Liar, Liar

by K. J. Larsen

  “No one cooks like Mama,” the twins declared.

  Their wives ground their teeth and Mama lit up like Christmas.

  Father Timothy captured my hands. “Take the first step, my child. Acknowledge you have a problem.”

  I wrangled my hands back and looked around the room at my whacko family. I had a problem all right. It was too late to be adopted.

  Mama tapped her fingertips to her temple. “Caterina forgets she has a job with benefits.”

  “She remembers enough to know she’s not a dispatcher,” Uncle Joey said.

  Papa twisted around in his chair and tugged down his pants. “You see this scar? I was gunned down on the streets of Chicago.”

  “Papa is a hero,” the twins breathed.

  Mama made the sign of the cross. “There is a curse on the DeLuca family. My husband is shot on the street. A building falls on my little girl.”

  “It was a sign.” I cradled my head.

  “Sign of the Beast,” Mama said.

  “How many fingers do you see?” Sophie shouted.

  I gave her my middle finger. “One.”

  The twins sniffed the air. “Meatballs,” they said. “We should eat.”

  “Stuff a sock in it,” their wives said.

  “No one eats until Father Timothy fixes Caterina,” Mama said.

  The room hushed. Every head turned expectantly to the priest.

  “Recovery is a process that takes both time and prayer.”

  The twins groaned.

  “Caterina is dealing with several issues here. The concussion may account for her mental instability.”

  “Instability?” I said. “Will you look at this gene pool?”

  “Apart from the concussion there uh, appears to be some uh, moral and spiritual issues as well.”

  “Pornography.” Sophie’s eyes gleamed.

  Father Timothy stood and stretched to his full height. His eyes skimmed the door. He wasn’t fooling me. He longed to split with the saints.

  He raised his arms in a benediction. “Tonight you have helped Caterina take an important first step in recovery. You’ve given her love and support. She knows she will never be alone. Her family is with her always.”

  “Kill me now,” I said.

  Mama looked confused. “Is that it? Is she a dispatcher?”

  Papa scratched his scar. “He fixed her.”

  I held my head and rocked.

  “She looks good,” Uncle Joey said.

  “How do you feel?” Sophie shouted.

  “Hungry!” the twins said.

  Mama plucked a dinner bell from her bra. “It’s a miracle!” she announced. “We eat!”

  Everyone cheered. Mama beamed. Her first intervention was a success.

  The twins made a beeline for the buffet and Mama splashed chianti and punch in frosted glasses. Sophie hunched over the buffet table piling a fat plate for the priest. She’s such a kiss-ass.

  Father Timothy searched my face. “I hope this was helpful, Caterina.”

  “It was…” I swallowed the stinky word on my tongue and started over. “I don’t know what to say, Father.”

  “We’ll talk at Confession,” he smiled.

  I managed a crooked smile back and escaped to the kitchen.

  My chocolate dipped cannoli stood in the fridge beside Mama’s Italian cream cake. I cut off a large chunk because it’s faster and cheaper than therapy. Then I slipped out the back.

  Inga and Joey were waiting at my car. I unlocked the door, dropped my booty on the seat, and threw my uncle a look.

  “What?” he said all innocent. “I said you looked good.”

  “I was ambushed. You could’ve warned me.”

  “I intended to. Right after supper.”

  “Ugh!”

  He laughed and swung Rita’s laptop out from behind his back. “Joey Jr. cracked the code.”

  I grabbed the computer and hugged it against my chest before propping it on the seat. Then I lifted the fat chunk of Italian cream cake to Uncle Joey’s face. He breathed in the wonderful coconut and pecans and his eyes glazed over.

  “For you.” I kissed his cheek. “I have Rita’s laptop now. Therapy isn’t so urgent.”

  He looked perfectly happy.

  “What did Junior say about the laptop.”

  “He said it was almost too easy. Call him if you run into problems. He’s flying out tonight to Cambridge. He wants to check out some university.”

  “That would be Harvard.”

  “Whatever. Junior doesn’t need a fancy education to be a good cop. It’s in his blood.”

