Dog Collar Couture (22 page)

“What the hell?” Joey hollered.

Lucie's head snapped up. “Oh, hi.”

“Don't get your boxers in a wad,” Ro said from the floor.

Then it all went to hell with their screaming.

Tim cut away to Lucie, almost relieved Ro and Joey were occupied and out of his hair. “Luce, I told you to stay put. How is being on twelve staying put?”

“No time for that now. We have action in 1222.”

Action? Tim snorted. “What action?”

“The woman in the Max knockoff went in there.”

“There's a million of those knockoffs around here.”

Lucie wagged her finger. “Not with double-eyed feathers there's not.”

“Huh?”

“The double-eyed feathers on the original Max are extremely rare. Even the knockoffs don't have those feathers. You can get some that are dyed, but the eyes—the blue part in the middle—are all uniform. The dress we just saw? The feathers were double-eyed and totally not uniform.”

“Meaning, it's a really good knockoff or—”

“The real thing.”

B
am
.
Just that quick, Tim's jaw softened, and he lost the tight look from tracking her to the twelfth floor. The realization that she might have found the Max must have hit.

Well, good for him.

“I'm sorry I didn't stay put,” Lucie said, “but I couldn't risk losing that dress. Even if it's not the real thing, it's a damned expensive knockoff. Maybe the person who owns it can give us a lead.”

“Which room?”

“1222.”

Tim swung back to Joey and Ro, still squaring off in front of the elevator. At least Ro was on her feet, and they weren't yelling anymore. “You two stay here.”

Joey gave him a hard stare. “What now?”

“Stay here with Lucie and Ro. I'm going down to 1222.”

Oh, no he wasn't it. Not without her anyway. “Hang on one second.”

“No, Luce. You need to stay here.”

“What if my mysterious Bill is there? You've never seen him and won't recognize him.”

Before Tim could respond, voices carried from the hallway. They turned to where a man emerged from what looked like room 1222. He shook hands with another man who'd also entered the hallway.

Lucie's lungs stopped. They, in fact, might have collapsed—no air. She simply could not suck a breath.

In the hallway, chatting up his guest, an easy smile drifting across his face, was a seemingly content man. A satisfied man. A man free of stress.

Free of a missing Maxmillian dress.

Lewis Dukane.

The bastard owner of the Max.

Lucie gaped at him, her jaw too heavy for her to clamp it shut.

Tim squeezed her arm. “Luce?”

“It's him.”

“Who?”

“Lewis Dukane.”

Tim's head whipped sideways, and Lucie ducked behind him before Dukane got a glimpse of her. “What do we do?”

The second man said something about calling to confirm the transfer, and Lucie stared up at Tim, hoping he had some sort of plan.

Tim nudged her sideways. “He's coming. Not Dukane. The other guy.”

Seconds later the man walked by, nodding at Lucie as he went.

Tim waited until Dukane's guest left the corridor. “When he gets on the elevator, I'm knocking on that door.” He pulled his phone from his suit pocket. “First, I'm getting one of those cops from downstairs up here.”

“Is that necessary?”

“No idea. But I'm not going in there alone. And you aren't coming with me.”

“Tim—”

“Forget it, Luce.”

He held up one finger to shush her while he spoke into his phone then punched out of the call. “He's on his way.”

“I think—”

“Wait,” he said. “I love you, I do, but you are not going into that room. You will stay out here. Where it's safe. Where you won't be impeding an investigation. Got that?”

So much for understanding and comforting Tim. “You're being a little overbearing.”

“Lucie, you haven't seen overbearing. If I have to, I'll lock you in the back of that squad I just hauled your brother from.”

He wouldn't
. . .

He propped his hands on his hips, brushing his suit jacket open and revealing the gun holstered at his waist. “Bet on it.”

Whoa, with flashing the gun.
Message received, Detective.

Joey swung into the corridor. “Hey, do we have a plan or what?”

Tim dropped his hands, buttoned the suit up. “Yes. The plan is I have a cop on his way up here. I'm going into that room. You three stay here. Call it overwatch.”

“Whatever,” Joey said. “I just wanna get the hell out of here.”

Ro ducked around the corner, scooting along behind him. “Luce, we should head back to the ballroom and find some of our Cock Head friends. See if anyone has heard anything about the dress being here.”

Tim smacked both palms against his forehead.
Fwap.
“What does it take to get you two to stop? When is it enough? Because I'm happy to lock both of you up.”

Ro curled her lip. “Your boyfriend gets a little dramatic.”

