by K. J. Larsen
The door slammed and I turned to the kid. “You work here?”
“Community Service. Judge gave me forty hours in Hell.”
“What for?”
“Reckless driving. Said I should see the stiffs that drive too fast.” He shrugged. “You gotta die sometime.”
“But not today.” I found my keys. “Take it easy, Billy.”
He grinned. “For the record, you’re hotter than the first Mrs. Savino.”
“You saw her?”
“Yeah, red hair. She wore it up like my English teacher. The blue makeup around her eyes was a little smeared. She was a better crier, I’ll give her that.”
He was describing my client. The Mrs. Savino wannabe.
“What did he tell her?”
“Same thing he told you. Take it up with the FBI like he doesn’t know anything.”
“Oh.”
“He’s lying.”
“What does he know?” I prodded.
“It’s like I told the first Mrs. Savino. They were talking about the guy but they didn’t know I was listening.”
“What did you hear?”
“They said he had a snake tattooed around his neck and the rattle was a tiny skull.”
“Nasty. Anything else?”
“He wasn’t all burned and he wasn’t blown apart. The blast threw him out of the building.”
Like me. I was so busy whining about my headache I hadn’t thought about how lucky I was to survive the bomb. Mama was right. I should go to Confession for being a putz.
I sat beside Billy on the rail. “I was there when the bomb went off. It was so loud I thought it shattered my head. Maybe this guy didn’t even know what hit him.”
“He didn’t.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Dude had a bullet in his brain.”
“Oh my god.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said.” Billy grinned. “You know the first Mrs. Savino let me test drive her new Mazda.”
“I’m guessing she has more insurance.” I pulled a twenty from my wallet. “Take a cab.”
Chapter Six
The creamy Lexus wasn’t parked outside my door when I got home. I thought that was a good sign. Inga raced me to the kitchen. I walked to the fridge and pulled out the bag Tino had prepared for my wake.
I pulled out two plates from the cupboard.
“If you get farts you’re banished to the guest room.”
I set Inga’s food on the kitchen floor and carried my dinner and a glass of wine into the living room, and settled on the couch. I scanned the channels for something to watch. There was too much drama, too much blood, too much my recent life.
I settled on a White Sox-Twins game and dozed off in the third inning. We were tied when I woke at the bottom of the eighth. I stumbled to the bathroom, peed, and brushed my teeth.
A low growl escaped Inga’s throat and my fierce companion crouched low, hair raised on her back. My toothbrush fell in the sink. Was someone lurking in my closet?
Did I say lurking? I crouched after her, my Colgate mouth white and foamy. My gun was on the couch defending my wine, but I grabbed a towel rack and can of extra-hold sticky hair spray, determined to beat my stalker senseless and glue his eyes shut with John Freida. My heart pounded in my chest and I realized I wasn’t breathing.
“Get ‘im, Inga,” I whispered. She skulked past the closet door and charged onto the bed. Gnawing her teeth into the quilt she snarled and shook her head fiercely.
I forced one foot in front of the other full with dread. “Leave it,” I said. She dropped the quilt and the growl in her throat deepened. Something was in the bed and whatever it was the hairspray couldn’t help. I took two deep breaths and flung the covers aside, exposing a bloody mass of guts and hair. The stench of death filled my nostrils and my head reeled. It was a filthy disgusting rodent, a giant rat sliced open from neck to tail, innards spilling on my sheets. The creep’s final unforgivable gesture was made with the Tuscany silk scarf I bought in Italy last summer. It was tied to the rat’s tail.
My knees went wobbly on me and I tasted vomit mixed with toothpaste. I shuddered. He had been here in my bedroom, going through my things. Forget what you saw or you’ll be sorry, he told me last night on the phone. Well I was sorry, all right. Sorry I couldn’t remember what it is I was supposed to forget. At least then I would know what the hell was going on.
I marched into my office, flipped the light switch, and groaned. I smelled his fat cigar. A Starburst candy wrapper had just missed the waste basket and Chance Savino’s file had disappeared from my desk.
