by K. J. Larsen
I caught my breath. No heady smells of salt water. Just stark, hospital smells of disinfectant. My eyes skimmed the room.
Tommy, out for the count, snored softly.
“Geez,” I sighed.
Chance laughed softly, pulled me to my feet and held me against him while he wrapped his coat around my shoulders. The fabric was warm and soft. Cashmere, I guess.
“Your patient’s sleeping. Let’s get you home.” He hung an arm around my shoulder and led me into the hall.
“Have you eaten?”
“No.” An idea came to me. “The Cop Shop’s vending machine has a ham and cheese sandwich that’s not totally horrible. We can drop by the station and introduce you to Captain Bob. He’ll have to admit I’m not crazy.”
“Tempting, but I’m not wild about packaged ham and cheese. I know this Thai restaurant, a little hole in the wall, with…”
“No witnesses?”
“It’s got great Pad Thai.”
“You can’t hide forever.”
I spotted a starchy white collar down the hall and my heart soared. Who could doubt a priest?
“Father Timothy!” I called. “You’re my witness!”
I rushed toward him.
“Caterina!”
“Tell mama to cancel the exorcism. Chance Savino is alive and here he…”
I swept my arm dramatically behind me. Savino was gone, poof, vanished like hot smoke.
“Coward!” I yelled.
Father Timothy stroked his cross.
“Surely you saw him,” I said.
“Who?”
“Wait! I have proof.” I whirled the cashmere coat from my shoulders and thrust it out with two hands.
“Proof?”
“This is not the coat of a dead man.”
“I see,” Father Timothy said.
Clearly he didn’t.
I groaned inwardly and checked the pockets. No paper, no surprise. Just three hundred-sixty seven dollars in a money clip. I stuffed the cash back in the pocket, and placed the coat in the priest’s arms.
“I saw a homeless man outside the hospital today. Would you give him this coat?”
“That’s very generous.”
“I’d rather give him a Porsche.”
“I was going to call you, Caterina.”
“If this is about the exorcism-”
He hid a smile. “I wanted to talk to you about Jack. You blew up his car.”
“Jack wants to kill me.”
“I think I talked him out of it.”
“Wait. You’re not sure?”
He waffled a hand back and forth. “Grief is so unpredictable.”
I blew a sigh. “He’ll have to get in line. Somebody’s way ahead of him. Poor Tommy got caught in the crossfire.”
His head tipped slightly.
“And Dorothy, of course,” I added with due respect to my mechanic. “Jack loved her in a really sick way.”
“Does this bomb have anything to do with pornography?”
“Maybe. I mean no! I’m a licensed investigator, Father. I don’t do porn.”
He eyed me with intense scrutiny.
I sighed. “The cops believe the explosion is connected to one of my cases. They have my list of cheaters.”
“Do your cheaters bomb you often?”
This time I waffled my hand. “They’re more likely to egg my car.”
“A much more civilized response. You might want to send Jack a dozen.”
“I may do that.”
Father Timothy put a hand on my shoulder. “Jack has suffered a significant loss. He loved Dorothy.”
“We’re talking about a car,” I reminded him.
“Jack’s father died in that Mustang. There was a tragic accident.”
“A gun went off in his mouth. How does that happen?”
“Dorothy was Jack’s last connection to his father. He said when he drove the Mustang, he knew his father was right there beside him. He could smell his cigar.”
I swallowed a huge gulp of Catholic guilt. I had been irritated with Jack because he didn’t care about Tommy’s injuries or the bulls-eye target on my own keister. I had minimized Jack’s grief. I was ashamed of myself.
“Great. I killed a dead man.”
“Jack needs to know you understand how he feels.”
“I get it. What can I do?”
“Go talk to him.”
“Does he still have his father’s gun?”
“You’ve been friends a long time. Make this right.”
“How am I supposed to do that? I can’t bring Dorothy back. God knows I can’t bring his papa back.”
“You’ll think of something.”
I felt myself make a face. “I don’t do miracles. Isn’t that your department?”
