by K. J. Larsen
“My loaners are out. I’m trusting you with Dorothy. She was my dad’s car before he…”
“What?”
Jack pointed up.
My eyes followed his short nubs to the heavens.
“No worries.” I snatched the keys from his hand. “Dorothy’s not going to join him.”
Jack waggled a nub. “Not one scratch, Cat DeLuca. Dorothy is a family heirloom, and I’ve given her some extras. Only one lady my dad loved more. Olivia.”
“Olivia?”
“A 1953 Bel Air Convertible. My dad lost her in a game of poker. The guy put her in his garage and never let my dad buy her back. It almost broke him.”
“Okay, Jack. Geez. Not one scratch.”
“Anything besides a tune up?”
“There was a pizza incident. My car could use a good detailing. Inga sheds and slobbers on the windows.”
“That beast doesn’t ride in Dorothy.”
I ruffled Inga’s hair. “You can’t come today, girl. Our mechanic is evil.”
Jack grunted. “Evil? Wait ‘til you get my bill.”
I tossed Jack my keys and waved goodbye to Devin. Five minutes later I was on the road headed for Eddie Harr’s good-times neighborhood. He lived there with his third wife. I saw her picture on Rita’s laptop. She was a silicon-stuffed Barbie with fish lips and way too young for an aging fat and bald guy. I hoped she was old enough to vote.
Eddie’s street was fortified with stone walls and iron gates. I parked Dorothy across the street and waited for the first cop to cruise by and shoo me along.
A floral delivery truck pulled to the gate and I buried my face in a map. The driver spoke into the speaker and the gates magically opened. He drove in and exited a few minutes later.
Ten minutes later a carrot orange car with a glasspack muffler and two wide white stripes rumbled to Harr’s gate. The driver leaned out the window and the morning sun shone on his recently battered face. I cheered. It was Ratman and the ‘69 Dodge Charger he drove was likely his own.
I shot a few pictures and jotted down the license plate. I tied my hair in a loose knot, grabbed a White Sox cap, and jogged across the street. Ran the long perimeter of the Harrs’ marble wall, stopping to stretch at the edge of the iron gate. My jeans, sweater, and sandals weren’t exactly running fare but I stretched my quads and threw in a few lunges. Ratman stepped from the car and sauntered to the door.
A beefy butler jerked the door open and shoved a brown cardboard box with bright yellow tape in Ratman’s arms. Ratman carried the package to the trunk of his car. I raced back to Dorothy and scrunched low and out of sight when the Charger exited the gate.
I let a few cars pass before easing away from the curb into the traffic behind Ratman. He was the best lead I had and I wasn’t about to lose him.
I called Rocco. “Hey, I need you to run a license plate for me.”
“Dammit. Is someone outside watching your house?”
“I don’t know. I’m not at home.”
His voice was wary. “Where are you?”
“Hmm. I’m not seeing a street sign.”
“Tell me you’re not alone.”
“OK. I’m not alone.” I slathered Dr Pepper Lip Smacker on my mouth.
“All right then. Who’s the guy? One of your sleazy cheaters?”
“The sleaziest.”
“You could be dispatching,” he grumbled.
“And living in your garage.”
“Yeh, yeh. At least you’re working again. Gimme the license.”
I read the numbers from my notebook and waited. A few minutes later Rocco called me back. Ratman had a name. It was Charles Ross.
Charlie cruised across town to Eddie Harr’s Kids First Project. He pulled around the side of the building and parked with a few scattered cars. It was Sunday and the lights were off in the lobby. I drove past the warehouse, made a Uey, and parked Dorothy in a lot across the street.
Charlie lugged the box with the yellow tape from the trunk and entered the warehouse through a side entrance. I grabbed my camera and flew across the street, darting wildly across the long open lot to the orange Charger with wide white stripes. My heart pounded in my chest and I pressed my face to the window. A missed French fry and a dozen Starburst wrappers littered the floor. Each twisted in a bow. Like the ones I found in Rita’s apartment.