The elevator dinged, and Tim looked over. “Please be a cop in there. Please.”

The doors swished open, and out stepped the cop who'd detained Joey. Wishes apparently did come true.

“Excellent.” Tim pointed at the cop. “You're with me. We're going to room 1222. The owner of the Maxmillian dress—you know, the stolen one—is in there. Something's hinky.”

“Cool,” the cop said.

Cool for him maybe. All Lucie got to do was stand around and watch while her blood simmered.

No fun.

“Joey,” Tim poked his finger. “I need you to stay here. Keep an eye out for anyone coming off that elevator. Got it?”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

Joey saluted, and the two men made their way down the hall. Lucie gritted her teeth and ignored the pain lancing into her gums.
Darn it.
This just made her skin fry.

“That sucks eggs,” she said.

“Ooh.” Joey held his hands up and waggled them. “Goody-two-shoes on the verge of swearing.”

Her brother. The jerk. They'd been doing so well today, and he chooses now to harass her? “Joey?”

“Yes?”

“Fuck you.”

Ro burst out laughing. “Wowie! Atta, girl, Luce. I swear, you Rizzos are a rip. I just love you guys.”

Tim and the cop reached the door. The cop stood to the side, away from the peephole, and Tim knocked.

When the door came open, Tim flashed his badge and stepped into the doorway. The element of surprise.
Well, played.

The cop followed Tim into the room, and the door closed behind them.

“I can't stand it,” Lucie said. “I have to listen in.”

Joey grabbed her arm. “Tim said to stay here. Don't piss him off.”

“All I'm doing is listening. I promise I won't go in.” She pulled free and squeezed his hand. “I promise.”

“I'll go with her,” Ro said. “Kinda curious myself.”

“When he gets pissed, don't say I didn't warn you.”

Ro waved him off. “Blah, blah.” She caught up with Lucie and tugged on the back of her shirt. “You're sure about this, right? As much as I hate to admit it, Joey has a point.”

“All we're doing is eavesdropping. With Tim and the cop inside, what could happen?”

L
ucie and Ro
lined up on either side of the door, heads angled so they could listen.

Muffled voices came from inside, the words running together in a blur. Dang it, none of it made sense. She met Ro's gaze, hoping maybe her BFF could make out some of the words. A lifetime of friendship gave them the ability to instantly know what the other was thinking. A talent that made them good business partners as well as friends.

Understanding the message, Ro shook her head.

From behind Ro, another door ker-clunked, and a dark-haired man wearing jeans and a zip-up hoodie double-checked the door handle, making sure the lock engaged. Never hurt to be cautious.

The man turned and—whoa. His face, the chubby cheeks, the smooth, wrinkle-free skin.
Him.

He stopped and stared at Lucie. Her immediate recognition, the cold stab in her chest, sparked an insane blood rush.

“Bill,” she said, her voice low and growling.

Now they had him.
Trapped.

She sidestepped, partially blocking Bill's path. Living up to girl code, Ro filled the space beside her. If he wanted out, he'd have to deal with a Gucci-clad, soon-to-be-ex-wife of a stripper-banger and a partially psychotic Rizzo.

He's cooked.

“I knew you'd be here,” Lucie said. “What? Did you make a side deal with the owner? Ransomed his dress?”

Bill burst into a sprint—
no, no, no
—coming straight at them. Lucie and Ro angled forward, setting their feet like a couple of defensive tackles.

“Go ahead,” Ro said, “give me a reason.”

Bill reached them, holding both hands out and aiming for the slight opening between them.

Boom.
He blasted them, sending Ro flying, her feet coming right off the floor. Momentum carried her back, back, back . . .

“Ooofff!”

She pancaked. Flat on her rear staring straight up at the ceiling, she choked out a breath. Seeing her sprawled on the floor, helpless, all because of this same man who'd tormented her, released something in Lucie's brain. Something protective and angry and
violent.

Lucie sprinted, her feet pounding the carpet, giving chase toward the elevator. “Joey. Grab him! Ro down, Ro down, Ro down.”

Joey's giant body swung around the corner and—
fwap
—Bill nailed him. Or Joey nailed Bill, because the loose flesh on Bill's body smacked against six feet three of solid muscle and bounced back.

Take that.

He crumpled to the floor, landing on his belly.

“What the—”

But Lucie kept running. Right there. Right there. And she wanted a piece of him.

He made a move to get up, and Lucie leaped. Just—
voom
—she sailed for a second, landing hard on his back. Air shot from her mouth and her ribcage may have shattered, but she was on the bastard and swinging.