“You might surprise yourself,” he said with a smile. “I’ll help in anyway I can. Call the parish if you need me.”
“I’ll call Mama. She has your cell phone on her Friends and Family Plan.”
The elevator door opened and an older woman in a purple hat and doused in lilac cologne stepped out. Father Timothy knew her. Maybe I would too if I made it to mass more regularly. He took her arm and they walked down the hall together.
I stepped inside the elevator, waved off the lilac, and jabbed the L button. How on earth was I supposed to fix this with Jack? The door closed. The elevator jerked and the unmistakable aroma of cigar filled my nostrils. I sucked a breath and coughed.
My heart walloped in my chest. Had I lost my mind? Was I trapped in a small box with my crazy mechanic’s Insane Father? I didn’t like either possibility. In the end I settled on curtain number three where lilac woman smokes a cigar between the first and fourth floors.
It could happen.
When the door opened again I had a plan. I shimmied into the lobby laughing. I knew how to make things right with Jack. I couldn’t bring Dorothy back but I could give him his papa again.
I made a mental note for Father Timothy. Maybe you don’t always need a miracle if you know someone who does magic.
Then I called my Uncle Joey.
***
The sun was high outside my window when I awoke the next morning. I padded to the kitchen in my bunny slippers. My brother had left a note on the table. If you go out, take someone with you.
Inga was at Mama’s. For one crazy split second I considered calling Cleo. Just as quickly, I dashed the thought from my mind. Cleo had been under a lot of stress lately. I wasn’t sure she could make it all day without shooting someone. I had a nagging headache already.
I made a pot of coffee and took extra care in dressing. I even shaved my legs in the shower. I was going to see Johnnie Rizzo, my womanizing, train-wreck of an ex-husband. I wanted to look smokin’.
It was more than a little bizarre, I had to admit, to consider Johnnie Rizzo as a mad bomber. The guy isn’t a sociopath. He’s commitment-challenged and an over-achieving cheater who can’t keep his pants zipped.
I didn’t dare tell Rocco Johnnie was on my suspect list. He’d be convinced I’d gone utterly mad. He’d say delusional, conspiracy theories are what concussions are made of. Rocco would remind me of the time Johnnie nursed a sick squirrel in a shoe box, or wept during Schindler’s List. Still, a 300-grand insurance policy is a powerful motive. I felt compelled to confront Johnnie Rizzo and eliminate him as a suspect. At least that’s what I told myself. Chances are, I just wanted an excuse to see my ex again.
The last time Johnnie Rizzo and I exchanged words was on the courthouse steps after the judge granted our divorce. Johnnie was angry because the judge made him pay back the money I’d invested in his restaurant as part of the settlement. I told Johnnie he’s a big fat liar. He said something that sounded like duck poo. There weren’t a lot of ducks in Chicago that day but there was a whole lot of traffic. I may have heard him wrong.
Since then I’ve seen Johnnie on the street
a few times, always with a different woman. Maybe I’m getting older but the girls seem to be getting younger.
Johnnie Rizzo owns the Bridgeport Café on Morgan. That’s where we met. A friend of mine used to work there. I covered for her the week her grandmother died in Montana. She fell in love with a rich rancher who looks like Tim McGraw. I wouldn’t have come back either.
Meanwhile, back at the restaurant, I fell head over heels in love with Johnnie Rizzo. It happened in the walk-in cooler, thrust against a frigid wall, somewhere between a case of ranch dressing and a hanging slab of beef. Johnnie Rizzo is a great kisser with magic fingers. We were married a few months later.
My friend and Tim McGraw are expecting another baby in September. I’m done with Johnnie Rizzo. I haven’t been back to the café since the divorce but I still miss the Friday night catfish special.
I made a call to the Bridgeport Bank and asked for Melanie. We’ve been friends since the third grade. She had warned me not to marry Johnnie Rizzo. There was no love lost between them.
“Hey girlfriend,” I said.
