Sneak Thief (A Dog Park Mystery) (9 page)

L
ia peered
through the glass into the dim interior of A. Vasari. Alfonso stood in the back, his arms flying about in animated conversation with a younger version of himself. Bells chimed when she opened the door, freezing Alfonso in mid gesture. The men turned in tandem to see who entered. Alfonso waved his son off, shaking his head as he watched Lia approach.

Lia passed by the display cases and stopped at the counter separating Alfonso's bench from the rest of the store.

The old man looked up. “That Desiree, she's not here.”

“Do you expect her in today?”

“What do I know? She hasn't been here since Thursday. Today is Tuesday. That makes four days she don't come, she don't call. She's a prima donna, too good to work. You too good to work?”

“Uh, no.”

“You leave a job without telling anyone?”

“Umm, no, I can't say I have.”

“That's because you're a good girl. You see her, you tell her—” He made a disgusted noise and waved his hand. “Forget it. Don't tell her anything. That girl is not worth my time.”

L
ia chewed
her lip as she drove back to Northside. She took a moment to sneer at District Five before she swooped down the Ludlow Viaduct onto Hamilton Avenue. Where to next? She'd never been to Desiree's place, but Desiree said it was up Hamilton Avenue, a quick walk to The Comet. If she didn't see Desiree's car, she'd stop by the bar and ask.

Desiree's day-glo green Honda sat in the drive between a pair of the ubiquitous dilapidated Victorian-era houses that populated Northside. The car was blocked in by an old truck hauling a jungle of paint-splattered ladders and scaffolding.

Lia parked her car, eyeing the gray shotgun on the right. Two men stood on a narrow platform supported by a pair of 30 foot extension ladders. They scraped loose paint off the front dormer window of the Mansard roof while Z-Z Top's “Sharp Dressed Man” screamed out of portable speakers. She eyed their three-day beards and ratty tee shirts.
Ironic choice of music.

The house on the left was blocked by bushes tall enough to hide a pair of elephants. The white clapboard was trimmed with large horizontal stripes of bright blue, powdery and intense as poster paint. She hoped the person responsible enjoyed it.
Some people shouldn't be allowed near a brush. Oh, well, different strokes . . .”

A flash of yellow caught her attention as she crossed the street. She veered left toward the narrow gap between the bushes. Wide yellow tape criss-crossed the front door of the blue and white monstrosity. “Crime Scene” it said. “Do Not Enter.”

Lia drew closer, uneasy. A distressed sound penetrated the thumping bass emanating from next door. She concentrated, tuning out the music, listening for something just below consciousness, more felt than heard. She latched onto the sound. Someone or something, some dog, was whining.
Julia
?

Lia's unease bloomed into apprehension, heading for alarm. Her heart pounded in concert with the painter's rock music. She froze like a woodland animal caught in headlights. Lia warred with her anxiety, mentally clawing for Asia's lessons. “People hold their breath when they panic. Exhale, and you will automatically inhale in response.” Lia pushed the air out of her lungs and started counting, taking several deep, calming breaths.
Inhale, two, three, four. Hold. Exhale, two, three, four . . . .
Once composed, she approached the ladders.

“Hey up there!” she yelled, hoping to be heard over Robert Palmer's “Addicted to Love.”

Tall Shaggy Blond Guy looked down while Stocky Redhead turned down the music.

“Whassup?” he yelled back.

“I'm looking for a friend. You're parked behind her car. Desiree Willis?”

“You talking about the hot chick next door? The one who liked to party? She got shot during a burglary. Nice chick.” He shook his head. “What a waste.”

Lia felt a punch in her gut. She struggled to speak. “Do you know when it happened?”

He looked at his friend. “What day was that? Friday? Saturday?”

His friend spat over the side of the platform, into the bushes. “Had to be Friday night. Don't you remember complaining about the flashing lights from the cop cars Saturday morning? You said they were making your hangover worse.”

“Oh, yeah. Friday night. Damn margaritas,” he yelled down to Lia. “Sorry about your friend. We saw them haul out the body bag Saturday morning, but we don't know anything else.” Stocky Redhead nudged him and nodded at Lia. Shaggy Blond squinted, examining her more closely. “Hey! Didn't we see you on YouTube?”

“Thanks,” Lia said, avoiding the question and turning away. Her stomach twisted into knots, making her want to curl in on herself. She took a few more deep breaths, imagining the sound of a rushing brook, leaves floating on top as the current flowed downstream. It was her favorite of the visualization techniques she'd learned from Asia. She'd walk up to The Comet. Someone there would know more, and it would give her something to do until her stomach settled and she was calm enough to drive.

The Comet resided in a strip of brown-brick storefronts built sometime before World War II. She took a moment to observe the details. The lower portion of the facade, below the display windows, was faced with black ceramic tile. Vertical stripes of blond brick added a linear element. Faux chimneys and decorative peaks created a syncopated roofline.
Not exactly Art Deco. Maybe Art's funky cousin.

Lia expected the bar to be dark, not closed. She shut her eyes for a moment, swallowing frustration, then read the sign again. Four more hours before The Comet was ready for business.

