Right.
"Good morning, Detective."
He stepped back, holding the door open for her, his gaze on her the whole time. Once again, she was made aware of a certain level of chemistry between them. Chemistry that didn't quite crackle, but simmered long and slow and left her a little tingly. She liked this man. And she wouldn't feel guilty about it.
Not anymore.
Once through the door, careful not to touch her, Tim held his arm out and motioned her down a long corridor. A minute later, they stepped into an interview room similar to the one she'd been confined to after being arrested four days ago.
Then she'd been terrified. More than a little shell-shocked and not completely absorbing how she'd wound up in that bit of nastiness.
Today?
Still terrified.
But oddly calm. Almost resigned. At least now she grasped what had happened and how she wound up here. Different day, different experience. Today, she was here to possibly blow the whistle on a fraudster.
Which in some ways made her a squealer—a rat—and heaven knew her father hated rats. But Bart could be a thief. He may have swindled her right along with her clients. Rat or no rat, she wouldn't tolerate being taken advantage of.
Tim pulled out a chair for her—how sweet was that?—and then took the spot across from her. He squared his shoulders and rested his hands on his thighs. Casual but commanding at the same time. The man had a way about him. A very good way.
"What's going on, Lucie?"
Now or never. "Ro and I did a little sleuthing."
His body remained still, but something in his eyes changed. More direct, maybe a little suspicion thrown in.
"Sleuthing."
"Yes. On Bart Owens." She pulled the large envelope with the photos from her tote and slapped it on the table.
He glanced down at the envelope, a small grin playing on his lips. "This, I can't wait to hear."
"Position Seven."
"The wheelbarrow?"
"Again with the wheelbarrow?"
He hit her with a slow-moving smile that definitely stirred dormant parts of her anatomy. The heavy eye contact didn't hurt.
"Fine. The wheelbarrow." She slid the photo of the receipt out of the envelope and showed it to him. "This is the receipt for the sale of the painting."
He picked up the photo and scanned it. "How'd you get it?"
This is where it could get sticky. Technically, she wasn't sure if her snooping would be considered trespassing. Or some other legal term.
She held up a hand. "Full disclosure. Just as you asked."
"Full disclosure."
"I snooped in Bart's files."
His head dropped forward. "You snooped?"
"Yes. When I walk Oscar, I pick him up in Bart's office. It's in the rear of the gallery. He keeps a filing cabinet in there. Ro and I went to the gallery last night."
"Why?"
"I needed someone to keep Bart busy so I could snoop. Ro can be...uh...distracting."
"Holy crap," Tim said. "You girls are evil."
"I think that's a bit of an exaggeration, Detective. It's not my fault men are idiots and drool at the sight of Ro's cleavage."
Immediately, Tim's eyes went to Lucie's chest. Idiot. She sighed.
He held up a finger. "For the record, I don't drool at the sight of Ro's cleavage. Yours on the other hand—"
As usual, Lucie's cheeks fired. Flop-peeing and flop-blushing. Terrific. She couldn't look at him. Couldn't do it. If she did, she knew what she'd see. She'd see heat and lust and an opportunity to haul herself over this table and plant one on him.
No hauling or planting. Time to be serious here and stay out of prison.
Instead, she studied the envelope, analyzed the side seams for a solid ten seconds. Finally, hormones relatively under control, she raised her gaze, found the handsome detective with a slightly amused half-smile. "So. Okay." She waggled her hand. "While Ro kept Bart busy looking at art, I went in to say hello to Oscar the Perv."
"Oscar the Perv?"
"He humps my leg."
"Lucky bastard."
Lucie burst out laughing, picked up the envelope, and smacked his forearm. Five minutes ago, she'd walked in here half a wreck, wondering if she'd get locked up before she had a chance to explain herself. Now, she wondered if she'd get locked up before jumping a cute detective.
"Hey," he said, "I can't help it if I have a jealous streak."
"Tim! I'm being serious."
"So was I."
Lucie shook her head, scrunched her nose and tried to put a little mean into her stare-down.
