Some Like It Hot (7 page)

Chapter Fourteen

As I joined my cohorts in crime, a server dropped a big gooey cheese and anchovy pizza on the table. I plopped on a chair, and Max filled my mug with a dark, foamy beer.

“Your papa is staring at Max,” Cristina said. “It’s creepy.”

I smeared my lips with Dr. Pepper Lip Smacker. “Ignore him. His scar itches.”

Cristina glanced sideways over her glass. “I think he wants to shoot him.”

“Papa’s not going to shoot Max. Not unless I’m arrested. Then all bets are off.”

Max groaned. “Do all these donut commandos
know
about tonight’s operation?”

“Just the DeLucas.”

“Great. That explains the hostility.”

Cristina shrugged. “Maybe they don’t like your C4 explosives.”

“Explosives?”
I said. “Is that how you crack a safe?”

“Do you have a better idea?” Cristina asked.

I stuffed a bite of pizza in my mouth. “I spent thirty minutes on the Internet. I brought a stethoscope and a center punch.”

“I got a hammer and a drill. And energy bars.” Cristina nudged her head in Papa’s direction. “We might have to accept the fact that the mission is compromised.”

I didn’t forget for a moment that I’d dissed a really great guy to be here. I could be home smothered in whipping cream, and heady with champagne. But I was on a mission. Tonight was for Billy. I was Phyllis Marlowe. No way was I going home empty handed.

Max drained his beer. “What’s your point, Cristina?”

“If the cops are on to us, maybe we should pull out. Abort the operation.”

“You know this isn’t really a covert op,” I said.

“I know you don’t bring C4 to a bake sale.”

Max said, “What do you say, Kitten? Do we abort?”

I shook my head. “Let’s light this puppy up.”

***

We parked in the alley behind the Pub. Max unscrewed the dome light, and we scrunched down low in our seats.

Cristina leaned forward from the backseat. “When Billy called me last night, he told me he bombed at the pub.”

“Uh yeah, you could say that.” I made a face. “Santa stripped to his skivvies while running for the streets of Chicago. Captain Bob’s grandkids need therapy.”

“I decided we need a better plan,” Cristina said.

“Put a lot of thought into that one, did ya?”

She let that slide. “After I got the call from Bill, I came here and hid in the alley. I needed to find another way in.”

I couldn’t begin to count how many kinds of stupid her Santa charade was. I could only hope this one was better.

“What would that be? A secret entrance? Let me guess. A brick you push and a door magically opens,” I snapped.

“You’re not helping,” Max muttered next to me.

“Sorry.” I muttered back loud enough for Cristina to hear it.

The truth is, I blamed Cristina for Billy’s death. But I blamed myself more. Kyle Tierney was a dangerous man. And Bridgeport is a tight community. It’s not exactly rocket science to identify a face from the past behind Santa’s beard. I should have anticipated Billy was in grave danger. Instead I drank tequila and danced to “Hotel California.” I could have saved my friend.

Cristina ignored my petty comments. “At 1:45 a.m. the cook takes the trash to the dumpster. Some things don’t change. It was just as I remembered.”

“And this helps us how?”

“It’s all part of my plan. When the cook comes out, I’ll sneak past him and slip inside. There’s a utility sink by the back door. I’ll duck under the sink.”

“You will what?”

“I’m double jointed—a freak of nature. I fold up in a small ball.”

“Wow,” Max said. “Now that’s a party trick.”

Cristina laughed. “I never lost a game of hide and seek.”

Cristina hiked her bag with the hammer, drill, and energy bars onto her shoulder. She stepped out of the car and scampered to the left of the Pub’s door. At 1:38 the back door opened. A man with two big garbage bags appeared in the doorway. Cristina pulled the ski mask over her face. When he stepped to the dumpster she slipped behind him, and through the door.

I blew a sigh. “There goes the human pretzel.”

“Yowsa,” Max smiled.

He drove around front and parked across the street several doors down from Tierney’s. I poured two coffees and opened Mama’s Tupperware of cannoli while the bartender inside counted the till.

The Hummer’s back doors opened. In a flash, Max and I twisted around and faced the backseat. Locked and loaded.

Max waved a Desert Eagle. I brandished my Dr. Pepper Lip Smacker.

“You’re scaring me, girlfriend,” Cleo said.

“Dammit.” I removed the cap and smeared my lips.

Max swallowed a smile. “Take the twin out of my glove box. Now you got one for the night. Just hope to God you don’t have to use it. It has one hell of a kick back, babe.”

“That’s a big-ass gun,” Cleo said. “I want one.”

