Dog Collar Knockoff

by Adrienne Giordano

  “And?”

  “He wouldn’t leave his family. I can’t tell you how many arguments we’ve had over his family and their constant involvement and meddling. He put them before me every time.”

  Well, all but one time when his father’s twenty-year-old jewelry heist put Lucie in danger. At least then Frankie had taken her side. She couldn’t tell Tim that. That secret, out of loyalty to Frankie, would go to her grave with her.

  “Really.”

  And the way he said really let her know that he understood he’d scored big points on their first date when he’d commented about his family’s interference. With him, his family’s opinion didn’t matter.

  The one thing Frankie could never give her.

  “Yes, Detective. You won yourself a gold star.”

  He grinned. “I like gold stars.”

  “I bet you do.”

  “You’ve gotta be upset though. All that time with him and now he’s leaving.”

  She brought her hands up to her head, slowly ran them over her tied-back hair that had to be a mess by now. “I am upset. But he’s leaving after he never would for me. That tells me something.” She nudged him with her foot again. “And then you come into my life and remind me what fun is and it makes me realize what I’ve been missing.”

  He clapped his hands then swung them wide. “Another gold star for the Irish cop. When I’m good, I’m good.”

  “Yes. And if you get me out of this mess with the paintings, it’ll be a hat trick.”

  He brought his hands back to his thighs and tapped his fingers. “What do I get for that?”

  “You’ll get something. Don’t worry. But—”

  “Ach. I hate the ‘but’.”

  “I just want to be honest with you. I like you. A lot. I just don’t want you to be a rebound. It’s not fair to you.”

  For a second, he didn’t respond. Just took that in. “You and Frankie broke up three months ago, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll take the risk. You’re as level-headed as they come, Lucie. You’re not gonna jump into anything without knowing what you’re doing. I’m in. Whatever you want from me, it’s yours.”

  Lucie hopped off the desk, grabbed Tim by the cheeks, and planted one on him. Just let him have it. Obviously, he didn’t mind because he clamped his hands over her backside and pulled her forward and down onto his lap until she straddled him.

  In the middle of Carlucci’s! Well, Coco Barknell, but still, anyone could walk by. She didn’t care. All she cared about were his lips and hers doing this way cool dance. She slid her hands over his shoulders, prayed the folding chair could hold both of them and went to work feasting on him, brushing her lips against his, loving the feel of his minty breath mingling with hers. New and fun and…different. Yes. And she liked different. Liked the way he tentatively touched his tongue to hers, testing, and when she responded, he pulled her closer.

  So. Good.

  “Sister! What the hell?”

  Lucie lurched back, her heart slamming from the sound of Ro’s voice. Tim hung on, kept her from going over and crashing to the floor. Lucie whipped her head left to where Ro stood in the doorway, hands on hips and looking fierce.

  But Tim. And his amazing lips. Go with the lips. She turned back to him, ready to dive right back in.

  “Hey,” Ro hollered. “You must be crazy. Two doors down from Petey’s and you and the hunkmeister are going at it like horndogs. Anybody could walk by and see you. Anybody meaning your father’s friends.”

  From under Lucie, Tim gave a full-on, high-voltage smile and patted her rear. “I’ve gotta get back anyway. Would love to pick this up later, though.”

  “You know it, Detective.” Lucie waggled her eyebrows. “Maybe you can interrogate me?”

  “Oh, honey,” Ro said. “You’ll also need my help in the dirty talk department.”

  Who cared? Lucie never claimed to be a grand seductress. All she wanted was fun, and Tim O’Brien, without a doubt, provided that.

  “If you’re really lucky,” Tim said, “I’ll even handcuff you.”

  *

  Tim strolled out of the shop, offering up a quick nod to Ro, who eyeballed him up and down with that No you didn’t look she performed so well.

  With the hunkmeister gone, she whirled on Lucie, who’d moved back to sitting on top of the desk, swinging her legs just for the heck of it because kissing Tim had been a nice distraction. And after the day she’d had so far, she didn’t mind that.

  “Well,” Ro said, “I’m glad to see you’re finally getting some, but really, Luce?” She circled her arms. “Here?”

  “I don’t care who sees me. I’m done caring. How’s that?”

