She peeked through the open door leading to the kitchen. "Hello?"
No answer. Crud. So much for running late—wink, wink—in the hope of finding someone at home.
Lucie unclipped the leash and stowed it in the utility closet. She glanced back at Otis, still drinking, his tail moving into hyper-speed. "I know, boy. You want that bully."
She grabbed one from the stack, bent low and gave him a nuzzle, receiving a sloppy lick for her troubles.
God, she loved this dog. "You're awesome-sauce, Otis."
Something about the love of a good dog always made her a little gooey.
When he plopped his big butt to a sit, she handed over the treat and he took off to his giant doggie bed to enjoy his snack.
"Bye, Otis. See you tomorrow. Love ya, buddy."
Outside the garage, she spun back to hit the button.
"Hi, Lucie. Don't close it."
Mr. L.'s voice. She turned and found him just hitting the tiny driveway. He wore a black suit, a crisp white shirt, and a pink tie. She loved a man in a pink tie. His matching pocket hankie had long since given up the fight and drooped, but still made a sharp contrast to the dark suit.
And better yet, she'd had perfect timing. Maybe her plan wasn't a bust after all.
"Hey there," she said. "The big guy and I just finished our walk. He's inside. I gave him a few extra minutes today since I was running a bit late."
"Great. Thanks. We're heading out tonight so the exercise will wear him out. The wife wanted me home early. Apparently, I always make us late. I'm going inside to prove I'll be ready on time. No distractions."
Lucie glanced back at the door, at her scooter, then to Mr. Lutz again.
Time to get to the bottom of whatever this mess with Bart was.
Putting on a good show, Lucie started down the driveway then snapped her fingers. "Oh, Mr. L., quick question. If you don't mind."
"Sure. What's up?"
"The painting you bought from Bart, my friend is thinking about making a purchase but she's new to buying art. Is there some kind of paperwork she needs for insurance purposes? You know, proof of authenticity or whatever."
And if she did say so herself, that insurance idea was nothing short of genius. Even if it felt crummy lying.
The corners of his mouth dipped down for a second and Lucie reconsidered her brilliance. Maybe she'd overstepped here. But, really, she hadn't asked for his bill of sale for crying out loud. She waved it away. "Don't worry about it. I'll figure it out."
Mr. L. perked up. "No, Lucie, it's fine. What she needs is called provenance. Bart gave me a signed certificate. If you want, I'll pull it and show you a copy when you come back tomorrow. The original is in my safe deposit box, but I have a photocopy here at the house."
Well, that was easy. "Thank you. I'd appreciate it. That way I'll just tell her to ask for that. But don't worry, I won't tell Bart you showed it to me."
Mr. L. shrugged. "I've got nothing to hide. If he has a problem with it, then he's paranoid."
Lucie, not as skilled in her method acting as Ro, let out an awkward laugh. "Paranoid. That's funny."
"Lucie?"
"Yes?"
"Are you okay?"
She'd known Mr. L. since she'd been in grad school. He'd hired her despite her association with the Rizzo crime family. He'd had faith in her. Had always been honest and even helped her find work when she'd been downsized.
And now she harbored the secret that Bart Owens had swindled him. She looked beyond him to the house where Otis was probably still working that bully stick and something inside her detonated, sending a burst of sweat pouring down her back. Just boom.
What the hell was she doing?
This is wrong. If the situation were reversed and she'd gotten ripped off, she'd want to know. She'd want her friend to clue her in.
She couldn't do it. Couldn't stand in front of him, this man who'd been so kind to her, and lie to him.
"No," she said. "I'm not okay. I have to tell you something and I feel horrible about it."
Tight-lipped concern flooded his face. "What is it?"
"The Gomez."
"What about it?"
Where should she begin? That blasted piece of crap painting might destroy her relationship with the Lutzses.
And take Otis out of her life.
Just come clean.
"Okay," Lucie said. "Here it is. You won’t like it, so brace yourself."