I said, “Aren’t you supposed to be getting ice cream somewhere far far away?”

“No way,” Halah said. “We’re your getaway drivers.”

“You don’t drive,” I reminded her.

“She does now. She’s a quick learner.” Cleo said.

Halah giggled. “Told you the Xbox racing games helped.”

“She gave me some tips on how to tag cars to make them flip around. I am gonna pick myself up an Xbox 360 tomorrow.”

“Fabulous, Cleo. Just what you need.”

“Be nice,” Max said. “They’re fifteen.”

We watched the staff wipe down the last tables and clean up the bar. When they had finished, they bundled their coats, locked the door, and disappeared in their cars.

“Showtime,” I said.

Max drove around back. He tossed Cleo his keys saying, “Park around front. You got me? Call if we get company.”

Cleo snorted. “Don’t worry. If it’s Tierney, I’ll just blow his head off.”

“Hey, I want a gun,” Halah whined in a way only a teen can.

Cleo reached into her bag.

“Don’t you dare,” I said between gritted teeth and tossed back my Lip Smacker. “Here, you can take mine.”

Max and I pulled masks over our faces and grabbed our tools. We ran for the back door.

Cristina pushed it open and pulled us inside.

***

She led us through the kitchen to a dimly lit hallway with four or five doors on either side. A door at the end of the corridor would open to the pub. There would be a sign on the other side—Staff and Leprechauns
. At the second door on our left, Cristina stopped and stretched on her tiptoes.
Tracing her finger along the door frame, she dragged down a key.

She opened the door. “Kyle is a man of habit. He hates change. Four years later, he’s got the same code on his security alarm.”

She hit the light and we stepped inside. It was a man’s room. No fluff. Lots of rich browns, deep green, and leather. A wet bar, a single round oak table, and comfy chairs for long nights of high stake poker. It’s where Billy was busted fondling the safe. And where Kyle Tierney killed a man.

Max hung a stethoscope around his neck. I unzipped my bag.

“Only a handful of people know about the safe,” she said.

Cristina crossed the room to a painting of a Dublin pub. She removed the picture, revealing a small high security wall safe with a dial combination lock.

“Blow it up,” she said to Max and scooted back.

I dragged out my drill. “I got this. YouTube 101.”

Max explored the safe with gloved hands while I flexed my drill. He put the stethoscope to the dial, gently spun the lock, and the door swung opened.

Cristina giggled. “Hot damn. Smokin’ Double OOOH Seven.”

“It wasn’t locked.” I added
brain surgeon
under my breath.

The stacks of money Cristina remembered were gone. No jewelry. No books—cooked or otherwise. Just a single sheet of paper. Max removed it from the safe and read out loud.

“Cristina. I knew you’d come. You have something that belongs to me. And now I’m coming for you.”

Max cocked a brow.

“What the hell?” I said.

She shuffled a foot. Like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

Her eyes went blink blink. “I suppose it could be the earrings.”

My teeth clenched. “The earrings you said belonged to you.”

“It’s a long story.”

“And I will choke it out of you.” I stuffed my drill in the bag and zipped. “
After
we blow this gin joint. If Tierney’s expecting you, he could know we’re here.”

A muted sound seeped from the kitchen. It was the back door. My heart skipped to my throat.

Max whispered, “You’re a freaking 1-900 psychic.”

The bad guys were coming. There was nowhere to run. And I’d given my Lip Smacker to Halah.

Max pointed to the bar. In a flash, Cristina was behind it.

I hesitated.

Max pulled the Desert Eagle from inside his jacket. He mouthed;
“
I’ll take the first four.”

“Show-off
,” I mouthed back while heaving my own Desert Eagle from the back of my black jeans.

He killed the light and pressed against the wall by the door. I ducked under the table and waited.

There was whispering. And then quiet footsteps in the hallway, moving closer and closer. A strange tension built in my chest and I willed myself to breathe. I trained my eyes on the doorway and aimed low.

There were two of them. Meaty guys with guns and shadowed faces. They stopped at the door and listened. One shifted his piece to the other hand and took a step inside. He twisted his thick neck around the door frame. Max hit him dead center on the back of his neck. He dropped in a big ol’ heap of stars.

Before the second guy could react, Max shuffled a step and plowed his face with a full-on punch. He went over backwards. The floor delivered the final blow.

Cristina peered from behind the bar all googly-eyed. Blink blink.

“Hot damn, Double Oh Seven.”

I high-fived the air. “It was a team effort.”

Max grabbed my arm and Cristina scampered behind us. We stomped over the sleeping trolls, hotfooted down the hall and through the door that opened to the pub. We escaped in the wake of leprechauns and St. Nick. Breaking out the front door, we jerked off our masks on the other side.