  “Bravo. The one who always makes herself sick over what other people think is going to the dark side. I’m thrilled. Let’s just not make this a suicide mission. If one of those nut jobs at Petey’s saw you, they’d be talking all kinds of smack. You know that’ll get back to Frankie. And your dad. You want that kind of heat?”

  As her best friend, Ro knew how to get straight to the issue at hand. Lucie never minded. Ro loved her and that love meant being honest. Under any circumstances.

  Everyone should have that kind of friend. Someone who cared enough to say even the most awkward things.

  “Of course I don’t want that,” Lucie said. “But I’m getting tired of worrying about what everyone thinks. For once, I want to have some fun. Ro, do you know how long it’s been since I’ve just had fun?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Fun. As in not stressing over every decision. Over who will get offended if I do something a certain way or who will leak info to my dad. I’m just done. I can’t do it anymore.”

  “Ah. So the Irish cop is some kind of twisted revenge?”

  God no. “No. Not at all. Here’s one for you. I like him. A lot. Being with him feels new and easy and he doesn’t judge me.”

  “Frankie never judged you.”

  Lucie gasped. “Of course not. I’m talking about people outside the life. They judge me. It makes me wonder if part of what made Frankie and I work was that we understood each other’s worlds. It made things simpler. No learning curve.”

  “Nothing wrong with comfortable.” The second Ro said it, she stopped. Shook her head. “Unless comfortable is a stripper-banger. I guess.”

  “I’m done with comfortable. Besides, it doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “I know.”

  “You know?”

  Ro nodded. “Frankie caught me leaving Joey’s. He told me about New York.”

  “Can you even believe it? After all the times I begged him to leave Franklin?”

  “I’d be irritated. But, Luce, are you sure you want to call it quits? I know you love him.”

  “I do love him.” As long as she could remember she’d loved him. “But I have to let him go. Someone has to end this or we’ll be forty years old, still living this way, and wondering how we got to that point.”

  Ro stepped forward and wrapped Lucie in a hug. “Ah, Luce. I’m sorry.”

  She tipped her chin up, rested it on Ro’s shoulder, expecting that any second it would hit her. That she and Frankie were over. But… nothing. All there was now was a hug from her best friend. She wouldn’t cry. At least not now. She’d accept what had been coming for so long and embrace it. Follow whatever this new absent-Frankie path would be.

  That’s what I’ll do.

  She patted Ro’s back. “Yeah. Me too. I’ll always love him. I know that. But it’s over. Time for both of us to move on.”

  She backed out of Ro’s arms and glanced at the door Tim had just walked through. Whether he’d be the one she’d move on with, she didn’t know. All she knew was that suddenly, her body was lighter, as if her chest had opened up and she could breathe again.

  Freedom.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Walking Otis at the end of the day had become Lucie’s standard operating procedure. Ending the d
ay with all that doggie love would never be a bad thing. After Otis’s late walk, she punched in the code on the Lutz’s garage and watched the door go up. Living in Lincoln Park, the Lutzses and their two neighbors had the rare perk of having an attached garage. That’s what a teardown and a rebuild bought for their money in this cushy neighborhood.

  The Lutz’s car was parked next to Lucie’s scooter, which Mr. L. stored for her when she wasn’t in the city. The car didn’t always mean someone was home. To avoid parking woes, the Lutzses often cabbed it around the city. Mr. L. had even been known to take the bus since it stopped right at the corner of his office.

  The one Lucie used to work with him in. The place where he’d befriended her and helped her transition out of her corporate job and into picking up doggie accessory clients to make ends meet. Making ends meet turned into Coco Barknell. All because the Lutzses introduced her to a few people after she’d made Otis a fancy dog collar.

  Lucie would always be thankful for their support. Always. Getting them hooked up with a swindler wasn’t exactly a great way to repay their generosity. Please let them forgive me.

  Otis, needing to be the man in charge, led her to the inside door. As Coco Barknell grew, she’d had less and less time for dog walking and missed Otis the most. A big lug of an Olde English bulldogge, he was seventy-five pounds of unconditional love.

  “Relax, Otis, you’ll get there. If you’re lucky, I’ll give you a bully stick.”

  She eased the door open and Otis squeezed through, his nub of a tail whipping—if nubs whipped—back and forth. She dropped the leash and he dashed right to his water bowl on the far side of the mudroom.

  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 that 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.