Lucie spent the next few minutes enlightening Mr. Lutz on Lauren's fascination with the painting, Lucie's subsequent research and contacting the family about My Darkest Night. Admitting it lightened the load, cooled that detonated burst inside her and just plain felt...right.
Mr. L.—bless him—had barely reacted. His eyebrows had drawn in slightly, but beyond that? Nothing. After a few seconds, he held up his hands. "Y-you're telling me," he stuttered, "that my painting is a fake?"
"Yes, sir. I'm so sorry. I can't believe it. I hope you know I'd never intentionally be involved in criminal activity. I wouldn't want you to think..."
Again he paused, narrowed his eyes and slightly puckered his lips. Back when she'd been his assistant, she'd seen this look many times when he mulled over a difficult situation or investment deal.
She stepped forward, ready to face his wrath. "I'm so sorry."
But Mr. L. shook his head. "This isn't your fault. You were trying to help."
Yes. And look where that got her? She mopped her hands over her face. "I feel bad. You've been so good to me. You don't deserve this."
"You're sure it's a fake?"
"I spoke with the family's attorney myself. He said they still have the original and they don't intend on selling it. That sounds like proof to me."
Mr. L. jerked his head, pressed his lips together for a second. "I'll talk to Bart. Give him a chance to explain this. I don't know enough about art."
What was to know? She'd just told him he had a fake. Where was the outrage? The horror over being swindled?
"If you'd like, we could do that together. Since I'm the one who busted him."
His gaze shot to hers. "No," he said a little too quickly.
What was up here? Nothing about his reaction seemed right.
Mr. L. circled one hand. "I, uh, don't want him to feel ambushed. I'll take care of it, Lucie. And, thank you."
"All right. Let me know if you need anything. I'm happy to help. Even if you want to go to the police, file a complaint or whatever, I can help. I have a friend who's a detective. He'd help us."
His eyes bulged and his face contorted into stiff lines. Finally, some sort of outrage. She'd have been a maniac by now.
"The police," he said. "I don't know that it's necessary. Not yet. If that painting is fake, Bart Owens is going to make good on it. Believe me."
He rested his hand on her shoulder and she stiffened. Friends touched each other all the time, but this was...odd.
He lifted his hand away and Lucie fought the urge to step back. Maybe the situation had simply made her jittery. A little off her game. Whatever.
She jerked her hand toward the street. "I'm going to, um, head home. Let me know if you need any more information. And again, I'm sorry."
Mr. L. headed into the house and Lucie hotfooted her way down the driveway. She'd gotten lucky and nabbed a parking spot two houses down, a welcome event since her feet were killing her.
She hopped into the car, fired that puppy up, and buckled in. By now, traffic would be miserable, so she mentally prepped herself for an excruciating ride home. She could just add that to her crummy mood. She'd completely blown the plan by telling Mr. Lutz about the fake painting. Dang it. She'd make a terrible detective.
Before pulling out of her spot, she caught Mr. L. opening the garage door again and backing his car out. After the conversation they'd just had, she wasn't surprised he was defying his wife's order to stay put. He checked the road for traffic, backed into the street and punched the gas. And, by the way he hit tha
t pedal and roared down the tight city block, he appeared to be in a hurry. A big one.
Most likely on his way to see Bart. Maybe to confront him face-to-face because that's how Mr. L. rolled. If he had an issue with someone, he went at it person to person. No distractions, no excuses, no slinking away.
With what Bart had put her through these last few days, it would be fun to watch Lutz nail him. Just rip into him.
Ooooh, that bastard. Selling fake paintings and bringing her in on it. She should report him to the police herself. Well, she sort of already had by telling Tim. But still, she was so strung out she wouldn't mind seeing Bart Owens in handcuffs. Locked in a cell. Feeling the way she had when she'd been arrested.
Yikes, what a week.
She shifted her car into gear, watched Mr. L. make the right at the end of the block. Where was he going?
Since she'd already decided traffic on the Kennedy would be a mess, she could kill some time, let the traffic die down.