The Hummer was parked in front of the pub. We tumbled inside and the look-out duo squealed.

Halah said, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about! No one gets in on our watch.” She karate-chopped the air. “We wudda whacked ’em good.”

Cristina’s hands trembled. She cracked open a bottle of Jameson she had snagged from behind the bar.

“Kyle’s finest,” she said.

Cleo hauled out a Beretta pistol and blew on the barrel. “Nobody gets past the Pants On Fire Posse.”

Cristina tipped the bottle to her lips and gulped. “Shut up,” she said.

There was the sound of an engine cranking and headlights flashed across the street. A red Ferrari merged with the traffic. I did a double-take. And laughed. Uncle Joey shot a thumbs-up cruising by.

Chapter Fifteen

I woke the next morning with a song spinning in my head.

Georgia On My Mind…

My pillow hinted of peach shampoo and aftershave. I reached for Savino and got nothing. One eye squeezed open. 9:09. Special Agent Chance Savino was long gone. He’d be on his third coffee and second yogurt by now.

I cuddled up in the blankets and hummed a little. I thought about coffee and donuts. And Georgia.

“Arrrrgh!”

Georgia! I lunged for the phone and punched some numbers.

“Jack’s Auto Repair.”

“Hey. Jack. This is Cat DeLuca.”

He grunted. “Matt from Georgia was here when I arrived at seven.”

Ouch. “I promised his wife I’d call.”’

“That’s what he said.”

“Tell him I’m sorry. I worked late and—”

“I told him you were unreliable. And dangerous.”

Geesh!
Dorothy again.

“Jack, I’m sorry the bad guys blew up Dorothy. But it wasn’t me.”

“She was a good car. The best car.”

“Dorothy’s with your dad now,” I said, and paused a moment out of respect. “What about Matt from Georgia? Did you give him a job?”

“He’s working on a transmission now. The kid knows what he’s doing.”

I felt a surge of relief. “Right on. They’ll be able to move out of that awful hotel.”

“Matt didn’t say anything about a hotel. I’ll ask around. I might be able to find something for him.”

I expected no less. “Thanks, Jack.”

“Words are cheap, Caterina. I want your mama’s cannoli.”

“Done.”

“My nephew Devin was released from treatment yesterday. I’m proud of him. He’ll have a fresh start.”

“Uh huh.”

“The guys at the shop are having a party for him. I want you to come.”

“God, no.”

“I don’t like your attitude.”

“Your nephew is dangerous.”

“No one’s perfect.”

“He tried to kill me.”

“So you’re the one holding a grudge now.”

I opened my mouth to say something and a sound came out. Like the gnashing of teeth.

“Devin has changed,” Jack said. “You’ll see at the party.”

“I won’t be there.”

“You’ll come or you’re cut off.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“I’ll never look under your hood again.”

I exaggerated a sigh. “If I come, do I get a free oil change?”

“No. And there’s something else you should know. I’m not making excuses for Devin here. But sometimes people want to kill you.”

“That hurts, Jack.”

“I don’t know how to say this.”

“Please don’t.”

“But I feel I need to say it for your own good.”

“Here we go.”

“Caterina,” Jack sighed. “You bring it out in people.”

***

Mama was feeding Inga breakfast when I rolled into her kitchen. I looked in her bowl and salivated. Sick.

“My grand-dog eats what Oprah’s dogs eat,” Mama said proudly. “Oprah feeds her dogs chicken, brown rice, and carrots.”

I looked again. “Isn’t that chicken cacciatore?”

“With organic carrots. Like Oprah.”

“I don’t see brown rice. Is that pasta?”

“Oprah’s dogs are not Italian.”

I don’t know about my siblings. But in my next life, I’m coming back as my parents’ dog.

“Thanks for taking care of Inga.”

“My granddog wants another sleep-over.”

I looked at Inga. She slid closer to Mama. Or the chicken cacciatore. I couldn’t tell which.

“If she stays here much longer, she won’t be able to fit through her doggy door.”

Mama shook her head and made that tsking sound with her mouth. “
Chepreca.
Rocco’s girls wanted to take her to the dog park.”

Inga fetched her leash and danced with it.

It was two against one. I caved. “Okay mama, have fun. But bring a poop bag to the park. Nobody can eat that much chicken cacciatore.”

Mama stuffed a casserole dish in my arms. “Take this to Billy’s mama. You should talk. You were the last person to see him alive.”

“Uh, no I wasn’t. That would have been the killer.”

“Mrs. Bonham said you brought Billy home drunk.”