Melanie lowered her voice to a whisper. “We shouldn’t be talking. Jack said he won’t fix my car unless I promise to hate you.”
“It’s OK. I know someone you can take your car to. Where is it now?”
“Jack has it.”
“Melanie!”
“So I lied. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a good mechanic?”
I massaged my temples. “I need a favor. I need to know about Johnnie Rizzo’s financial status.”
I heard her fingers fly across the keys. “You know I can’t do that.”
“You just did.”
“Rizzo’s two months behind on the restaurant mortgage. He has three overdrafts on his checking account.” She cackled with undisguised satisfaction.
“Not good.”
“Apparently Rizzo met with the bank manager last week. He’s expecting some sort of windfall. He intends to pay the mortgage off next month.”
A chill went through me. “That’s a lot of wind.”
“What’s up, Cat?”
“I’ll let you know. I want to talk to Johnnie first.”
“Don’t let him drag you to the cooler.”
“I’ll beat him senseless with a side of beef.”
I called my Insurance Company and asked them to mail a change of beneficiary form. If I drown in the bathtub or cash in my chips on a hit and run, the three-hundred grand will go to Rocco. That’s enough wind to hire a hit-man for Johnnie Rizzo and still take the family to Disneyworld.
***
I parked the black Buick a block from The Bridgeport Café. I wanted to scope out the lay of the land first.
Johnnie’s office faced the back alley and it wasn’t too hard to get a gander through his window. How do you think I caught the lying cheat in the first place? All I had to do was press myself close against the brick building so he wouldn’t see me coming and then, once under the window, stand up on tiptoe. Perfect. I could hardly be seen. Only the top of my head and eyes and only if you were really looking out the window. But Johnnie never looked out the window anyway. A Bridgeport back alley does not inspire scenic contemplation.
Fighting back a hatch of heroic thistle that had sprung up at the crack between the restaurant wall and blacktop, I let my head rise silently and got on tippy-toes.
The first thing I saw was a man’s fly. Johnnie’s fly.
What the hell is that doing here, I thought in my confusion. I’d know that fly anywhere and it certainly didn’t belong in the back window of his office.
My eyes slowly traveled up the length of a navy silk shirt, softly hanging to hug a hard, lean torso, a column of smooth brown neck. They flitted past firm lips set into a smirk and landed on warm, brown, amused eyes. Johnnie’s eyes.
Shit!
Johnnie slid the window open, still standing full erect.
“Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise?”
“Hello, Johnnie. I thought I’d drop by.”
“Really? An interesting way to do it, Kitten. Most people use the front entrance.”
“Well. I’ll just go around and do that right now.”
“Oh, no. This is fine. Really. In fact, I prefer it. It brings back fond memories.”
There was only about seven inches of wall between my face and Johnnie’s fly.
Despite myself and my sore tippy-toes, I felt that little thrill tumble in my stomach. Johnnie and I had always had good chemistry together. He had always been an intuitive and generous lover. I had responded in kind. What we had lacked in our marriage, we’d always made up for in bed. I had to make myself remember what it was that we actually did lack in our marriage.
Oh yeah! That little thing. What is it called? Fidelity?
“So what are you doing here, Kitten?” Johnnie asked. “Still stalking me?”
I saw his eyes flit to the left and I turned to look. Some cooks and wait-staff had come out to the alley for a cigarette break.
“Oh great,” I moaned. “We have an audience.”
“Oh yes,” Johnnie grinned viciously, putting his hands on his hips as he let them slowly drift forward. He was loving this. Johnnie looked down from his superior height and practically purred. “To what do I owe this pleasure.”
I could hear snickering behind me.
For once words failed me. I could think of nothing to say. What was I doing in this back alley anyway, stretched on my tiptoes like a schoolgirl. Why didn’t I scuttle through the front door, march back to his office and say—
“So are you trying to kill me, Johnnie Rizzo, or what?”
I groaned. The words gushed from my mouth. I didn’t mean to blurt them out loud.
The kitchen crew inched closer.