He was there. A sickening knot twisted my gut. Ratman killed my client. I gauged the length of the parking lot. It was a long terrifying run to Dorothy.
The side door shot open and I sprinted for cover. Hugging the front of the building I dived for the shrubs bordering the front entrance. I caught my breath and parted some branches with my fingers. Charlie leaned against his car and lit a cigarette. He lobbed the smokes and lighter to a pencil thin dude with a goatee.
“Mitch, this is a genuine reproduction of the General Lee.”
“Yeah? When you gonna sell me this real fake?”
“When you gonna shave that ferret off your face?”
“I ain’t.”
“Well I ain’t sellin’ either.”
“Betchu I can jump through the window like the Duke boys,” Goatee said.
“Betchu won’t.”
They smoked cigarettes and swapped lies about women. Charlie liked big boobs and Mitch went for tight booty. Tits and Ass. Right. Like those guys saw much of either.
I crouched low behind the flowering bush and my legs went numb. A spider crawled down my back and the 9mm in my jeans poked at my skin. I glared through the brush debating whether to shoot them both.
Charlie took a last hard drag of his cigarette and flicked the butt away. He ducked into the Charger, and the bright white stripes bounced over the railroad track and disappeared down the road. Mitch finished his smoke and ambled back toward the warehouse. I jumped to my feet and shook away the spiders.
Yuckos! I waggled the pins and needles from my legs. Swinging the camera around my neck, I plucked my phone from my back pocket.
“Is that you, Cat?”
“It’s me.”
Mama giggled. “The phone’s been ringing off the hook all morning. Everybody enjoyed your little party last night.”
I choked.
“It’s too bad you left the party so early. Your track teacher stopped by—”
I gasped. “Mr. Berring?”
“And your friend Sherry—”
“That bitch slept with my husband.”
“Who didn’t, dear? I’m sure she’s sorry now that you’re unstable.”
“Geez, Mama.”
“That’s what Father Timothy said. Hmm. Someone else stopped by. I can’t remember who.”
“Please don’t. I need you to pick up Inga for me. I might be working late tonight.”
“Your voice sounds funny, dear.”
“That’s because my teeth are clenched.”
“That’s it. It was Dr. Gambetti.”
I cradled my head. “You invited my dentist?”
“You should call him if your teeth are sticking together.”
“Rurrrrrr—”
“Don’t worry about Inga. She’ll—Ooh, someone’s ringing in, dear.” She giggled. “It’s Father Timothy.”
Click.
Chapter Twelve
I slipped my lock pick in the door. The lock was trickier than most but so am I. A dozen photographs of Eddie Harr’s fat face greeted me.
I followed a trajectory of night lights down the darkened corridor to two doors at the end of the hall. The room to the left was the workroom where I had schmoozed the volunteers with mama’s cannoli. A second door straight ahead led into the warehouse. I made out voices and a forklift from the other side. The workroom opened with a twist of the wrist. I slipped inside and closed the door behind me.
At once the forklift zoomed louder and the voices lost their muffle. I froze. The large bay door, closed tight the other day, was wide open. The forkl
ift driver charged past and heavy footsteps stomped toward me. I hit the floor and wriggled to safety behind a stack of brown cardboard boxes.
A whistle. “Damn the boss’ wife is smokin’ hot.” It was Mitch’s voice. “I thought she was the boss’ daughter, ya know?”
An older voice barked. “Put Mrs. Harr’s package in that pile over there. They’ll be sorted through later.”
I sucked my breath and shuffled into a small ball. If Mitch caught me I intended to have a heart attack.
“I can’t figure why a sexy dame like—”
“People got reasons.”
Mitch howled. “And Mrs. Harr’s got millions of them.”
The older man stopped him cold. “When you work for Eddie Harr you mind your own business and keep your mouth shut.”
“I didn’t mean…”
“And dammit, don’t shake the package.”
“I wasn’t—”
Smack.
“Geez, Pop. Why’d ya go and hit me.”