  “It’s in your blood.”

  “Damn straight. My grandfather, Agostino DeLuca, worked the Valentine’s Day Massacre.”

  “Wasn’t he a bootlegger during the prohibition?”

  Joey smiled. “He and Scarface did a little business during the prohibition. My grandfather was a good cop. I never wanted to be anything else.”

  I regarded Uncle Joey silently and spoke the unthinkable words gently. “Did you ever consider that maybe Joey Jr. doesn’t want to be a cop.”

  Uncle Joey laughed. “Right. What else would he do?”

  ***

  As planned, I dropped by the deli for pizza and beer on my way home. Tino chuckled when I cruised through the door.

  “How’d the intervention go?”

  I made a face. “Et tu, Tino?”

  He grinned. “It could be worse. Sophie wanted an exorcism.”

  “Of course she did.” I followed Tino back to the kitchen. “Mama had a great time and Father Timothy thinks I’m addicted to pornography.”

  “It’s not a sin to take dirty pictures if you don’t enjoy them.”

  “Tell that to Father Timothy.”

  “Why listen to me?” he laughed. “I’m the sinner that enjoys them.”

  Tino popped a couple of pizzas in the oven and carried a bottle of wine and two glasses to a small table by the window.

  “How’s your head?”

  “It’s better the nights I don’t attend an intervention.”

  “I hear you’ve been making trouble for the Feds.”

  “Me?”

  “Sniffing around, saying Savino’s not dead.”

  “He’s not dead. I saw him this morning.”

  “Where?”

  “At my client’s apartment.”

  “Your dead client?”

  I didn’t blink. Tino knows everything. “What else did you hear?”

  Tino leaned slightly forward. “Your client went after some very nasty people.”

  “She had a big story.”

  “It didn’t work out so well for her.”

  “They didn’t have to waste her.” I swallowed hard. “They could have scared her off, put a carcass in her bed.”

  “Whoever it is, they—”

  I cut him off. “They polished her off because her life wasn’t worth a dead rat to them. Her cousin’s not a D.A. and the Polansky men aren’t Chicago cops.”

  Tino shrugged. “Just remember, choose your enemies carefully. These guys have deep pockets. Plenty of cops and politicians are in them.”

  “I’m getting that message.”

  Tino topped our glasses. “By the way, I asked around about Eddie Harr. Seems he fought his way out of the Projects. He made some dirty friends on the way up.”

  “How dirty?”

  “The usual. Prostitution, drugs, guns, murder for hire. Eddie Harr owes these guys big time. The word on the street is they won’t let him forget it.”

  “Anything else?”

  “The Feds think they have a leak.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s all I heard, though. No details.”

  “Thanks, Tino.”

  “You’re a damn good detective, Cat. Don’t make the same stupid mistake that reporter did.”

  “What mistake is that?”

>   “She didn’t shoot first.”

  The bell jangled. A customer walked through the door.

  “Back to work,” Tino said.

  He boxed my pizzas and stuffed more sausages in a bag for Inga. Soon she’d look like one.

  “I know someone who’ll stay with you a few days,” he said. “If it doesn’t work out with Rocco let me know.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Wait.” He scooped a fistful of chocolates and tossed them in my bag. “Life is uncertain…” He gave a crooked smile but his eyes were troubled.

  “…always eat dessert first,” I said.

  ***

  Rocco met me at the door. He grabbed the pizzas from my hands.

  “Thanks for coming to my intervention!” I said sarcastically. “You could’ve defended me from Mama!”

  “Like that’s gonna happen,” he grinned.

  “Coward.”

  I grabbed two beers, a fistful of napkins, and followed Rocco to the living room.

  “How did it go?” Rocco said as he sank his teeth into a fat slice of pepperoni and gooey cheese.

  “Father Timothy is convinced I’m a pervert,” I said. “He thinks I lost my good sense in the explosion.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Rocco countered with his mouth full. “You’ve never had good sense.”

  “Exactly!”