He grinned again. Apparently, her mean stare needed work.
"I couldn't resist." He rolled his hand. "Continue."
"Thank you. Yeesh!"
It took all of two minutes to fill him in on the covert mission and phone call to Rome.
After Lucie carefully outlined the details of her investigation, Tim picked up the photos, scanned them again and stuffed the pages back in the envelope. He secured the flap, his fingers deftly handling the doo-hickey clasp. The man had some long fingers. His hands overall were large. She thought back to the night on the lake when she'd walked beside him with her much smaller fingers wrapped in his. Nice feeling. All around a good night.
She cleared her throat. "What are you going to do with those?"
He tapped the edge of the envelope on the table. "Call Rome and talk to the owner of the gallery. See what he has to say about this receipt you just gave me. If it's one of theirs, it'll tie back to something. If it's not"—Tim shrugged—"we'll know Bart forged it."
* * *
After finishing with Tim, Lucie trekked back to Franklin and—lucky her—found a parking spot right in front of her store. Two doors down, Petey's hopped with double-parked Caddies and Lincolns. Must be a meeting of the minds this morning.
Frankie's father, no doubt, would be there. His entire crew spent an inordinate amount of time at their corner table, reading the newspaper, talking smack, and generally killing time in between their activities. Whatever those activities might be.
And here she was, opening an office just feet away as her father was about to be released from prison.
If her father took to hanging at Petey's again, she'd go insane. Full-blown commitment-worthy insanity. He'd be popping in and out on her all day. And then he'd bring his cronies with him. All while she tried to run a business.
Maybe one of his parole restrictions would be to stay out of Petey's.
That's all she could hope for.
Her voicemail chimed as she got out of the car. She must have missed a call. On the sidewalk, she paused to enjoy the decidedly not-suffocating warmth—finally the humidity gave mercy—while she checked the call log. Two calls missed. One being Frankie.
An instant quasi excitement-slash-panic flooded her. As usual, she wondered if this would be it. The call. The one where he'd say he was ready to try again. That he missed her and their life together.
That he wanted her back.
Her stomach pinched. Squeezed like a tight fist inside her. A week ago, she'd have been overjoyed at the prospect of a reunion. Now, suddenly, it gave her stomach cramps.
Confused.
That's all she was. The super-cute Irish cop had gotten her all hot and bothered with his charm and humor and...well...newness. But she had history with Frankie. He knew her inside and out. He fit every curve and nuance. He understood her.
And he'd just called her. A week ago, she'd have run straight to him. Now, thinking back on all the nights alone—and spending time with Tim—she didn't know.
Don't think about it.
She tapped the voicemail button. One voicemail. Not Frankie. The plumber Joey had hired couldn't start the job today.
"I should have hired someone myself."
She scrolled her phone for Joey and waited for the call to connect. No answer. He said he'd be at Frankie's, just a few blocks away, working with the painters. Since she
suddenly had time on her hands, she'd swing over there and let him know his plumber crapped out on them. And wow, that term was appropriate in so many ways.
She headed east toward Frankie's. Depending on his schedule, he might be at work and she wouldn't have to see him. After just seeing Tim—and experiencing the lightness and fun that always came with him—she didn't want to squash it by worrying over the current status of the Frankie situation.
Soon, they'd have to decide what they were doing. Not today. But soon.
Her phone rang. Probably Joey calling back. Strange number and definitely not Joey's. Wait. A Michigan area code. Ooh. Roger Isby. The Gomez family lawyer. Ooh, ooh, ooh.
She tapped the screen. "Hello? This is L...Delilah."
Close one. Almost catastrophic since Mr. Isby only knew her as Delilah, the overworked assistant.
"Hello, Delilah. This is Roger Isby."
"Yes. Hi, Mr. Isby."
At the corner, Lucie turned left and ran into Mrs. Delvin, a retired teacher from her grammar school days.
"Good morning, Lucie," she said.