“Gimme that. Don’t make me sorry I got you this job.”
I poked my head from behind the boxes. The old man jerked the package from Goatee’s hands, plopped it a few feet from me, and stomped away.
Goatee skirted after him. “I didn’t mean nothing, Pop.”
I snagged the box with bright yellow tape and ripped it open like Christmas morning. The current Mrs. Harr had crammed in a rich assortment of expensive linens, 800-count bed sheets, and designer place mats for Chicago’s disadvantaged youth. There was a Gucci silk jacket and designer clothes, everything new with tags. Eddie’s latest wife buys more pretty things for herself than she can possibly use. I stuffed the contents back in the box. Damn, I got nothin’ here.
“Nash!” the old man shouted and the driver turned off the forklift.
“I’m sending my boy out for burgers. You hungry?”
“Gimme a whopper and coke. Supersized.”
Goatee hawed. “McDonald’s supersizes. Burger King—”
Smack.
“Geez, Pop.”
The old man called to the driver. “I’m stepping outside for a smoke. You comin’?”
“Nah. I’ll finish loading this truck first.”
The forklift started up again. I jolted across the workroom to the large bay door and pressed flat against the wall. Nash and I were alone in the warehouse until Pop finished his cigarette. Not much time to figure out what Rita Polansky was after when she volunteered at the Kids First Project.
Nash flashed by with a load of boxes tagged with green stickers and zoomed onto a truck backed into the loading dock. I knew green stickers meant the boxes go to Chicago area families. Volunteers sort through the donations and slap red stickers on boxes targeted for International Relief. The stickers, Gloria had said, are placed on the right upper half of each box like a postage stamp and Gloria okayed each box before it left the workroom.
I didn’t catch the discrepancy at first and wouldn’t have if I hadn’t got the drill from the volunteers. There, scattered among a whopping number of boxes to be shipped out of the country, were a dozen or so bright red stickers slapped on the left side.
Holy crap, I hoped Pop was a chain smoker. I bounded under the glaring florescent lights, my Valentino Strappy Napa sandals skating precariously across the slick cement floor. I skidded to a stop. My trembling fingers scratched away packing tape exposing a flurry of fabric. I dug further, shoving double fisted hands deep inside, and my knuckles smashed against something cold and hard and familiar.
My heart pounded wildly in my chest and I yanked an assault rifle from the box. Rita said Eddie Harr was a hood who rose to the top with a big boost from organized crime. The relationship was sealed long ago. Maybe Eddie Harr was paying back a debt or maybe he was a common crook. But I knew he was running arms. And I knew why he killed Rita.
Ding ding ding. The forklift signaled Nash backing out of the truck.
I snapped a hasty photo and jammed the contents back in the box, sealing the tape with a slap of my hand. I lunged to safety behind a mountain of International Relief. My heart hammered in my ears and I forced myself to breathe.
“Nash!” Pop’s voice bellowed. “I’m back.”
The forklift died. “This load’s a go. Where’s my burger?”
I glimpsed around the stack of boxes. Nash jumped to the ground and pulled a pack of smokes from his pocket. The old man supported his back against the big yellow machine and Nash propped a foot on a step. The moment they flashed their backs to me I kicked my Valentino’s into my hands and took off running. My bare feet flew across the cold concrete, my eyes fixed on the loading dock. I didn’t look back. The camera around my neck smacked my chest and my 9mm dug into my waist. I hit the platform at full speed, hurtled to the ground, and slapped the sandals on my feet. I high tailed around the back of the building, easing into a jog when I set my sights on Dorothy.
I was in the final stretch and almost home free. A long black Caddy spun into the parking lot. The darkened windows obscured the big shot in the back seat but Godzilla was behind the wheel. The car burned rubber and effectively cut me off at the pass. I dug my heels in the asphalt to avoid clambering over the hood.
Godzilla climbed out of the big Cadillac. It was a little small for him but so was a tank.
Uh oh. I made a show of checking my pulse and moving my legs.