  Rocco’s cell beeped. He nodded at his shirt pocket. “Get it, sis. My hands are greasy.”

  I threw a napkin at him, pulled the phone out, and put it on speaker.

  “Hey.”

  “Rocco. It’s Captain Maxfield.”

  My brother swallowed quickly. “Yes, Captain.”

  “I just got a strange call from Special Agent Harding of the FBI. Know him?”

  Rocco gave me a sharp look. I scrunched my face.

  “No, sir,” he said.

  “He was calling about you.”

  “Me?”

  “He said you ran a background check on a Chance Savino.”

  “I did.”

  “Who the hell is he?”

  “Savino’s the guy the Feds ID’ed from Tuesday’s explosion.”

  “So he’s dead.”

  “Yes.”

  I kicked Rocco and shook my head.

  “Harding claims you’re compromising an FBI investigation,” the captain said.

  “They’re investigating a dead man?”

  “He wanted me to give you a message.”

  “What’s the message?”

  “Stop.”

  “That’s it?”

  “There was more. I cleaned it up for you.”

  “Is the order coming from you?”

  He snorted. “Harding’s an asshole. Be discreet, DeLuca. The department doesn’t need the grief.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Click.

  I tucked the phone back in Rocco’s pocket. “That went well.”

  Rocco raked a hand through his hair. “Damn, girl. The FBI is like the IRS. You don’t want those people knowing your name.”

  “Larry Harding can bite me.” I took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. “Why do you suppose the FBI is protecting Savino?”

  “They’re not. Savino’s dead and the FBI is handling the case.”

  “There’s more. The FBI is faking Savino’s death. I’m thinking he’s a snitch. A total scumbag ratting on his scumbag friends.”

  Rocco tapped his head. “I’m thinking concussion. Feds are jerks. They turned down Frankie, you know.”

  “I know.”

  Suddenly I wasn’t hungry anymore. I tossed my slice of pizza back in the box.

  “You done?” Rocco said.

  “Put a fork in me.” I hiked Rita’s laptop under my arm.

  Rocco waved his pizza. “Sweet dreams.”

  I carted Rita’s laptop off to bed. “This baby sleeps between Inga and me.”

  Chapter Eleven

  My brother is one of those annoying people who wakes up way too happy. I’d spent thirty minutes glaring into my coffee cup when he skidded across the kitchen floor in his socks. He poured a cup and sat down beside me at the table.

  “Mornin’ sis. Why so glum?”

  “Gee, Rocco, I wonder. I have a crazy stalker, everyone thinks I’ve gone loony, I’m almost thirty, and I’m living like a nun.”

  “Whoa. The nun part? Too much info.”

  “You can cancel my birthday party,” I said. “Say I see dead people. My family’s scheduling an exorcism.”

  “Everyone knows that already. Why do you think they’re coming to the party?”

  I dumped a spoon of sugar in my cup. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

  “Got a plan B?”

  “O yeah. I need a smoking hot dress and a pair of Ferragamo pumps.”

  “You are such a girl.”

  “Thanks. I’ll take that as a compliment.” I paused to sip my coffee. “One more thing, I need a man.”

  “Huh?”

  “I can’t go to my party alone, Rocco. I’m looking for a guy who’s clean, who’ll start the evening sober, and doesn’t consider public transit his home.”

  “No wonder you’re in a dating slump. Your standards are too freakin’ high.”

  Rocco kicked back his chair, skidded to the back door, and stepped into his shoes.

  “I’ll grab breakfast with the family before I head to the precinct.”

  “Tough guy,” I smiled. “You miss the kids. I knew you’d buckle.”

  I locked the door behind him, topped my coffee, and lugged Rita’s laptop to the office. I booted her up and held my breath until the screen lit up. Joey Jr. had worked his magic. I was in Rita’s world.

  I clicked onto her Hotmail. She had a boyfriend named Sam in Oregon. He was a social worker for child protective services and a vegetarian. He wrote sappy poetry that could crack the bolt off a chastity belt.

