Liar, Liar Read online

“Can’t breathe over here.”

  “You take dirty pictures, you make people mad,” Mama said. “Bad enough your father was struck down by hoodlums. I still have nightmares.”

  Three years ago, Papa was shot in the caboose by friendly fire but Mama tells it differently. Papa got a medal and early retirement. He’s a bit of a Chicago legend but the rookie cop who nailed his ass is on permanent traffic duty. Papa is now the Chicago Police Department liaison for the local schools. He warns kids about drugs, lets them wear his hat, and he pulls his pants down just far enough to show off his scar.

  Mama gripped her heart. “Bad enough I should worry about your brothers when the phone rings. You are not a cop, Miss Caterina.”

  “I’m not breathing, Mama.”

  “You’re a snoop, a busybody. What people do is not your business.”

  I was saved by a knock at the door. “Someone call for a nurse?”

  “I fix food for you.” Mama piled the nurse’s plate. “With extra meatballs.”

  The nurse removed the bouncing devil child from my chest and reconnected the oxygen. “Is that better?”

  “Auuugh,” I said.

  Mama crossed herself. “A man died, Caterina. That’s what comes from sticking your nose in other people’s business. You should go to confession.”

  My voice sounded strangled. “Who died?”

  My brother Rocco balanced a plate with one hand and pulled a scratch of paper out of his pocket. “The FBI ID’d the body. A guy named Chance Savino.”

  “It wasn’t Chance,” I said. “He was here.”

  “Playing doctor?” Rocco grinned. Rocco’s the oldest and we’re barely a year apart. He’s probably my best friend.

  I shuddered. “The body would’ve been badly burned by the fire. How could the FBI make an ID so quickly?”

  “Hey, I’m just glad it wasn’t you, sis.” Rocco sat on the bed beside me. “I hate to agree with Mama on this but your work is too dangerous. I made some calls and I can get you a job in dispatch. Pay isn’t great but people don’t want to kill you either. You can start Monday.”

  “I have a job. Where’s Inga?”

  “She’s at your house. Your neighbor’s feeding her. Not that she’s hungry. She was so scared by the explosion she ate a whole pizza.”

  “You should know better,” my sister snapped. “Cheese plugs a dog like a cork.”

  The nurse took my vitals. “How are you feeling?”

  “Caterina’s crazy,” Mama said. “She has foolish dreams.”

  “It’s to be expected after a concussion.”

  “She’s dreaming about dead people.”

  “He’s not dead, Mama.”

  The nurse looked at my pupils. “I dream about Elvis and I don’t even have a concussion.” She gave me a quick wink and turned to Mama. “Your daughter will be fine, Mrs. DeLuca. She just needs to rest.”

  “I want to go home.” I sat up in bed and Fourth of July fireworks exploded in my head. I collapsed on my pillow.

  “The doctor is keeping you one more night, to be sure there are no complications from blunt trauma.”

  I started to protest and the nurse’s hand shot up with a needle that could kill a horse.

  Yowzie.

  “I’m giving you something for pain. There’s a nasty gash on your head. In a few days you’ll be good as new.”

  Mama clapped her hands. “She can start dispatch on Monday.”

  My brother Rocco was a dead man.

  The afternoon shadows outside my window had lengthened.

  “What time is it?” I exaggerated a yawn.

  “After five,” Mama said.

  Damn. I was supposed to meet Rita at Marco’s in less than two hours.

  I yawned again. “I should rest now. I’d like to sleep this headache off.”

  I feigned a soft snore. When the last toddler was dragged into the hallway I threw off my covers. I held my head, located the floor with my feet, and wobbled to the closet. My bloodied jacket, jeans, and tee shirt were stuffed in a clear plastic bag. No shoes in sight. My Dolce & Gabbana’s must have been a casualty in the explosion. On the top shelf lay a brand new, fuzzy pink robe with matching bunny slippers and a card from Rocco and Maria. I instantly forgave my brother for the dispatch thing.

  My battered cell phone and a crisp Cleveland nestled in my jacket pocket. I punched a number and on the third ring a bored, nasal voice answered.

  “Yellow Cab.”

  I slipped into the hallway and darted for the elevator, fuzzy and pretty in pink.

  “I’m at the hospital,” I whispered, “and I need a ride.”

  Chapter Three

  I live on the south side of Chicago, too close to my parents but not far from U.S. Cellular Field and the White Sox. Bridgeport is a closely knit blue collar community with a small town feel. It’s where I grew up with three brothers and a sister. They’re all married now and raise families close by. Chicago is two-hundred thirty-four square miles of nesting possibilities but Mama sucks us in like the Bermuda Triangle.

  My house is a corner brownstone with a fenced yard and a garage in back. I got it at a steal. My Uncle Joey handled the negotiations. You have to wonder if there’s a body in the basement. I didn’t ask. I signed the papers and told Father Timothy to bring holy water in gallon jugs. He soaked the shit out of it.

  I quit a promising career in the fast food industry and went to work for myself. Revamping the front bedroom into an office, I built a separate entrance for my clients. Got myself a P.I. license and launched Pants on Fire Detective Agency.

  My silver Honda was parked in front when the taxi driver dropped me at my door. He gave me all his change and a huge grin in exchange for my Cleveland. I wrestled a spare key from a pot of geraniums and slipped it in the lock. Inga body slammed me at the door, knocking me off my feet and slurping my face with kisses. When I latched onto her collar, she pulled me up and dragged me to the kitchen.