Heavy footsteps sounded on the porch and I heard a rattle of keys. I sucked in my breath. The door knob jiggled and a succession of keys twisted in the lock.
“Get him,” Inga, I hissed. The beagle danced by the door and wagged her tail.
Some watch dog.
I ditched the hairspray and dove for the couch and my gun. My hand shook and I crept toward the door and leveled my gaze through the peephole. A rush of relief surged through me and my breath caught a sob. I threw the door open and fell on my brother Rocco.
“My god, sis, you’re foaming at the mouth.”
He pried my fingers from the gun and closed them around a bag of Chinese take out. I nodded wordlessly and pointed toward the bedroom. Rocco disappeared inside. He swore viciously, kicked something hard, and emerged with every stitch of bedding in his arms, rat buried deep in a bundle of linens. He delivered them to the garbage and I morphed into the mad cleaning woman, sterilizing any surface the intruder may have touched with Lysol. When I was finished I found Rocco in the kitchen and he pressed a drink in my hand.
“What are you doing here?” I said. “I thought you were that monster. I almost shot you.”
“I was looking for the right key. I told you I wouldn’t let you stay alone.”
I took a deep breath and willed my hands to stop shaking.
“Besides I was glad to get away. Maria’s sister’s here from Jersey and they giggle like school girls. I don’t remember you and Sophie being like that.”
“We weren’t. Sophie played with dolls and I climbed trees with you. There’s a glitch in my girlie genes.”
The screwdriver settled my nerves quickly, maybe because I’d drained most of the OJ at breakfast.
“I don’t think you’ll find a rat in the guest room,” I said, “but I wouldn’t crawl into bed with the lights off.”
“Good tip but I’m taking the couch tonight. If that asshole comes back I’m nailing him.”
I cracked a couple beers and nuked the take-out. Rocco ate like a great hunter just in from the kill. The squid on his plate looked like something I’d seen on my bed. I wished he’d ordered vegetarian.
“I ran the plates for you,” Rocco said.
“Yeah?”
He paused to suck a chicken bone dry. My stomach lurched.
“The green BMW was a bust. Stolen plates.” He tugged at a back pocket and came up with the paper I’d given him. “This is interesting. The Lexus and the black Boxster are licensed by two separate companies with offices in the same building.”
“On Michigan Avenue.”
He looked impressed.
“The place is a fortress. I stopped by twice and couldn’t get past the front desk.”
He wasn’t impressed any more.
Rocco daubed barbequed pork in Chinese mustard and chomped it with his teeth.
“Jackson and I’ll drop by tomorrow before our shift. Unofficially, of course.”
Jackson is Rocco’s partner. He’s Samoan and built like a government machine. In a world of Fords and Chevys, few argue with a tank.
“Do you think that’s wise?”
Savino’s office was hell and gone from Bridgeport’s 9th District. Rocco had no business flashing a badge downtown. Chicago cops are serious about the turf thing.
“No one will know we were there.” Rocco dragged a not
ebook from his pocket and flipped a few pages. “The Lexus is registered to the Harbor Reach International Corporation. The business began in the midnineties. They deal in commodities.”
“I think I have one of their commodities in my trash. What about the Boxster?”
Rocco read from his notes. “Licensed by an import export investment company. Owner C.J. Savino.”
“Chance.”
“Looks like Savino did extremely well until his untimely death three—”
“He did not die three days ago.”
Rocco held up his hands. “Hey, I’m just reading this.”
“Sorry. What happened when you ran the print off my passenger door?”
“I ran it three times but it locked me out. Savino’s file is classified. Requires a level four security clearance.”
“Talk to the captain.”
“I’m not authorized to investigate this case. It belongs to the FBI. They tied our hands.”
“And they aren’t doing shit.” I took a steadying breath. “Why is an investment company interested in me?”
“It’s not you. It’s what they think you saw before the explosion.”
“I didn’t see anything.”
“Maybe not. If you did, it might come to you later. The events that occur just before an accident or head injury are often lost.”
“Tell that to Ratman.”