  A note to Sam written two days before the explosion read: I met with FBI guy today. Rattler wants out. Will testify in exchange for witness protection. Something’s gotta blow soon. Miss you, R

  Reply: Don’t get caught in the fireworks. Love, Sam

  Rita’s last note to Sam ended with: Duped. Rattler needs out. Will explain tonight. Love you more, R

  Rita probably didn’t have that conversation.

  I blinked and called up her recent Documents. The list of stories was ambitious and the names gave nothing away. “Yogi” was a piece about National Park funding. “Wesson’s Disgrace” was an oil company scandal.

  Rita Polansky was hilarious.

  My next click of the mouse hit pay dirt. My client marked the document “Forever.” As in Diamonds Are.

  I rang up Rocco. “About six months ago Rita was at O’Hare doing a story on airport security. Customs stopped a man coming in from Australia.”

  “Your dead man?”

  “Chance Savino. He had a stash of diamonds in his pocket. Bunched in a black pouch. The agents shuffled him to a back room and Rita hung around for the story.”

  “And?”

  “They let him go. The official version was a misunderstanding. But Rita schmoozed an agent and off the record, Savino walked. With the diamonds.”

  “Who gave the order?”

  “The agent said it came from ‘high up.’”

  “Like that narrows it down. What did Polansky know about Savino?”

  I searched the screen. “He did eight years in the Navy with the Seals.”

  “He wasn’t a wimp.”

  “He’s a thief.”

  “And?”

  “He’s rolling in the money. Rita has tax records and credit card statements. He travels frequently to Australia and cave dives all over the world. Oh, and he golfs once a week with a congressman.”

  “Where does Eddie Harr fit in?”

  I scrolled down the page. “Rita stumbled on Eddie when she checked out some business associates.
He’s an American success story. Parents were immigrants, came with the clothes on their backs. I’ll catch you up on the rest tonight.”

  I disconnected and continued reading. Eddie’s financial assets were outlined with his business interests in Japan, Australia, and South America. Extensive charity work, political and social connections were well documented. There was nothing to link Eddie to any crime syndicate.

  The bulk of Rita’s research focused on Eddie Harr. My gut told me Rita had something big on him but I wasn’t finding it. One of Rita’s co-workers said she feared her laptop would be stolen. Maybe the FOREVER document was a red herring. A safety net. In the wrong hands it wouldn’t convict her.

  If I was right the real story was buried somewhere else in the computer’s memory. Harry said I wouldn’t crack the code. Maybe he wasn’t talking about her first password. Harry doesn’t know my cousin Joey Jr.

  I followed my rumbling stomach to the kitchen and reviewed what I knew. One. Ratman had been on me since I left the hospital. Two. Rita Polansky believed Eddie was dirty. Ergo, Ratman works for Eddie. Dead people make a convincing argument.

  I foraged the cold pizza and a coke from the fridge and plopped down at the table. Rita’s secret would have to keep a few more days. Joey Jr. was away looking at schools.

  I didn’t have a clue how to find Chance Savino but he’d probably show up soon enough. When he did I would scream for a witness.

  Eddie Harr was a different story. Finding him was a cakewalk. His residence, businesses, clubs, and hangouts were listed on Rita’s laptop.

  I finished off the pizza and made a plan. I needed a different car, one my stalker wouldn’t recognize. I gave my mechanic a call. My Honda could use a tune-up.

  Jack and I go back to my first car when I was sixteen. Grandpa gave me his ‘70 Cougar and Jack put flames on it. He’s kept my cars purring ever since. His shop is always busy and at his prices he could be the richest guy in Bridgeport.

  I dressed quickly and was finishing the last touches of mascara when Jack showed up dangling car keys. His grease-stained hands are short a few fingers. He lost them in engines years ago before he quit drinking.

  Jack’s nephew waited in front of the house. We went to high school together and he did graduate work in Joliet prison. Devin revved his engine and I waved.

  A blue ‘67 Mustang glistened in my driveway.

  “Sweet.”

  I reached for the keys. Jack jerked his hand back.