department has to follow protocol. You wouldn’t last a day working for the CPD.”
&n
bsp; He had a point. You don’t have to follow many rules when you run your own business. Plus, the pay is a hell of a lot better. “I’m at Corey Cancino’s place in Lincoln Park.”
He racked his brain. “The jumper?”
“Corey didn’t jump. He fell. The running theory is he was fiddling with his satellite dish.”
“Really? And there was a witness?”
“No. But somebody said he was having trouble with it lately.”
“That’s a new one.”
“Corey wouldn’t have left Dixie like that. Not without making arrangements for her.”
“Who’s Dixie?”
“The love of his life. She’s coming with me to the fitting. I’ll introduce you then.”
“OK. So you’re not alone.”
“Nope.”
“Keep it that way. Until we nail this prick.”
“So, are you still pissed, or what.”
“I’m pissed the perp is on the loose. But we’ll find him.”
“Not if I find him first,” I muttered under my breath.
“Slow your roll, Sis. You listening to anything I said?”
“I’ll be careful. I was calling to tell you Corey has a note on his fridge with Bernie’s name and phone number.”
“Huh. I didn’t realize they knew each other.”
“I didn’t realize Bernie knew anybody.”
“And now they’re both dead. That’s tough.”
“That’s hinky.”
“It happens.”
“So does lightening in a snow storm.”
“Okay. What do you want me to do?”
“I’d like you to check Bernie’s phone records for calls from Corey.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Thanks, bro. I owe you one.”
He grunted. “Just don’t get yourself blown up.”
I pocketed the phone, walked across the room, and opened the window. I studied the satellite dish for a moment. There weren’t obvious dials or buttons to fiddle with. I couldn’t imagine that anyone, even a trained technician, would adjust the settings on a dish while hanging out a window.
I closed the window again and jabbed a few buttons on the remote. The big screen TV was set to the Golf Channel. And the picture was perfect. I turned off the TV and wandered off, looking for Dixie.
I found her in Corey’s bedroom, lying on the floor with her head on his slippers.
My eyes stung. I laid with her a long time. When we left the condo, we brought the slippers with us.
Chapter Twenty-one
When Mama walked into Agato’s Formal Wear on Halstead to price the powder-blue tuxes in his store window, she didn’t know she’d close the deal thirty-five years later. Papi Agato is older and a little stooped now but he’s still there. He’s provided tuxes for every Bridgeport school dance since the 1970s. He dressed my three brothers for their high school dances and weddings. And today he was fitting them with spiffy powder-blue tuxes for Mama’s big church wedding.
What most people don’t know about Agato is that he’s a shameless hoarder. His front show room tastefully displays the newest trends in men’s formal fashion. But his jam-packed back room and a shoddy warehouse fairly explode with every tux Agato ever rented. He stockpiles crates stuffed with meaningless receipts, former clients’ measurements, and obsolete shipping orders. Agato’s persistent difficulty parting with possessions is a fire hazard at the very least. On the bright side, his whacky affliction made Mama’s eighties wedding dreams come true.
Agato was able to resurrect powder-blue tuxes with frilly powder-blue shirts for my brothers, Sophie’s husband, Mama’s papa, Papa’s four brothers, some cousins, and Papa’s ex-partner, Captain Bob. Powder-blue tuxes for everyone.
My brothers were having their final fitting this morning. I couldn’t help myself. I had to see the testosterone-glutted DeLuca men in frilly powder-blue. I’d try really hard not to laugh.
I parked in a Police Only zone and displayed the Chicago Police Department placard I pilfered off Rocco last year. He’s long replaced the permit but he’s still trying to figure out where the one on my dash went. I told him he may not be the hotshot detective he thinks he is.
I opened the door and Rocco whined like I knew he would. “Dammit, Mama. I feel like a fairy in this girly shirt.”
Inga charged the door howling. She ran circles around Dixie and me. Sometimes Inga’s a nerd. Dixie was a little frosty at first but she warmed up after the customary butt sniffing.
Papa’s eyes twinkled. “Your new dog is a beauty. Does this mean Inga lives with us now?”
I laughed. “You wish, Papa. This is Dixie. Uncle Joey’s dog.”
“I bet Linda doesn’t know.”
“That’s OK. Uncle Joey doesn’t know either.”
Mama held Rocco’s face in her hands and kissed each cheek. “You couldn’t look more handsome.”
Agato was straining to fit the ruffled blue tuxedo shirt across Michael’s massive chest and monster-size arms. He pulled the fabric tight. There was no extra to spare.