“I can only hope he died happy.”

Mama crossed herself. “Death follows you, Caterina. Father Timothy thinks you owe Mrs. Bonham an apology.”

I cringed. “When did you tell Father Timothy?”

Mama reached for the phone and pushed the speed dial. “I’m telling him now.”

I fled with Mrs. Bonham’s casserole.

***

I steeled myself as I drove to the house where Billy grew up. Mrs. Bonham was a formidable woman. As far as I knew, she never smiled. Her chocolate chip cookies will crack your teeth.

Mrs. Bonham wasn’t friendly when I was Billy’s best friend. Now she thought I was responsible for Billy’s death. I already blamed myself. I didn’t need a pointing finger.

I tiptoed up the Bonham steps and softly rapped my knuckles on the door. I was fully prepared to drop the casserole and run. But the dog gave me away. That dog has a big mouth. Unless you’re talking about who killed Billy. He was the only one who knew. And he wasn’t talking.

Her eyes were red and swollen when she opened the door. Grief seemed to have diminished her. Mrs. Bonham appeared less daunting now.

“I’m sorry for your loss. Billy was a terrific guy.”

That unleashed a new torrent of tears.

I thrust the casserole dish toward her and she took it. “I brought chicken cacciatore. With organic carrots.”

She lifted the lid and peeked inside. “It’s beef stroganoff. My favorite.”

And I thought Mama only knew everything about me.

“Come in, Caterina. I want to ask you something.”

This couldn’t be good. I groaned inwardly and dragged my feet inside.

Mrs. Bonham gestured toward a chair and I sat. There were two used cups and a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the coffee table.

“Father Timothy just left. He loves my cookies.”

Of course he does. He’s got dental insurance.

She whisked away the dirty cups and returned with fresh coffee.

I said, “I didn’t know Billy was back in town until I ran into him the other day.”

Her face softened. “He told me. At least you had a little more time with him.”

“If I’d realized he was in danger—”

“There’s nothing you could have done. Captain Bob thinks it was a drive-by shooting. I get the feeling he’s not losing any sleep over it.”

“Captain Bob is an idiot.”

Mrs. Bonham blew her nose. “Billy loved you. I always hoped you’d be my daughter-in-law one day.”

I was speechless. Mrs. Bonham had been stiff around me. I thought she didn’t like me.

She passed the plate of cookies. “Have another one, dear.”

I took a cookie and broke off a bite with my incredibly strong fingers. “Mmmmm.”

Mrs. Bonham smiled at my nummy noises. “Billy never had a lick of sense. He married a little tramp from Kansas. Nicole something. She showed up here last night. Can you believe the nerve of that hussy?”

I nodded. “Billy said his wife was from Oz.”

“He called her the Tin Woman. No heart. She wasted no time getting here.”

“What did she want?”

“She said Billy had the birthday present he gave her last year. She wanted to look in his room.”

“Did she?”

“Over my dead body. The little tramp broke his heart.”

“Did Nicole say what she was looking for.”

“Diamond earrings. Isn’t that a hoot?”

“You didn’t believe her.”

“She’s a cheap, shiny-bauble-kind-of-girl. She wouldn’t know real diamonds if she held them in her hand.”

Billy was a sucker when it came to women. He deserved better than that.

“I know for a fact that Billy bought a bowling ball for her last birthday. My son was between jobs. I let him use my credit card.”

Billy told me his wife was after the earrings ever since he foolishly told her about them. Even so, I found her rush to Chicago odd.

“If you see Nicole again, would you call me?”

I wanted to know where the Tin Woman was when Billy was killed.

“Of course.” She gave a sad smile. “Billy said you’re a great detective.”

I stood to go. “Mrs. Bonham, you said there was something you wanted to ask me.”

“I want you to find the bastard who killed my son.”

***

I slid behind the wheel of Tino’s Buick with a plastic baggy of tooth-cracking chocolate chip cookies. My cell phone blared “Your Cheatin’ Heart.” I glanced at the number and didn’t recognize it.

“Pants On Fire Detective Agency. We catch liars and cheats.”

“What about big freakin’ loud mouths? A woman like that hanging around my building ain’t good for business. Ya know what I mean?”

“Who is this? What are you talking about?”

“This is Hal Irving, the landlord at Bohnam’s office.” I heard bushy brows darting up and down. “I need you to get down here. Now. There’s a psycho chick storming up and down the halls, throwing a bloody damn temper tantrum that Bill’s not in. I don’t want the bacon brigade rolling through here.”

When police get called to this part of town, they come with more than just one or two cop cars. And someone always gets a free ride to the slammer.