I poured myself another drinkr. “What about Savino’s house.”
“The plot thickens. The house was purchased in ’87 by a J. Smithe. Funny thing, Smithe doesn’t pay taxes.”
“I’m guessing he’s not a church.”
“Smells like government. Probably Feds. These are people you don’t want to antagonize.”
“Too late.”
“Harding is supposed to be a decent guy. How’d you piss him off?”
“I pissed off the whole department. I’m an equal opportunity pisser.”
Rocco raked his fingers through his hair. “Do me a favor. At least think about taking the dispatch job Monday. The pay sucks but the health insurance is great.”
“I already thought about it. If I took the job why would I need insurance? No one blows up a dispatcher.”
Chapter Seven
I awoke early the next morning less sore and ready to kick ass. I studied myself in the mirror. The bruises were starting to fade. All in all, I looked more like myself again.
I had tossed much of the night trying to make sense of what I knew. That was the short list. The long list was what I didn’t. The person who could fill in the blanks was somewhere in this city. What I knew about her was the shortest list of all. Her name wasn’t Rita Savino.
The number my client gave me rang a disposable cell phone. Her clothes were unmemorable and penny loafers could be purchased anywhere. However, sometime in the night I remembered a crucial detail. The day Rita came to my office she dropped her keys on the floor. As I bent down to scoop them up for her, a shiny brass key chain caught my eye. It read KIDS FIRST VOLUNTEER. The Kids First Project is a popular Chicago based charity. I had a lead to track my client down.
I wiggled into jeans and a light cable knit sweater and slapped a red SERVICE DOG IN TRAINING vest on Inga. We’re a team. She’s my partner at the Agency. The vest doesn’t improve her manners but it gets her through most doors.
I tapped a finger to my lips and we tiptoed past Rocco snoring on the couch. I snagged my keys off the counter and we sped across town in the Silver Bullet. We drove through Starbucks before pulling into the Kids First Project parking lot. A sign above the door read CHANGING THE WORLD ONE CHILD AT A TIME. I had no idea how many volunteers took on the world this early but I brought six Foo-Foo coffees and a box of Mama’s cannoli.
A slightly stooped white haired man welcomed me in the lobby. The volunteer workshop was in the warehouse and he gave me directions. I offered him a coffee.
“Is that decaf?”
I shook my head and handed him one. “How about a cannoli?”
He scooped up a decadent pastry and grinned. “Don’t tell the wife.”
I zipped my lips. Without coffee and cannoli a person might live forever. But what was the point?
I followed a maze of twisting hallways past administrative offices and a vending snack room to the warehouse. Three early volunteers were at work preparing donations for distribution. They were sensible women and snatched my caffeine and cannoli like a lifeline.
The woman in charge had big, jet black, dyed hair and wore a pair of tortoiseshell glasses half way down her nose. Her name was Gloria. She explained the warehouse housed two charities. On one side was the Kids First Project, the other was its sister company, International Relief.
I flashed a smile. “I’d like to volunteer here sometime. I dropped by to check the place out.”
“Stick around ‘til eleven,” a woman smiled. “One of our volunteers cleans tables at McDonald’s. She’ll bring a big bag of leftover Egg McMuffins.”
McDonald’s? Inga’s ears perked and she pranced in a circle. She’s such a food whore.
I served up another round of cannoli. “I met a woman in a coffee shop who volunteers here. She said it makes her feel good to help the kids and all.”
“Oh it does,” they agreed.
“She said the other women who volunteer here are—” I searched my memory—“fabulous! That’s it! She said you’re fabulous.”
“We are,” they laughed.
“Who is she?” Gloria asked.
“Who?”
“The woman you met.”
I sighed regretfully. “I forgot her name. I was hoping she’d be here today. She left her scarf at the coffee shop. An Italian Tuscany silk.” I recalled my own tied to a rat in the trash and forced a smile. “I’d like to return it to her.”
“You can leave it here,” someone suggested.
Gloria wagged a finger. “Honey, don’t do it. It’ll be boxed and shipped to Mexico.”