Michael turned a bit, checking his reflection in the mirror. “I like this frilly shirt. I look like Tubbs.”
“Me too.” Vinnie tossed some Mike and Ikes in his mouth. And then he stopped. “Who’s Tubbs?”
“Tubbs was a big television character from the eighties,” Michael said. “He looked like us.”
Michael thinks he’s smarter than Vinnie. He isn’t. The difference between them is Vinnie’s just smart enough to keep his mouth shut when he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
“John Travolta. Tubbs was played by John Travolta,” Michael said.
Vinnie stood next to Michael and they studied their powder-blue reflections in the glass. They stood there like that, looking in the mirror, chomping down a few Mike and Ikes.
“Yep,” Vinnie nodded finally. “We look like John Travolta.”
“You kids would have loved the eighties,” Mama said.
Papa grinned at Mama. “Hot pants. Remember your little white hot pants tight on your apple bottom…?”
Agato sighed wistfully. “Leisure suits. Tight fitting, low-rise bell-bottoms…”
I smiled. The beauty of hot pants was lost on the tailor.
Rocco gave me a copy of Bernie’s calls. I kissed his cheek. “Thanks, Bro.”
“I’ll walk you to your car,” Mama said unexpectedly.
I shrugged. “C’mon Inga,” I said and the four of us stepped outside.
“Someone needs your help, Caterina,” Mama said. “Both you and the FBI future father of my grandchildren.”
For once I didn’t argue. She chewed her bottom lip. She was worried.
“What’s going on, Mama?”
“A Bridgeport man is missing. Mrs. Whitaker’s neighbor.”
“Ivy Whitaker? I thought you weren’t friends anymore.”
“She cheats at church Bingo.”
“How is it even possible to cheat at Bingo?”
“What? You think she’s so lucky to win every week?”
“You told Father Timothy, didn’t you?”
“There may have been an anonymous complaint.” Mama clicked her mouth. “Mrs. Whitaker’s neighbor has disappeared.”
“When?”
Mama shrugged. “No one knows for sure.”
“And no one knows where he went?”
“Just Teddy. Teddy says Charlie went to Hollywood. Got a big movie deal. Had dinner with Meryl Streep.”
“Is that what Charlie told him.”
Mama made a dismissive sound. “Charlie didn’t tell Teddy squat. Teddy had a vision. He’s a psychic.”
“A psychic.” I massaged my temples.
“Mrs. Whitaker says Charlie likes gangster movies. And he listens to books on tape. He k
nows a lot of The Godfather by heart.”
“What do you want me to do, Mama?”
“Pay attention, Caterina. I need to find Charlie.”
“Uhm..”
She stuffed Mrs. Whitaker’s address in my hand.
I opened my car door and told the dogs to get in. Dixie jumped in. Inga inched toward Mama. Mama looked pleased. She couldn’t help herself.
“Inga, come,” I said more firmly.
She didn’t budge.
“We’re on a big case, girl. We have work to do.”
My partner sat there.
Mama gave a sheepish smile. “She has a play date today with the other granddogs. Sophia is having a birthday party for Boots at the dog park. She made an organic chicken-carrot cake with cream cheese frosting; no sugar, just the tiniest touch of raw honey.”
I patted Inga’s head. “Have fun at your party. You can come home tomorrow.”
Mama smiled giddily. Inga is her favorite granddog. If she ever goes missing in the night, I’ll know where to look.
“Your sister is amazing. Organizing this elaborate birthday party. Prizes. Decorations. Games.” Mama laughed. “I don’t know how she does it. And to think yesterday her kids were vomiting.”
“They probably ate the dog cake.”
Mama’s face softened. “That’s the kind of mama you’ll be, Caterina. The best. Like your sister Sophie.”
I clamped my jaw fiercely to block the words in my head from spewing out my mouth. I may not know a lot about God. But I know this. You talk that way to your mama, you’re goin’ to Confession.
Chapter Twenty-two
Mrs. Whitaker was waiting in the window when I pulled up to her home. The house was a sixties-era duplex. Her parents had lived in one half until they passed a few years ago. It was then that Ivy and her husband converted the duplex into a single, spacious residence. Undoubtedly, with her ill-gotten church bingo money.
We had coffee and prune kolaches on the sun-porch with a view of the garden. The kolaches might have been better than Mama’s. But you could water-board the shit out of me and I’d still deny it to her face.
Mrs. Whitaker wrung her hands and stared at the house next door as if willing Charlie to appear in the window.
