Authors: K.J. Larsen
Some Like It Hot (18 page)
“Admit it, girlfriend. You suck at codes.”
I browsed around and one piece caught my eye. I picked up a mermaid. It was about eight inches tall and it was, in a word, magnificent. I checked out the bottom. It’s signed by the artist. “I’d love to buy this.”
“You’ll have to leave him a note the next time you break into his house.”
Tires scratched the gravel parking lot.
Cleo reached for the door. “Gotta run,” she said.
I gave the unit a final sweep and my eyes froze on the smallest surveillance camera, high in the right corner.
Smile. We’re on candid camera.
“Coming?” Cleo pulled me out the door.
We locked up fast, zipped around back, and drove up to the gate. A young couple in a U-Haul truck waved.
I didn’t tell Cleo about the camera. I figured with nothing missing, fingers crossed, they’d have no reason to run the tape.
We cruised home without a lot to say. Cleo was annoyed that Pruitt probably wasn’t the bad-ass drug dealer she made him out to be. My head hurt. The aspirin had worn off, but the bump behind my hideous bangs hadn’t. My pocket felt warm where the photo of Billy was. A picture of someone stalking Billy stalking someone. We private dicks and janes are a surly lot.
I parked the Camry in front of my house and turned off the engine.
“Comin’ in?” I asked. “I’ll make tea.”
“No thanks. I got stuff to do.”
She grinned ear to ear and opened her coat. She pulled out the Vincenzo Bertolotti ceramic of a mermaid resting in a shell and slapped it in my hands.
“From Billy,” she said.
I groaned. “You
stole
this?”
“They owe it to Billy. They took his brand new Chicago Bears jacket. Besides, there’s so much stuff in there they won’t notice.”
“Trust me, they’ll notice.”
“Let them.” Cleo grinned even wider. “They can’t possibly know we were there, can they?”
I felt like I was gonna be sick.
I went inside and made ginger tea. The house was lonely without Inga to talk to.
I took my tea and the
Bridgeport News
into the living room. I put the Vincenzo Bertolotti ceramic on the mantle and sat across from it in the recliner. I might as well enjoy it. I’d have to return it tonight.
I sipped the ginger tea and checked out the Bridgeport social calendar news. The Italian American Club was having a Veteran’s Memorial Brick Program. The Moose Club Fish Fry on Friday was not to be missed. The Catholic Church is having their annual Bingo-a-thon and bake sale. You know Mama will be there. Last year she won fifty dollars. She’s a high roller now. She’s been talking about taking a trip to Vegas ever since.
I skimmed down the page and Rocco’s name caught my eye. Some dirt-bag reporter wrote a piece on a recent string of burglaries. The journalist slammed Rocco and Jackson. She dubbed them the Dubious Duo.
The article was totally bogus. The guys had been working their bums off on this case, interviewing victims, searching for a common denominator. The bandit was clever. He didn’t leave a fingerprint or DNA behind. He’d mess up sooner or later. Until then, the ninth precinct was taking heat. And this commentary would not be lost on the brass upstairs.
For an added cherry on the throwing pie assault, an editor’s blurb reported the Bridgeport Bandit struck again last night.
I called Rocco.
He skipped the
Yo.
“You saw the article,” he said.
“It’s crap.”
“The guy’s an asshat. He struck again last night.”
“What did he take?”
“The usual. Jewelry. A laptop, still in the box. Some mermaid laying in a shell. Flat-screen TV.”
“
What?”
“What— what?”
I laughed. “You’d better come over, bro. You’re gonna blow Captain Bob’s socks off.”
“Yeah?”
“I think the mermaid’s on my mantle.”
“Five minutes later the back door bell rang.
“How’d you get here so fast?” I said swinging the door wide.
Jay Pruitt stared at me. He had company. It was the Fence outside in the car at Devin’s party. The bald guy with the voice I couldn’t remember. It was all coming back to me now. And I sure as hell remembered something else. Freddy the Fence is a creepy, scary guy.
Jay said, “Can we come in?”
“No!” I tried to slam the door shut, but he had a foot in it.
Freddy said, “She’s expecting someone.”
His mouth twisted and the gold tooth glittered. “Whoever it is, they are gonna have to wait for a long, long time.”
“ROCCO!” I screamed, knowing he couldn’t hear.
I fought with all that was in me. I delivered a couple good punches and kicks that I knew I would pay for later. One jerked my hair back. The other duct-taped my mouth. Then he struck me in the back of my head, between the bottom of my ear and spine.
Everything went black.