And follow Lutz.
Just to see if he was about to confront Bart.
Had to be, right? He'd just been swindled and he was a man of action.
At the corner, Lucie looked right, watched for a second as Mr. L. made the next right, heading down the one-way street. She should be going left, making her way home for another night alone and working on financial reports for her growing business.
But that damned Bart Owens. She wanted to see him squirm.
Lucie made the right.
* * *
Lucie waited until Mr. L. entered the gallery then sneaked around the back to the office entrance where she usually picked up Oscar the Perv. Chances were he'd be in the office, but he wasn't a barker, so the worst that would happen is she'd get humped.
A silent hump.
As long as it didn't clue Bart in that she was in the office, the dog could get off on her all he wanted.
At the base of the stoop, she formed a plan. First, she'd peek in the door's window. If Bart was in the office and spotted her, she'd tell him she lost her watch somewhere and was backtracking the day's route.
Lame, but the best she could do on short notice. She probably wouldn't even need a cover story since Mr. L. had already entered the gallery and Bart normally hopped up from his desk the second the door chimes sounded. Nothing stood between Bart and a customer.
Lucie climbed the steps, contemplated what she was about to do. She really should have checked with Tim on whether or not she could be arrested for this. It had to be trespassing since she was outside the function she'd been hired for. Sadly, snooping on the client probably wasn't included in her scope of services. At least she'd texted Tim to let him know she was coming over here.
That way, if she suddenly went missing, he'd know where to look.
And wasn't that a lovely thought?
She held her breath until her lungs ached and then released it. Go to work. She peeped in the door. No Bart. But Oscar lay sunny-side-up, snoozing on his Sniffany dog bed. Good boy.
The second she slid her key into the lock, Oscar bolted to his feet, faced the door and his tail whipped into action. Please don't pick today to be a barker.
She slipped inside, bent low to say hello to Oscar and heard voices from the gallery floor. Definitely Bart. Definitely Mr. L.
Lucie moved behind the closed door leading to the gallery and pressed her ear to it.
"You sold me a goddamned fake? Me?"
Mr. L.
Annoyed voice.
Lucie hated his annoyed voice. It remained steady in volume, low even, but the lack of shouting made it all the more fierce.
"Don't be ridiculous," Bart said. "I gave you the provenance."
A long pause and then, "I'm supposed to believe that crap?"
"Daniel," Bart said, "I know what you're thinking. I didn't give you fake paperwork."
"Lucie was just at my house. She feels guilty because she brokered a deal involving a fake painting. She's worried she's going to prison."
Darned tootin'. And if she was about to become someone's prison bitch, Bart was going with her.
"She's mistaken," Bart said. "Why would she think the painting is fake?"
"Give up already. She called the Gomez family. That damned dog walker she has—the art history major?—started asking questions. My Darkest Night is still in the hands of the family. They've never sold it. You dumbass. You should have at least faked a painting that wasn't still owned by the family. Flaming idiot."
Silence.
Yeah! Get him Mr. L.
"Which means," Mr. L. continued, "not only are you giving me my money back on that painting, we have to figure out a way to back Lucie off. We've barely gotten into this thing and you've botched it."
Hold up. Lucie hopped away from the door and stared at it. We? Back Lucie off?
"Daniel, don't panic. I'll handle Lucie. She knows nothing about art."
Hey! She knew enough to figure out Bart Owens was a thieving bastard.
From her pocket, her phone vibrated. Tim. Wanting to know what she was doing. She shot off a text.
Snooping at the gallery. Something might be up. Will call in a bit.
"Don't underestimate her, Bart. She's smart and she's grown up around criminals. She can sniff out a scam in no time. We should have anticipated this."
There was that "we" again. What did it mean? Was Lutz involved in selling himself a fake painting? That made no sense.
"I'll deal with her," Bart said.
"No. I'll deal with her. First, tell me where we're at on this thing. Setting aside what you owe me for that fake painting you sold me and the other deal you did, I want the rest of my money back. I'm out."