“Move your car, you’re screwing up my run.”
A man, fat and fifty, stepped from the car. The pinstripes on his tailored suit didn’t make him look taller or thinner. I recognized him from the pictures in the lobby but this time he wasn’t smiling. Rita described Eddie Harr as “powerful and paranoid.” Right now he just looked pissed.
“You’re trespassing.”
I faced him, hands on my hips. “And you broke my time. I’m training for the Chicago Marathon-”
“In those shoes?”
I dismissed the question. “I turned around in your lot. Is that a problem?”
“You weren’t turning. You ran a straight line from the warehouse.”
“I made a big circle. So what?”
I side stepped and Godzilla grabbed my arm.
“Tell your gorilla to let go of me or I’ll call the cops.”
“I’m curious. Do you always run with a camera?” He nodded and Godzilla jerked the camera from my neck and passed it to Harr.
I lunged to snatch it back but Godzilla pinned my arms.
“You can go now,” Harr said.
The blood pounded in my ears. “Give me my camera,” I hissed.
Harr’s face turned to stone. “I caught you on my property running from my business where I have a camera that looks exactly like this one. Press charges if you wish and I’ll press charges for trespassing and breaking and entering. Our lawyers will sort it out.”
I was livid. I suspected my mouth was foaming. “Jackass.”
He climbed into the car. “If I catch you here again you won’t walk out on your own.”
I didn’t walk now either. Fueled by rage I ran in my Strappy Napa sandals across the parking lot and onto the street. I ran passed Dorothy and kept running like I was marathon champion of the world. I’d return later for Jack’s car. And I’d bring Chicago’s finest with me.
I stopped at the first sandwich shop I came to. I ordered a coke and a Murphy’s Red Hot and called for back-up.
“Yello.”
“Rocco, it’s me.”
“Where are you? You’re not doing anything stupid are you?”
“Uh, no. Maybe. Okay. Yes.” I nudged the phone away from my ear, prepared for my brother’s scream. “This morning I staked out Eddie Harr’s house.”
“You what?” he screamed.
I worked my tongue in my cheek. “I was there. Charles Ross showed up and a guy gave him a package.”
“Who the hell is Charles Ross?”
“Ratman.”
He expelled a breath.
“You’re out of your freakin’ mind.”
“I followed Charlie to Harr’s warehouse and he left the package there. So I let myself inside—”
“Breaking and Entering.”
“—and I found the box. Lots of linens.”
“Ooh. Linens? You’re scaring me, Cat.”
“I snooped some more. Eddie is shipping small arms out of the country with the International Relief project.”
“Holy shit. How many weapons are we talking about?”
“How should I know? I was a little busy trying to avoid being spotted.”
“That’s exactly why you’re not qualified for this kind of work. You don’t have the sense to call for back-up.”
“What are you waiting for? Go tell the captain.”
He hesitated. “You’re sure about this, Cat?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“What about the person who was with you today. I’ll tell the captain there’s a witness who will verify your story.”
“Uh, nix on the witness.”
“You lied to me?”
“Please talk to the captain, Rocco. I’ll hold.”
I drank another coke and waited for my brother to come back. When he did his voice sounded awkward.
“Cat?”
“Yeah.”
“The captain wants to know if you’re still unbalanced.”
“What!”
“It’s just that after the concussion there was some concern for your sanity. The conversations with the dead guy. There’s been talk, Cat.”
“O my god, Rocco, you’re my brother. You’re supposed to defend me.”
“I did. But then Mama invited the captain to her intervention party. He had a late meeting, but he dropped by later for Mama’s buffet.”
“Auuugghh!”
“I think you should talk to the captain yourself.”
“Fine,” I snapped. “Put him on.”
“You should talk to him in person. I’ll see you when you get here.”
I hung up on him.
“Damn.” I called him back.
“Yello.”
“Uh, I need a ride.”
“Where’s your car?”
“With my purse. I’ll explain when you get here. And I need you to pay for my lunch.”