I woke in a dark place that smelled like funeral flowers. Hundreds of fragrance spewing, oxygen sucking funeral flowers. I wondered if I was dead. I tried to pinch myself, but my hands were tied behind me. My feet were bound and my chest strapped to a chair. I wasn’t dead. I was pissed. And I was in the garden of hell.
I was pretty sure I could hear rats. The pattering of their little filthy feet, coming to climb up my legs and feast on my eyes. The sound got louder and faster. I couldn’t breathe. My breaths came in short desperate snivels. I nearly blacked out again before I realized I was listening to my heart.
I did a mental head-smack. Willing my nostrils to take slooow, deeeep snivels. Captain Bob always said I piss people off. Jack, my smart-ass mechanic, said people wanted to kill me. Okay. So they were both right.
What do they want? A freaking cookie?
I decided if I get through this alive, I’m going to run that half-marathon with Max. I’m going to take Grandma DeLuca to a gypsy circus—even if it’s in Italy. And I’m going to make arrangements to be cremated. Cuz if my big mouth kills me on any other day, I want my ashes thrown at Bob and Jack.
Planning my future—or even pretending I had one—helped me pull it together. First I would have to find a way out of here. Then I’d go home and have a meltdown with Ben, Jerry, and Captain Morgan.
I stretched low to the side, twisted my legs, and grappled Cleo’s knife from my ankle. I breathed a thanks to the yoga gods and opened the blade.
On the upside, Rocco knew I was in trouble. He’d be looking for me. Every DeLuca in Chicago and every ninth precinct cop would come for me. I just had to stay alive until they figured out where I was.
A door shot open. Light from the doorway threw a long, ogre-like shadow at my feet. Creepy.
“You’re back. Good. I told Freddy not to hit you so hard.”
Pruitt was framed by flowers. Rows and rows of blue and yellow and red blossoms on the other side of the door. I was held hostage at a nursery. If I made it out, I’d bring Mama a big colorful bouquet. If I didn’t, she’d buy flowers for my funeral. My heart beat pounded in my head.
Pruitt hit a switch and I scrunched my eyes, adjusting to the light. I looked around. Okay. No rats.
The room was painted pink and gray. The chairs screamed seventies. There was a large desk with drawers on one side and a door on the other. My friend Melanie’s parents had one just like it. When we were kids, we’d climb through the door and hide in the desk. I saw piles of green tissue paper, baby’s breath, gift cards, scissors, and tape on a table used for wrapping flowers. And I saw my 9mm Glock.
He pulled a chair up beside me. All cozy, like we were friends. Then he ripped the duct tape from my face. It hurt like hell. My eyes stung, but I didn’t flinch. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
“Tough girl, eh?”
He hunched beside me, the big, meaty, red face sincere. “I’m Jay.”
He was going for the Stockholm syndrome, where the kidnapped victim identifies with the kidnapper. Yeah right.
I said, “I know who you are. You’re a thief.”
“Am I?”
“Bridgeport Bandit. You’ve made quite a name for yourself.”
“You think you’re smart.”
I shrugged. “Cleo thought you were a drug dealer.”
His eyes darkened. “You’ve been a very busy girl, Ms. DeLuca. Sniffing around places you have no business. My house. My storage unit. Will Peterson’s house. I need to know why.”
“You should have given me the St. Christopher necklace, Jay. Mrs. Bonham only wanted to bury it with Billy.”
“I told you I didn’t have it.”
“It was upstairs in a ballerina music box. Billy has it now.”
His jaw tightened. It was obvious his roommates were supposed to get rid of it.
“Gee,” I said. “Did I get someone in trouble?”
I kept him talking and worked the blade behind my back.
“I understand you were Bonham’s partner.”
I nodded. The only person he could have learned that from was the Prada woman at Billy’s Wake.
“I’m going to ask you a few questions. I need you to answer them.”
“Why?”
“Because the sooner we’re done here, the sooner you can go home.”
“Would that be in a box?”
“So cynical. I’m not a monster.”
“Why did you kill him?” I said.
At first I thought he wasn’t going to answer me. But then he thought, why not? The dead don’t talk.
He said, “Will Peterson drove and I made the hit.”
Keep him talking
.
“How do you know Will?”
“I worked at his dealership. Before me and Freddie went into business together. A couple months ago we run into each other. Will’s wife is gonna leave him. She’s a greedy bitch. She’ll ream him. He wants to stage a robbery. The thing with your partner wasn’t personal. It was business.”
“Not personal?” I choked.
“Your partner knew too much. It was an unfortunate necessity.”
“Billy didn’t know crap.”