Ach! All she needed was her cover being blown by her third grade teacher. Get rid of her. Not wanting to be rude to either Mr. Isby or Mrs. Delvin, Lucie smiled and waved at the woman and then pointed to her phone while mouthing an “I'm sorry.”
Mrs. Delvin nodded, patted Lucie's shoulder, and moved on toward the center of town.
"Delilah," Mr. Isby said, "I spoke to the family regarding your interest in the painting."
Uh-oh. This didn't sound positive. Or maybe the lawyer always had that flat tone. "Thank you. Hopefully it's good news."
"I'm afraid not."
"Oh?"
"The family is retaining the painting for their private collection."
Lucie halted in the middle of the sidewalk. Her vision did a loop-the-loop and she swayed a little, put her free hand out for balance. No good. She fell back a step, literally blown backward by the lawyer's announcement that the Gomez family still had control of the original painting.
That swindling Bart. Thief.
"They still own it?"
"Yes. Arturo's younger sister has it in her home. She is quite attached to it and doesn't intend on selling."
Which meant Mr. Lutz had a copy. Or a forgery. At this point, was there a difference? Probably not because, either way, Mr. Lutz was under the impression he had the original.
And he didn't.
As just confirmed by the Gomez family lawyer.
Deal with it. That's all. Being a Rizzo, she'd had bigger problems than this. She straightened up and set her shoulders like the good little soldier she'd been taught to be.
"Delilah?"
"Yes," she said. "I'm here. Just thinking."
"I'm sorry to disappoint you."
The guilt set in. Darn it. This man thought they wanted to buy that painting when all along, they'd been lying. Tricking him into telling them if the family still owned the original. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
Between the guilt over lying and the guilt over setting Mr. Lutz up with a swindler and the guilt over enjoying Tim's company, could this morning get any worse?
But seriously, she needed to buck up here. She was Joe Rizzo's kid and this was a blip. Mere nonsense.
She breathed in, shook her head, and wrangled her self-control. You can do this, Luce.
She started walking again, away from the storefront, away from Petey's and all her father's friends, who were no doubt holding court. Just get away. She waved at a passing car—no idea whose—when the driver honked.
"Oh, Mr. Isby, that's all right. I know my boss wanted that painting, but I completely understand. It's a family heirloom. I wouldn't part with it, either."
"Thank you for understanding. There are other paintings available if your employer is interested."
"I'll tell her. And thank you."
She disconnected and immediately bent at the waist, resting her hands on her thighs. She needed help. Someone who could make things happen. Someone who could sort through information and come to a logical conclusion.
You know.
Yes, she did. She stood tall, took another long pull of the mercifully not-as-humid August air and dialed Tim.
Three rings in, his voicemail came on, and his deep voice nearly crawled right through the phone line, wrapping her in that odd comfort she always took from him.
"Hi. It's me. Lucie. The lawyer from Michigan just called about the Gomez painting. The family still has the original painting and it's definitely not for sale. Mr. Lutz has a copy and that makes two-for-two on the fake painting scale. I'm freaking out. Please, Tim. I need your help."
13
Not knowing what else to do until Tim returned her call, Lucie kept moving to Frankie's. She needed to accomplish something right now, and the plumber issue gave her a distraction. Something she could deal with and maybe actually manage to figure out. Unlike her forged paintings dilemma.
As long as this trip to Joey's new apartment didn't include running into Frankie, she'd be fine. She checked the time on her phone. Not even lunch time. And that meant the very real possibility of running into Frankie since he worked evenings at the newspaper. His stories needed to be filed right after the evening games, so he typically didn't get home until after midnight.
But maybe she'd get a break today, because right now, their romantic situation had no teeth in comparison to being someone's prison bitch.
"No way. Nobody's bitch."
Lucie quietly opened the outer door of Frankie's three-flat and the faint smell of his cologne, some fancy stuff he bought at Neiman's, permeated the hallway. Every instinct, the sheer muscle memory, drew her gaze left. The door leading to his apartment.
Habit or not, her body would have to get used to heading upstairs to see Joey. Her brain understood the concept. She just couldn't get the rest of her to fall in line.