Johnnie’s eyes softened. “My god, Kitten, it’s been almost three years. You gotta get over me.”
“Arrrrrgh!” My throat made the sound of a rabid seal.
“I can’t help you, babe. I won’t go down that road again. The problem is your meddling family. They ruined our marriage.”
I choked on a mouthful of righteous indignation. “The problem was your—”
He put up a hand. “I’m not saying I wouldn’t give us another shot. This isn’t a good time for me. My sister’s husband is buying half the business. We’re expanding, putting in a sports bar. You won’t recognize the place in a few months.”
I groaned to myself. Windfall.
His magic fingers stroked my cheek. The delicious, heady smell of Johnnie Rizzo filled my nostrils. I could make out the ghost of a smile.
“Drop by anytime, Kitten. I’ll make you catfish.”
“I cut you off, Johnnie Rizzo,” I said. “You’re not my beneficiary anymore.”
The confusion on his face was genuine. “What are you talking about?”
I knew at that moment Johnnie Rizzo was not the mad bomber. He doesn’t keep secrets. He’s like a goofy kid. He wears everything out there on his sleeve. How else could I always catch the cheater?
Oops.
“I, uh, I took your name off my life insurance policy.”
“Just now?” Johnnie shook his head pityingly. “My god, Kitten. You’ve been hanging out in this alley stalking me for three years.”
“No, no! I haven’t.”
“Move on, for chrissake. This isn’t healthy. In fact, it’s a little creepy.”
He dropped the window, locked it from the inside, and stomped away. I stretched tall on my tippy toes, the top of my hair and eyes visible to an empty room.
“Come back, Johnnie Rizzo,” I called. “It’s not what you think!”
The kitchen crew bowled over in stitches. They gripped their guts in laughing. I shuffled to the car, slumped on the seat and bonked my head on the steering wheel.
Hank blared “Your Cheating Heart.” I dragged out my cell.
“Pants on Fire Detective Agency.”
&nb
sp; “Call them off.”
“Who is this?”
“You know who this is.”
“I’ll take a hint.”
“David Reichert.”
I racked my brain. “I’ll go for a bigger hint.”
“Minneapolis. The Annual Midwest Mortician Convention.”
“Gotcha. So Dave, how much does it cost to get a hooker to lie perfectly still and play dead like that?”
“Not as much as the divorce, thank you very much,” he said snippily.
“So why are you calling me?”
“The cops have gone bonkers. They hauled about a dozen of us in here. The thing is, we didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I have the photos.”
“So maybe we chipped around a little. Are they charging us for that? I mean, is cheating a crime?”
“It isn’t nice, Dave.”
“This is about the flaming dog poop on your porch, isn’t it?”
“You did that?”
“You gotta talk to them, lady. They’re searching my house for plastic explosives. I mean, are you kidding me? I don’t know how to build a bomb. I couldn’t put my kid’s bicycle together last Christmas.”
“Answer their questions and you’ll be fine. Good-bye, Dave.”
“Wait! You gotta get me outta here. This is my one phone call. They think I’m talking to my lawyer.”
“Gee, Dave. Looks like you dialed the wrong number.”
***
I stared at the phone in my hand a long time. I could take Johnnie Rizzo off my mad bomber list. I scratched Dave Reichert’s name too. Maybe the whole cheating dozen had nothing to do with the fireworks at Mickey’s. What if the link wasn’t a cheater, but a client. Say, Rita Polansky.
I called the FBI. The voice was stiff.
“Special Agent Harding.”
“Larry. This is Caterina DeLuca. I need a favor.”
He groaned. Give the man some fiber.
“I need to know if the chemical signature in the two Bridgeport bombings is the same. I have a hunch one person is responsible for both.”
Larry sighed deeply. “The first explosion was a gas leak. I can give you a copy of my report.”
“I thought we were making progress, Larry. Why do you lie to me?”
“Secondly, the FBI isn’t involved in the Bridgeport car bombing. Captain Maxfield of Chicago PD is leading that investigation.”