"Well fine, Daniel, but you'll have to wait. The money is tied up."
"Where?"
"You know where. I've got three guys on the hook. I've paid the artist with the money you gave me. He's one of the top forgers in the world. He'll have all three paintings done in two weeks. I'll sell the paintings and give you your money. I don't have that kind of cash lying around. If I did, I wouldn't have needed you!"
Just stop it. Mr. Lutz was in on this crazy scheme. Double-thieving rat bastards.
And they'd roped her into it. Lucie squeezed her fists tight, then bit back a stream of venom ready to fly. She'd been nice to them. Both of them. Tried to help them and make a little side money for herself. Oooh, she'd known the whole thing felt a little smarmy. Knew it. But with her father coming home, the lure of fast cash that would get her new headquarters completed led her to ignore her instincts.
Well, this is what she got.
And her cop boyfriend—was he even her boyfriend?—wouldn't be able to get her out of a fraud charge.
Dammit, these men. They'd betrayed her trust. That alone infuriated her. Rage, fast and sharp, shredded her, made her eyes throb. She closed them, took a long, slow breath. Calm down.
Calm.
Down.
If she confronted them, they'd know she'd been listening. Confronting them would give her some satisfaction, though. Just looking them straight in the face and letting them know that she knew what they didn't think she knew, but she did. Wait. What now?
She shook it off. Got her mind straight.
Tim.
She'd told him she'd be here. She could leave and call him. Relay everything to him and ask his advice. If nothing else, she could go to the police herself and confess. Ugh. How awful would that be? Joe Rizzo's kid, the apple that didn't fall far.
The gossips would have a grand time pulverizing saintly Lucie.
Once again, her father's reputation had put her in a place she never wanted to be.
"How the hell does this happen to me?" she muttered.
Well, however it happened, she wasn't about to put up with it. She hadn't known Bart and Mr. Lutz were scammers. Not a clue.
Who was she kidding? No one would believe that. Not of Joe Rizzo's kid.
The office door flew open.
Oh, no. Caught.
> Lucie leaped backward, held up her fists. Fists? As if she knew how to fight.
Oscar barked at the sudden movement and Bart halted. He looked down at Oscar then, as if sensing someone, slowly lifted his gaze. Lucie narrowed her eyes—mean Lucie. Very mean Lucie.
His face stretched into open-mouthed shock. "What the hell are you doing?"
Her? The nerve. "Bart, I think the question is what the hell are you doing?"
16
Tim sat at his desk reading and rereading Lucie's text. What kind of message was that to send a cop? She was at a gallery owned by a known crook and thinks something is up. And expects him to do what? A phone call would have been nice. Maybe an explanation.
He tossed the phone on his desk. "She's got to be kidding me."
"Who?"
He glanced up at Rich Laslo, another detective in his unit. Rich, obviously on his way to the coffee pot if the mug in his hand were any indication, halted. He stood beside the desk in his wrinkled suit pants and shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. Rich was an old-timer. One of those gritty twenty-year veterans with balding heads and barrel chests that were great for intimidating witnesses.
Given that, there was no way Tim could admit this one. Hey, Rich, guess what? I'm hot for Joe Rizzo's daughter and she wound up in the middle of an art fraud case. She's innocent. Really.
What was he supposed to do with this text? If he went running over to that gallery and nothing happened, he'd tip off Bart Owens that they were on to him. Hell, this wasn't even an official case.
It would be soon, but he hadn't brought it to his superiors yet.
Stupid ass that he was, he'd known dating a mob guy's daughter—and not just any mob guy, but the mob guy—would be complicated.
But this topped any and all scenarios he'd imagined. And that was saying something for a Chicago cop.
"Women," he said to Rich.
"Please. I got two ex-wives. You're not telling me anything I don't know."
Tim read the text again, then set the phone down and tipped his head back to study the ceiling.
"Oh, boy," Rich said. "You got that look you get when a case strings you up."
Tim grunted.
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