“Bonham was working for the insurance company. He photographed Will and me splitting the insurance money. He was gathering evidence. We didn’t have a choice. We would have gone to prison for insurance fraud.”
“You dumb-ass. The insurance company didn’t hire Billy. Will’s wife did. She wanted Bill to get her dog back.”
Jay Pruitt was big and dumb and at a loss for words. He looked stunned, like I hit him. “I’ll be damned.”
Freddy’s boxy square body walked in the room. “My guys are picking your girlfriend up.”
“So what happens now?”
Freddy gave a twisted smile. “You know too much. You and Ms. Jones will argue, a lovers’ quarrel, if you will. You’ll kill her and then yourself.”
“Seriously?
That’s the best you can do? No one will believe it.”
“Forensics will prove otherwise.”
“Think of my family. I’d rather die in an accident. I’ll go over a cliff. I think you owe it to me a little dignity.”
“There are no cliffs in Chicago.”
“I’ll go over a curb.”
A car approached. Pruitt crossed over to the window and shoved the dark curtain aside.
“Your friend is here. It would be a good time to make peace with God.”
My hands were free. I sliced the rope around my chest and feet and exploded out of the chair.
The window opened easily. I threw the ropes outside as if I’d shed them running away. My 9mm was on the table begging me to shoot someone. I picked it up. It was still loaded. Then I opened the door on the left side of the desk. Twisting and bending in places God never intended, I slinked inside and closed the door. I peered through the keyhole and aimed my gun at the door.
Who’s the human pretzel now?
I picked up voices and snatches of conversation through the open window. They were deciding where the fatal lover’s quarrel would take place. My curb idea wasn’t even on the table.
Freddy wanted to finish us up in the greenhouse and move the bodies. The greenhouse has cement floors and a hose. Somebody said they’d pick up bleach.
“It’s risky to move a body and stage a suicide,” Pruitt said. “They always catch those guys on CSI.”
Cleo shrieked. “You’re dead. All of you. D-E-A-D! When Frankie DeLuca hears what you’ve done, he’ll chop you up in little pieces and feed you to the fish.”
Pruitt laughed. “Let’s go see your friend.”
He tromped through the door, Cleo slung over his shoulder. She kicked and pummeled his back. His eyes cut sharply to the empty chair, and he almost dropped her.
“What the—Shit! She’s gone!”
Freddy raced inside, swearing viciously. “Find her.”
“The gun. She took the Goddam gun.”
There was shouting, and the car peeled away in hot pursuit.
There were just two of them again. Pruitt and Freddy the Fence. I could take them both out before they knew what hit them. If only Cleo would step out of the way. It was too risky to have guns blazing with her smack in the middle.
Cleo gave a hard laugh and shouted at the window. “You go, girl!”
Freddy’s lip snarled. He whacked the back of her head with the butt of his Smith & Wesson.
Her knees buckled and before she hit the floor, a deafening howl—like the wail of a rabid animal—sliced the air. Frankie soared through the open window with a reckless bravado that would have done the FBI proud. Before Freddy’s fumbling fingers could regrip the gun, he was pinned to the floor.
A thundering of footsteps followed. Rocco and Jackson led the Bridgeport Brigade in a charge through the door. Papa, the twins, Michael and Vinnie, Uncle Rudy, Tommy, and Leo were all hot on their heels behind, guns blazing.
Freddy’s men had found Cleo. But Rocco got to her first. He knew they would come after her. And when they did he followed them.
“Where’s my daughter?” Papa shouted.
Pruitt’s voice sneered. “She’s gone, old man.”
Jackson pulled Papa off him and Rocco delivered a blow that should’ve knocked him to his knees. The ogre had already been hit in the head too many times. He shook it off.
I took a quick breath and prepared to sail out of that cupboard. Ready to unpretzel myself to the sheer amazement of all. When I tried to push open the door, my arms were tangled in a knot. I couldn’t move. Anything. And my nose itched.
“Help! I’m here!”
My chest was crunched and my sorry whimper was lost in the sickening sound of pummeling flesh and a head bashing the floor.
I heard Max and Tino arrive, and they went straight to the twins.
“Where is she?” Max demanded.
“Gone,” Michael choked. Vinnie stifled a small sob.
Max and Tino leaped onto the pile hammering Pruitt.
“Hello!” I croaked.
My pistol hand was asleep. Everything cramped and ached with an intensity I wouldn’t have thought possible. I tried rocking. Pushing myself frontward and back, nudging a little further with each rock, until the barrel of my gun goaded the door open. I spilled forward.
“A little help here,” I said and fell on my face.