“Well darn,” I said all disappointed.
“What does this gal look like?”
“Um, let me see.” I tapped my chin. “Dark hair”—
“It could be anyone.”
“She’s about my age.”
“It could be us twenty years ago.”
“She wears—what would you say—electric blue eyeliner.”
“Rita Polansky!” The group cheered in unison.
I smiled. “Rita sounds right.”
Gloria pulled a little black book from her purse. “I’ll give you her address, if you like.”
“I like.”
I fairly skipped my way back through the maze and the old man eyed the cannoli box wistfully.
I handed it over. “The last one is yours.”
At the door I paused and studied the pictures on the wall. There were more than a dozen. A fat bald man with the mayor at a homeless shelter, hamming it up with the good ol’ boys at the Capital, cheering a Bulls game with the chief of police, shaking hands with Nelson Mandela.
“Who is that guy?”
“You mean Eddie Harr? He’s my boss. Maybe the richest guy in Chicago.”
I studied the pictures on the wall and wondered if this was the guy my client was investigating.
“Seems to be well connected.”
The old man grunted. “Seems to.”
Prying info from him was like pulling teeth.
“You’re lucky to have such a great boss,” I gushed. “I mean look at this charity. All the work he does with the poor. Eddie Harr must be a really decent guy.”
The old man took the last cannoli from the box. “Couldn’t say one way or the other, ma’am. I ain’t never pissed him off.”
***
Rita Polansky’s apartment was in a four-story brick building with a slam dunk view of the great Chicago El train. I took an archaic open cage elevator to the third floor and padded down a long threadbare carpet to the end of the hall. Apartme
nt 302 served up burritos for breakfast. 305’s door was riddled with bullet holes and double dead bolts. My client lived in 309. She’d laid out a welcome mat at her door. Rita Polansky was definitely not from Chicago.
I hung an ear to the door. Rita was at home all right—I could hear her moving about inside. I considered knocking, but only briefly. One peek through the peephole and my liar, liar client wouldn’t open the door. I decided to piss Rita off and let myself in. The welcome mat convinced me she was too civilized to shoot. And she had told too many lies to call the cops.
I did my magic with her lock, scooted my butt inside 309, and closed the door behind me. Rita’s world was a jolt back to the sixties. The orange lava lamp and wing-back olive green swivel chairs screamed retro like the electric blue eyeliner she wore. The home was tidy except for a few discarded Starburst candy wrappers twisted in bows. And there was one penny loafer with a lucky copper coin discarded on the hardwood floor.
I heard Rita in the bedroom opening and closing drawers. Getting dressed, I decided. I snooped around the corner to a gingham-checked kitchen. A slew of blue glass jars lined the counter filled with brewer’s yeast, lecithin, and organic soy protein powder. Yuck. An assortment of herbs and vitamins spilled from an apple box on the table. I snooped around the cupboards for a snack and couldn’t find a cookie or decadent chip. Apparently Rita Polansky was a plump health nut. It’s a bitch to get fat on granola.
I trotted back to the living room and waited for her to come out. Plopping down on a swivel chair I spun around fast until something glittery caught my eye and I jerked to an abrupt stop. A shiny penny gleamed in the morning sun. It was fixed on the missing loafer and the luck was choked clean out of it. The foot beside the one in the loafer had lost its shoe. I followed the chubby white leg until it disappeared behind the couch.
I felt my heart sink down to my stomach. My breath came in short strangled gasps. With slow, careful steps I crept on gumby legs to peer behind the couch. Rita Polansky wasn’t in the bedroom dolling up after all. Her unseeing eyes gawked back at me. A kitchen knife jutted from her chest.
Something clattered in the bedroom and I stared at the 9mm in my hand. How did that get there? I was alone with a psycho nutcase killer. I steadied the bobbling barrel with my free hand. I can do this, I pumped myself. The DeLuca blood runs through my veins. Chicago blood, cop blood. So maybe I don’t have a license to kill or even to break into an apartment. Chicago cops are always good for a cover up.
