Dog Collar Couture (3 page)

“That's okay. More for me to grab on to.”

“Excellent answer, O'Hottie.”

He laughed at her, dropped one arm over her shoulder and strolled toward the custard shop on the next corner.

“So, dear,” he said, “how was your day?”

Ugh.
The question she'd dreaded since she left the house. The guilt of keeping the robbery from him—and her possible connection to it—might kill her. She should tell him. Just come clean and get it over with since he'd handed her the perfect opportunity.

But Ro was right. Admitting it would involve him, and that could be a conflict of interest. Dating a cop was turning out to be a not-so-easy thing. At least for her, the one who attracted trouble.

Still, a lie by omission was a definite trust-killer for two people so early in a relationship.

Keeping it from him also made her a hypocrite. For years she'd been on her own little soapbox about always telling the truth and never being afraid of honesty.

Now look at her. Slicing and dicing what she wanted the truth to be. She should at least let him decide for himself if her being near the auction house created a possible conflict.

“Lucie?”

She stopped walking, turned to him and earned a few choice swear words from the guy behind them.

“Dude,” Tim said, “take it easy.”

The jerk kept moving though, and Tim rolled his eyes before looking down at Lucie. “What's up?”

“I'd like to tell you about my day.”

“Sure. Are you okay?”

“Oh, yeah. Nothing horrible.”

The blast of a train horn—his lieutenant's ringtone—sounded above the chattering pedestrians and street noise, and Lucie suspected her evening was about to come to an end.

“Ah, dammit. Hang on, Luce.”

Over the last couple of months, Lucie had grown accustomed to these calls. He'd explained to her early on that even when off-duty, he could be called in at any time. It was part of his world, and, although he'd been casual about the conversation, she'd understood the message. Life with him meant his job and the general public of Chicago came before everything else.

He unclipped the phone from his waist holder, tapped the screen. “O'Brien . . . yes, sir.” He glanced at his watch. “Twenty minutes. Give or take. Yes, sir. Got it.”

He disconnected and stowed his phone.

“You have to go.”

“Yep. Sorry. We caught a case late this afternoon. Not mine, but they need an extra set of hands.”

“It's all right.” She turned back toward the parking garage. “Walk me back, and I'll drive you to your car.”

“I'm sorry, Lucie. I hate cutting the night short.”

“Me, too.” She poked him on his rock-hard belly. “But you'll make it up to me.”

“What did you want to tell me? About your day.”

Well, she certainly couldn't tell him now. Not with him rushing off to do heaven-knew-what. He needed to focus on his job, not her.

Tomorrow.

She'd call him in the morning and tell him everything.

That's what she'd do.

Tomorrow.

T
he following morning
, wearing her favorite comfy jeans and pink sweater, Lucie was ready for a day filled with paperwork and Ro meetings. Since she'd arranged to have her two dog walkers cover the pooches so she could catch up on her administrative tasks, she took advantage of a sunny fall morning and walked to Coco Barknell. One of the perks of leasing a shop just a few blocks from home.

At 8:05 she reached the store, spied a smudge on the front window just below the image of the winking poodle in their logo and sneered. Maybe she was a freak about keeping the windows clean, but too bad. She had an image to create here. Potential customers wouldn't want to see a smudgy environment.

Worse, the cleaning company had just been there the night before, supposedly, so clearly they'd been negligent in their duties.

Sighing, Lucie unlocked the front door. “I'll just add that to the list to be handled today.”

“Baby girl!”

No, no, no.
Key still in the door, she backed up three steps, swung her head left and spotted her father beelining down the sidewalk. He wore a light, zip-up jacket, dress slacks and a dress shirt, and the sun shined off his salt-and-pepper hair. Hair that he'd let grow an extra inch since returning home.

When she'd seen him an hour ago, he'd set his coffee mug in the sink, kissed her cheek and left for Petey's, the luncheonette two doors down from Coco Barknell where he and his cronies hung out.

For years, according to rumor anyway because Joey and Dad never shared anything related to her father's business, Petey had been receiving a weekly stipend from Joe Rizzo and crew. That little infusion of cash basically allowed them to use the luncheonette as a base of operations.

It also created an opportunity for her father to pop in on her at Coco Barknell anytime he chose. Even if she were in the middle of a meeting or knee deep in a P&L. What her father hadn't quite grasped was the idea that this storefront was now her office and should be treated as such. When she worked as an investment banker, he'd never dream of popping in on her all day long.

Which only told her that her father still thought of Coco Barknell as a hobby. A little side business until she got a
real
job. Well, it had to stop.

And soon.

“Hi, Dad,” she said. “What's up?”

“Did you eat yet? Petey is making breakfast. Come eat.”

“Thanks, but my day is jam-packed. Can I take a rain check?”

“You gotta eat.” He waved toward the store. “Whatever it is, it'll wait. Come with your old man and eat.”

Lordy, where was Ro when she needed her?