She set her hand on the banister and squeezed. Upstairs.
Stepping softly, she darted up the stairs, checking Frankie's door every few feet just to make sure he didn't come out. She cleared the second floor landing.
Made it.
Either Frankie hadn't heard the front door open or he wasn't home. Which, of course, made her wonder where he might be. Upstairs. Keep moving.
Lucie stopped again at the third floor landing, knocked lightly and waited. No answer. Joey had said he'd be here with the painters all morning. They could've been in the back part of the house and didn't hear her knock. She checked the knob. Unlocked. Maybe she shouldn't be walking into her brother's apartment, but he hadn't moved in yet, so it wasn't like she'd catch him running around commando.
Besides, it wouldn't be the first time she'd seen that disgusting sight since moving back to Chateau Rizzo. The man walked around in his boxers as if she and her mother weren't even there.
She pushed open the door, checked right where the room led to a short hallway to the kitchen at the back of the house. She glanced down the hall, didn't see anyone. Hmm...
"I'm telling you," Joey said from the front room, "I've got the picture right here and you don't have it."
"Are you insane? I'm good, but not that good."
Ro's voice. At Joey's. And what were they talking about? Probably something about decorating. Her brother was no dummy and probably recruited Ro to help with paint colors and furniture placement. Lucie stepped around the short wall separating the entry from the living room.
"Guys," she said, "what are you arguing about?"
"Ohmygod."
The panic in Ro's voice, that slight break, should have been the first clue, but no. The second clue was the important one. The clue Lucie saw rather than heard. Joey flat on his back on the bare hardwood floor, cell phone in hand, while he studied the screen. Sitting on top of him, facing his feet—my eyes—Ro inhaled hard enough to make her extremely naked boobs bounce.
Lucie scanned her best friend's bare legs straddling Joey's hips. Slowly, as if taking in a bad wreck
, she shifted her gaze up. To the dark, swirling hair on Joey's chest and then, still taking in that horrendous wreck, she followed the flash of bare skin to where Joey's hip met Ro's leg.
Too much. Gah! My eyes.
Lucie started screaming. A blood curdling, axe-murderer-is-chasing-me scream that bounced off the stripped walls and echoed through the empty apartment.
Ro scrambled to lift herself off of Joey, but he locked his fingers around her waist, squeezing with enough force that the veins in his hands popped.
"Don't get up," he said. "I'm naked here!"
And Lucie screamed louder, threw her hands over eyes that had to be bleeding. Had to be.
"Luce!" Ro said, "Stop that yelling. The whole neighborhood can hear you. Joey, hand me that shirt."
"God's sakes, Luce," he said. "Turn around."
And still Lucie screamed. Too much. All of it. No woman should have to see her brother naked.
Ever.
Somewhere behind her, Ro laughed, but it wasn't a ha-ha laugh. Nervous, not typical of anything Lucie ever heard from her BFF.
"I'm afraid to look." Lucie poked at her closed eyes. "It's like tiny daggers shooting into me."
"What the hell's the screaming?"
Frankie's voice. Huffy. As if he'd sprinted up all three flights. With all the screaming, he probably had.
Lucie opened her eyes, found Frankie in the doorway, his chest indeed heaving. She threw her hands out. "Don't look!"
Last thing she needed was Frankie seeing Ro naked. If he saw that perfection, she'd be doomed. She'd never feel comfortable au natural in front of him again.
And yet, he leaned left to peek around her. "What's wrong?"
She shifted to block his view. "Please don't look. It's a nightmare."
"Is someone dead?"
"Not yet. But Joey could be soon."
Again Ro laughed, but this time it wasn't so panicked. "Usually, I'm the drama queen."
Frankie's jaw didn't just drop, it plummeted. "Ro?"
Again, he tried to peep around Lucie. Again, Lucie blocked his view. She tapped her fingers over her eye sockets. "Are my eyes bleeding? They have to be."
Frankie snorted. "No. You're fine. What's wrong?"
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