Now he'd pay.

“Lucie,” Joey said, “are you nuts or what?”

Oh, she was beyond nuts.

Bill rose to his hands and knees with Lucie still on his back. She gripped the back of his T-shirt, squeezing until the neck tightened and he gagged.

“Crazy witch. Get off me.”

He crawled toward the elevator, giving Lucie a horsey ride as he went. She smacked the back of his head—
whap, whap, whap
—squeezing her legs around his back, trying to knee him hard enough to inflict pain.

“Are you
kidding
me?”

Tim.

But Lucie was too far gone now. The rage had set in, full psychosis, and she wanted this man bloody.

A pair of cordovan shoes appeared just in front of them, blocking Bill from crawling any farther, and Lucie raised her head.

Tim's fair skin suddenly glowed a fierce red, and his eyes shot green lasers. He set his hands on his hips, tap-tap-tapping his fingers against them.

“Off,” he said.

“He tried to escape. Did you see what he did to Ro?”

A shoe smacked Lucie's shoulder and ricocheted, hitting Bill on the head. It landed on the floor, broken spiked heel hanging precariously.

“Rat-bastard. You broke my heel. Do you know what those shoes cost?”

Lucie looked back, spotted her BFF charging—if one could charge while hobbling on one stiletto. Joey intervened, stepping between Ro and her prey, grabbing her around the waist and hauling her backward as she kicked and waved her fists. “I'll kill him. I'll squeeze his balls until they burst!”

“Wow.” The cop whistled. “That's hot.”

“Hey,” Tim said, his voice sharp and carrying. “Everyone shut. The hell. Up!” He pointed at Lucie. “You. Get off of him. Right now.” He pointed at Bill. “You move, and I swear to God I'll shoot you.” He pointed at Joey and Ro. “Get her out of here. What a flipping cluster!”

Talk about hot.

Ewww-weeee a churned-up Tim O'Brien was a sight.

Lucie gave Bill one last smack and climbed off him, more than ready to hop back on if he tried anything funny.

“Dude,” he said to Tim, “she's crazy.” He rubbed the back of his head. “I want to press charges. Assault. Am I bleeding?”

Tim grabbed hold of him, got him to his feet, checked his pupils and apparently satisfied they were in working order, shoved him the direction he'd just come from. “Shut up and get moving.”

In front of the room, the Maxmillian model and Mr. Dukane stood side by side in a long-faced sort of stunned shock.

“Inside,” Tim said to them. “I want answers.”

T
im
and his cop buddy escorted Lucie, Bill and Mr. Dukane back to the hotel room, which turned out to be an oversized suite complete with a conference table that seated ten.

Once everyone was seated, Tim gave the cop instructions to stand guard and ducked back into the hall to make a phone call.

Ten minutes passed while Lucie, Bill and Mr. Dukane sat quietly, but took turns staring each other down. The model stood by the window, staring out over the Chicago skyline.

All that poor thing wanted was a modeling gig, and she wound up in the middle of a Cock Head fight.

Tim entered the room, jaw set, big shoulders back and ready for battle. He swung the safety latch so the door wouldn't close all the way and headed toward the table. His suit jacket flapped open as he moved and Lucie's breath caught. Tim was one of those alluring men that pulled off playful one minute, commanding the next.

If his stony cheeks were an indicator, the occupants of this room had better behave. Lucie, seated at the far end of the table, scooted back in her chair. She wouldn't be the one to cause trouble.

No way. At least not any more trouble.

Two seats down, Mr. Dukane leaned in and jabbed his index finger into the table. “I want to know the meaning of this. I'm a businessman conducting private meetings. I've paid for this room.”

Idiot.

Tim propped one hand on his hip, revealing his service weapon and badge. “Mr. Dukane, I'm aware of that. We have one small problem.”

“What's that?”

He pointed to the model. “That dress she's wearing. It looks like the original.”

“It's a copy.”

Such a liar. A dirty, rotten, rat-bastard liar. “Ha!” Lucie smacked her hand on the table. “Look at the feathers. They aren't uniform. If those were dyed feathers, the eyes would all have the same shape.”

Mr. Dukane made a
pffting
noise. “They would not. What do you know?”

“I know the real thing when I see it. And I also know a swindler when I see one.”

For effect, she narrowed her eyes and pinched her lips. Mean Lucie. Spine-melting Lucie.

“Lucie,” Tim said, “please be quiet.”

Whoopsie.
She sat back, shoulders hunched, arms crossed. “Sorry. I got carried away.”