Time to schmooze. Lucie stepped forward, kissed her father on the cheek. “Dad, I'm busy. This is my work.”

He cuffed her under the chin like he used to when she was seven. Some habits really did die hard.

“I can't come down and see my daughter? Since when?”

“Of course you can. But I may not be able to drop everything and go.”

He rolled his eyes. Lovely.

“Dad, I'm sorry. I'm swamped.”

“Okay. Sure.” He lifted his wrist, checked his watch. “I'll come back in an hour.”

Obviously, she needed reinforcements on this deal. Tonight she'd recruit Mom to talk to him. Maybe
she'd
crack through that thick skull.

Lucie flicked her thumb at the door where her key ring patiently waited to be removed from the lock. “I have to get to it here. Thanks for coming down.”

A whirring noise drew Lucie's attention, and she turned to see a Chevy with more than a few dents and a broken grille double-parking next to Jimmy Two-Toes's Caddy. A short, balding man levered out of the car and shot the cuffs of his sport coat.

“Cop,” Dad said.

Another car, a black Dodge Charger that made Lucie's stomach twist, rolled to a stop behind the Chevy.

Maybe it wasn't . . . nope . . . no such luck. Behind the wheel of that Dodge—the one he'd recently started driving after his Crown Vic was totaled when an errant bus hit it—was Tim.

Dear. God.

“And another cop,” Dad said. “These bastards won't let up on me.”

A nasty bout of nausea attacked, filling her empty stomach, over Tim being referred to as a bastard. He was far from that, and her father would one day know it.

Right now might not be the time, but one day, he'd see what she saw when she looked at Tim.

“Um,” she said, “maybe they're not here for you.”

“Who else are they here for?”

Still behind the wheel, Tim met her gaze and nodded.

“You know him?”

Obviously, her highly observant father hadn't missed that nod. “I do. That's . . .”
My boyfriend.
“Tim O'Brien. The detective Mom was talking about last night. He's a good guy.”

Soon you'll hopefully know how good.

T
im slid
out of his car and once again made eye contact with Lucie. He didn't know what the hell to think. Last night he'd left her and went straight to headquarters, where he was briefed on the robbery of the Maxmillian dress, a funky, tight-fitting, knee-length black number one of the female detectives called “couture.” Whatever that meant. And the truly wacky thing was it had feathers all over the bottom. The entire bottom. A veritable skirt of feathers.

Also during the briefing he'd been shown a security video. One that included Lucie chatting it up with the auction-house manager.

If she knew about this robbery—and her proximity to it—she could be a witness. And if she knew all that and hadn't bothered to tell him . . .

That would
upset
him.

A lot.

But he'd stay calm—for now. Not let his brain get crazy.

He followed Gus Bickel, the lead detective on this case, to the curb where Lucie stood, her gaze steady on his. Her father, whom he'd recognized from all the media coverage of his trial, was beside her, shoulders back, a bullish—if that was even a word—look on his face.

The famous Joe Rizzo. Too bad. Investigating a crime was not the way Tim had hoped to meet Lucie's family.

“Ms. Rizzo,” Bickel said, badging her as he stepped to the curb. “I'm Detective Gus Bickel. Chicago PD.”

“Hello.” Lucie shook hands with Gus and then turned to her father. “This is my father. Joe Rizzo.”

Mr. Rizzo shook hands with Bickel. Not a bad start.

Bickel pointed at Tim. “You know Detective O'Brien, correct?”

Lucie held his gaze again. “Yes. We're . . . acquainted. Good morning.”

Jeez, this was awkward. Last night he'd had his tongue in her mouth and today they were acquaintances? Twelve hours ago she'd given him that speech about not wanting to hide their relationship. Now? He didn't know what the hell to think.

“Good morning, Mr. Rizzo.” Tim shook hands with Lucie's father.

“What's up, fellas?” Joe Rizzo wanted to know.

Bickel faced Lucie. “Ms. Rizzo, we're investigating a robbery. Could we go inside and speak to you a moment.”

When Lucie made a move to head inside, her dad grabbed her arm. “Hold on.”

“Dad, please. Let's just move whatever this is inside.”

Ignoring Lucie—which wasn't copacetic on any level—Joe Rizzo eyeballed Bickel. “Does she need a lawyer?”

A lawyer.
Here we go.
Bickel turned to Tim. Yeah, he'd requested to come on this little jaunt because he was “friends” with Lucie. That's what he'd told them. The second his superiors got wind that he was dating Lucie, they'd pull him off this case, and he'd be no help to her. If Lucie was involved, he'd most likely have to remove himself, anyway, but now they were still in fact-finding mode.

“That's up to her,” Bickel said.

“I don't need a lawyer,” Lucie said.

Her father turned a stony look on her. No shock there. He'd spent most of his adult life speed-dialing attorneys.

“Okay, then,” Tim said. “Let's head inside.”

And get this the hell over with.