“Okay, I’m on my way. What’s she doing there?”

“Says she’s got an appointment with Bill. She’s freaking the hell out. I tell her ‘he hasn’t been around and he’s not answering his phone.’ Is he freakin’ sick or something?”

“He’s something.”

“So what the hell am I supposed to do with this freakin’ butterfly lady.”

“Butterfly lady?”

“Tell Billy to get his shit together. This ain’t my problem. And if the Five-O get called, he’s out on his ass.”

“I’m almost there.”

I zoomed across Bridgeport and parked in front of Billy’s office in a police only zone. I reached in the glove box and slapped my official police
sticker in the window. It was Rocco’s. He finally quit looking for it after a while.

A woman in designer jeans and trailing furs paced the sidewalk in front of Billy’s office. Her hair was candy-apple red, a color you don’t see in nature, and a butterfly tattoo was poised to fly off an ivory breast. Her French perfume was too rich for me to name, and she smelled like cheeky-barmaid-marries-rich-old-fart money.

She stomped a pouty foot. “Billy’s late. I’m Sylvia. I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

“No one does.” I unlocked the door and she followed me inside

“Be a darling and put this somewhere.”

She flung the fox from her neck and I sidestepped. The little guy landed limply on Billy’s desk. The marble eyes stared at me pitifully. I shuddered.

The woman was faux from her toe cleavage to her fake eyelashes. And I had questions about the girls launching the butterfly.

“Faux is a good look for you,” I said looking at her ridiculously long nails. “You should try it in fur. You’ve got it down in everything else.”

Sylvia raked me with her eyes. She took in my hoodie, yoga pants, running shoes, and chestnut hair clutched in a ponytail.

My day hadn’t started well. After my cheery conversation with Jack, I dressed for my morning run. My running partner ditched me for a bowl of chicken cacciatore. I missed my run and my shower. Somewhere along the way, I had added Dr. Pepper Lip Smacker and a few swipes of mascara. I hoped I had wiped the sleep from my eyes.

“So you’re Bill’s hotshot partner.”

She said it like I wasn’t hot at all.

“Private Investigator Cat DeLuca. I’m a lot hotter after a shower.”

She was unconvinced.

I made coffee and filled two large red mugs. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Whiskey, if you have it. It’s gotta be five o’clock somewhere in the world.”

I found a bottle in Billy’s drawer and glanced at my watch. In Chicago it wasn’t even noon.

“It’s five in France,” I said.

Sylvia splashed bourbon in her coffee and clinked her cup against mine.

“
Santé
!”

She dropped in a chair, and I sat beside her. She fidgeted with her ring and I shielded my eyes. Her rock could blind like a playboy calendar in a frat house.

“How can I help you?” I said.

“I’m afraid you’ll take me for a fool.”

Too late, I thought, siding with the fox. “Try me.”

“I need your services tonight.”

“Tonight isn’t good for me. I have plans.”

My plans included a bubble bath, a bottle of wine, and maybe a sexy comedy on Netflix. And then I was taking two hunky guys to bed with me. Ben & Jerry. Frankly, I was looking forward to both guys.

It had been a crazy couple of days. I was still reeling from Billy’s murder. I closed three cases this week. And if I had to see one more fumbling lover through the lens of my camera I’d—

“It has to be tonight. I’m getting married Friday.”

“
This
Friday?”

She stuffed something in her mouth and chewed fiercely. “Nicotine gum. Supposed to help you quit.”

“Does it help?”

“Does it look like it helps?” she snapped. “I’d kill for a cigarette. Before this crap with Garret, I hadn’t smoked in years.”

“Who’s Garret?”

“He’s the piece of shit fiancé I’m supposed to marry Friday.” Sylvia sucked her gum fiercely. “A drunk truck driver smeared my Howie’s body all over the Ike. I sued his ass off. And now guess who shows up wanting a share of my grieving money.”

“Uhm…”

“Howie’s gold-digging family! Hell, I didn’t meet half of ’em ’til he was dead.” She stuffed more gum in her mouth. “I didn’t ask for the motherload. It’s not like I pushed Howie into traffic.”

“It’s not like he was a fox.”

“I hate Howie’s family. I want you to off ’em all.”

I gasped. “Kill them?”

“I want you to
talk
to Howie’s family and make them go away.”

“I thought you meant—”

“That was harsh, Cat. I don’t like your methods.”

Sylvia was possibly the most unlikeable female I’d met since my sister Sophie was born and moved into my bedroom.

“Where’s Billy? He promised to help me.”

“Billy’s away.”

“We had a deal. I already paid him.”

“I’ll refund your money.”