He flashed his wide smile, and a million little explosions blasted inside her. Even angry, he found a way to let her know they'd be okay.

Hopefully.

The hotel room door swung open. Detective Bickel. Terrific. Her favorite person. And the one Tim must have called from the hallway.

Bickel nodded at her, and Lucie returned the nod. If Ro were here, she'd call this a hot-ass mess.

“Whatcha got?” Bickel asked Tim.

“Nothing yet. I waited on you. Your case. But what I think is she's wearing the missing Maxmillian dress.” Tim gestured to the model. “And one or both of these guys has something to do with it.”

Mr. Dukane sat forward again. “It's him. He's been blackmailing me.”

A stream of obscenities flew from Bill's mouth, and Tim and Bickel both raised their hands to shut him up.

“He's lying.” Bill jabbed a finger Dukane. “You greedy son of a bitch. I'm not going down for this.”

Dukane sniffed and turned away. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Huh,” Detective Bickel said. “Mr. Dukane, you sure you don't know what he's talking about?”

“He knows,” Bill said. “He knows he paid me and my buddy to steal that dress. That's what he knows.”

Whoa!
Lucie shot her gaze straight to Tim, who slid his eyes toward her, but then away again. She took the hint and, as much as it killed her—absolutely destroyed her—sat quietly.

“That's absurd,” Mr. Dukane said. “I'm a collector. Why would I want the dress stolen?” He rose from his seat. “This is ridiculous. I'm calling my lawyer.”

“Sure,” Bickel said. “Tell him to come on down. While you're doing that, we'll talk to Bill here. Get his side of the story.”

The uniformed cop slid in front of the door. Did he expect someone to run for it? With three armed officers in the room?

Not to mention a psychotic Rizzo.

“Bill,” Tim said, “when you contacted Ms. Rizzo about buying the dress, did Mr. Dukane know?”

Bickel gave Tim a hard look. Either he didn't like Tim butting in, or he'd just been made aware of Lucie possibly buying stolen merchandise.

Oh, the tangled web.

Bill winced. “No. Well, yes, he knew I had a possible buyer. He didn't know who it was. He planned the whole scam around this stupid convention. Figured he'd have a ton of buyers. Then he sent me to that fan club meeting.”

“The Cock Heads,” Tim said.

“Yeah. I came back from the meeting and told him I had someone hooked. When all that heat came down and I realized she—” he pointed at Lucie “—was the witness, I bolted.”

Tim pursed his lips. “Un-huh.”

“He's lying,” Dukane shouted from his spot near the bathroom where he held the phone to his ear.

“You be quiet,” Tim said.

Bickel circled one finger. “Take me back to the beginning.”

“Dukane wanted the dress stolen, so he could collect the insurance payout.”

“Preposterous!”

“That's it.” Tim pointed to the door where the cop stood. “Take him outside. Cuff him if you have to.”

Wow.

Tim, Tim, Tim. So hot.

Wait until she got him alone tonight.

The hotel room door banged shut, and Bickel waved at Bill to continue.

Bill nodded. “He figured if the dress was robbed from the auction place, the insurance company wouldn't clue in on him arranging it. Then he told me to try and sell it, and that he'd split whatever we got for it. Greedy.”

“So,” Tim said, “he had you steal the dress, intending to collect the insurance money
and
then he'd get a black-market buyer.”

“Yeah. Double the cash.”

Bickel let out a long, low whistle just as the hotel-room door opened again and Mr. Dukane reentered.

“Have a seat, Mr. Dukane. I can't wait to hear your side of this.”

Dukane straightened his tie, hitched his pants and sat. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Oh, so smug. Pompous and smug and . . . hateful. He'd come to her that day and begged—
begged
—her to go to the authorities. He'd insulted not only her but her family name, and, all along, he'd been behind the entire thing.

Lucie leaned halfway across the table. A few inches more and she'd be able to wrap her skinny fingers around Dukane's throat, watch his lying eyes pop right from his head. “You jerk.”

“Lucie—”

“No, Tim.” She poked a finger at Dukane. “He came to me, begging me to tell the police what I knew. Then he insulted me when all the while he knew what he'd done.”

“I didn't do anything.”

“Yes, you did,” she said. “You set this whole thing up. You couldn't be satisfied with just the insurance money. You needed more. Well, guess what, mister? I—or as you put it—
the likes of me
just took you down.” She slammed her open hand on the table. “Don't mess with a Rizzo, buddy.”

Bickel frowned hard enough that his bottom lip rolled out. After a few seconds, he turned to Tim. “What the hell is she talking about?”