Peering through the window, she saw a tall, dark-haired man emerge from the back, pushing a mop in a rolling bucket while whistling a credible version of “Can The Circle Be Unbroken.” The bar consisted of two rooms. A long bar topped with upended stools ran the entire length of the lefthand wall of the front room, facing a pair of pool tables and two booths. She knew tables, a vintage photo booth and space for a band were in the larger room next door. Collages by an unidentified neighborhood artist decorated the walls.

Lia banged on the door. The man left the mop and bucket, came to the door.

“We're closed!” he yelled through the door.

“I know! It's about Desiree. Please let me in.”

He grabbed an enormous ring of keys hanging on his belt and cracked the door. “What about Desiree?”

“The painters said she was shot. Is that true? I haven't been able to reach her, and I'm terrified. . . .” Tears spilled down her cheeks.

He pulled the door open without a word and walked over to the long bar, pulled a stool off the bar, flipped it and set it on the floor.

“Have a seat. I'm Dave Cunningham. This is my place.”

As Lia collected herself, he filled a tall glass with ice, splashed syrup in the glass and filled the rest with soda from the gun. He stirred it briefly, squeezed in a lime wedge, popped in a straw and deftly slid a coaster under it as he set it down in front of her.

As he worked, it dawned on Lia that he could be Peter's older brother. He was as tall, but less lanky with it. True, the dark hair was curly (and had probably run riot in his younger days) and his face was longer, more weathered. Still, there was something about the quiet confidence with which he moved that reminded her of Peter. Then he turned to her and his perceptive brown eyes dispelled the illusion.

“Home-made ginger-ale. Good for what ails you. I think I've seen you in here before, but it's been a while.”

“I came in here a time or two with Luthor Morrisey. It's been years.”

“Yeah, Luthor. What is it with you and gunshot victims?” Lia's face crumpled. “Sorry, my bad. What do you know about Desiree?”

“Nothing. I worked with her at Scholastic Scoring Systems. We had a fight a few weeks ago and weren't talking. Last week she texted me and said it was important. I didn't respond. Then she didn't show for work yesterday and I got worried.”

“You're the one who clocked her on YouTube?” He tilted his head, squinted. “Ye-e-a-a-h, now I recognize you. You've got some punch.”

Lia turned red. She stared down at her ginger-ale.

“So you're Lia. You were with Luthor when he died - well, not
with
him. You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I get it. I'm the bitch who destroyed Desiree's chance for love and everlasting happiness.”

“Oh, hey, nobody but Desiree believed that. We all liked Luthor, but he wasn't exactly a hearth and home kinda guy. It's not your fault Desiree insisted on believing what she wanted to believe. I tried to tell her it was a waste of time to wait for him to leave you.”

“Why did you think that?”

“Well, hey, he could do what he wanted, and you weren't looking for a ring. I think it made him a bit crazy. All his other girlfriends wanted a commitment. Like, why didn't you want to nail him down the way they did?”

Lia shook her head in disgust. “I really don't want to talk about Luthor. What happened to Desiree?”

“I heard she interrupted a burglary. Crying shame. She didn't have much worth stealing. Her laptop was junk. Only thing she had worth anything was her iPhone. That and her car. I wonder why he didn't take her car?”

Lia shrugged. “That doesn't make sense, does it?”

“She was in here before it happened. I'm surprised we didn't hear the shot. Guess the music must have been too loud. If it makes you feel any better, she'd stopped sticking nails into her voodoo doll of you by then. Why do you suppose she texted you? She say what she wanted?”

“She just said it was important. You don't think . . . you don't think it had anything to do with why she was shot, do you?”

“I bet she just wanted to kiss and make up. She was all morose and saying how she was an idiot and maybe you weren't a bad person after all. Then she went on about how pretty you were and how talented and of course Luthor would pick you over her. Tell the truth, I was kinda relieved when she left. Too much drama, you know? Makes me feel guilty when I think about it. If she'd stayed, maybe the creep would have been gone before she got home.”

“
D
ourson
.” Peter continued to page through the auction catalog on his desk as he answered the phone.

“Why didn't you tell me about Desiree?” Lia demanded.

“Hello to you, too,” Peter responded pleasantly.

“Don't you act all innocent. You deliberately chose not to tell me about this.”

“How can I choose not to tell you something when you won't talk to me?”

“Don't confuse me with technicalities.”

“Look, I don't want to discuss this on the phone. Where are you?”

“I'm in the parking lot across the street.”

“Wait there. I'll be right out.”

“Mount Saint Lia blew?” Brent drawled from the next desk.

“Looks like.”

“Good luck, Brother.”

“Thanks. I'm going to need it.”

Peter stood on the steps to District Five and watched the agitated figure pacing in the lot across the street.
Time to gird your loins, Dourson . . . . What the hell does that mean, anyway?
He checked traffic on Ludlow Avenue and trotted across the street. Lia spotted him. Fists pumping, she bore down on him.

“No hug?” Peter asked. When Lia glared at him, he shrugged.

“Very funny," Lia said. "Let's walk on the viaduct."

“Why?”

“Because I like the view and this lot is dirty, ugly and smelly.”

“Lead the way.” Peter extended a hand toward the overpass in invitation.

Peter trailed behind her as they walked in silence, Lia dragging her hand on the massive steel railing.

“Okay, this is far enough,” Peter said as he stopped, resting his forearms on the railing so he could look out over the train tracks below. In the distance, boxcars eased lazily along a side rail. “I didn't realize you didn't know.”