  I pushed the red button flashing on my answering machine. There were four frantic calls. One from the big mouth hospital police and three from Mama.

  I shuffled to my bedroom, dropped my pink robe and hospital gown over my bunny slippers, and stepped into a shower. My arms and legs were bruised and scraped raw in places and the hot water stung my skin. I worked my fingers across my scalp, discovering a tender area the doctor had stitched, and kept it dry. My shoulder throbbed and my ribs ached when I breathed. I had survived my flight well. It was the crash landing that needed work.

  I dressed quickly in a short black skirt and button-down white dress shirt, then cinched it with a scarf for a belt. I hid the bruises beneath black stockings and slipped into a short kitten heel, not wanting to test my balance. A fluff of my hair covered the gash in my head and an overdose of perfume scourged the stubborn scent of antiseptic. I raced Inga to the Silver Bullet and zipped across Bridgeport, applying mascara and Dr. Pepper Lip Smacker with one hand, jabbing my cell phone with the other.

  I held my breath and hoped Papa would answer. Mama has a short fuse. She can be ruthless and withhold cannoli.

  “Tony DeLuca.”

  I felt a rush of relief. “Papa, it’s me. Tell Mama I’m fine and—”

  “Is that Cat?” Mama wrestled the phone from Papa’s hand. “Caterina DeLuca, where are you?”

  I yawned loudly. “I couldn’t sleep in the hospital. I need to be home.”

  “You’re there now?”

  I avoided a direct lie. “I’ll rest better in my own bed. Call off the cops, I know you have them looking for me.”

  “Are you in bed now?”

  “I haven’t brushed my teeth yet or flossed.”

  “Cat, if you’re at home I’m calling 911 right now. Because you aren’t answering your phone and somebody stole your car. Are you dead in there?”

  I considered my options.

  “Listen to me, girl. You have a concussion. You’re out of your mind. Tel
l me where you are and your father will bring you home.”

  I gave it up. “OK, mama, I’m working. I’m meeting a client before I go home. I didn’t want you to worry.”

  “You don’t have clients. You’re a dispatcher now.”

  “I’m a Private Investigator with a promising career.”

  “You’re a snoop with no insurance. You won’t be so lucky next time someone bombs you.”

  “Nobody bombed me.”

  “This is how you treat your Mama? You’re killing me, Caterina. I’m holding my chest. My heart feels funny. It’s a murmur, maybe worse!”

  “Your heart is fine, Mama. The doctor says it’s gas.”

  “It’s your dirty pictures and people blowing you up. You’re breaking my heart.”

  “Call off Search and Rescue, Mama. I’ll call you tomorrow.” I hung up.

  I pulled into a parking spot on the street a few doors down from Marco’s. A green BMW coasted by and my antenna shot up. The car looked like one I noticed earlier on my ride home in the yellow cab. It’s nothing, I told myself, and blew the red flags off. When you follow people for a living you get paranoid. It’s a professional hazard.

  My conversation with Mama jacked my headache up a notch and I needed a stiff drink. I told my sidekick to guard the car and followed the live music through Marco’s doors at seven-oh-seven.

  Rita Savino hadn’t arrived yet and I didn’t know if she’d show. I’d followed her cheater husband for three days and didn’t catch a whiff of the other woman. I didn’t have answers, but I had a few questions.

  Like what did Chance tell her about the explosion? Who was he meeting that day? And why did the FBI say he was dead?

  Something else was bothering me. I’ve caught cheaters who’ve sworn they don’t know the cheatee in bed with them. But this was the first time a husband had pretended not to know his wife. What’s that about?

  I took a seat in the bar with a clear shot at the entrance. I remembered the day Rita Savino flounced through my office door. She was a thirty-something redhead with skin like silk and smoky eyes to die for smudged with tears-stained eye-liner blue. She carried forty more pounds than any woman wants and wore a Mickey Mouse watch and bell-bottom jeans clear down to the pennies in her loafers. You could pluck her like a plum from the sixties.

  I’d handed Rita a box of tissues and she mopped her face.

  “Chance Savino is a lying cheating bastard,” she sniffed. “He smells like Red Door.”

  “Red Door?”

  “It’s a perfume.” She twisted the blue tissue like it was his neck.

  I lifted the waste basket and held it up until she pried the tissue from her hands. Then I took her hand and dragged her to the kitchen.

  “You need coffee,” I said.

  “Do you have herbal tea?”

  I tried not to stare. “I got Coke, wine, and cake.”

  Rita slumped onto a chair. “I’m good.”

  “The cake is gooey and chocolate,” I said cutting myself a fat piece for my mid-morning snack. I poured one cup of coffee and sat at the table beside her.

  “Your husband’s a schmuck,” I said. “What are your plans?”

  “I’m leaving him. And I’m taking his balls with me.”

  Yikes. “You should really try the cake.”

  “Will you help me?”

  I nodded.

  More tears rolled down and bounced off her chin.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Follow Chance. Keep a journal of everywhere he goes and everyone he meets. Tell me everything about Miss Red Door. Who is she? Where do they meet? Is she hideously thin and gorgeous?”

  I licked my fork. “I’ll get you some nice 8 X 10 glossies to show the judge. They’ll fatten your divorce settlement.”

  The plump, blue-streaked cheeks smiled. “Bring me the glossies and I’ll buy the champagne.”

  A loud pop jerked me into the present. My waitress sucked the bubble gum back into her mouth. “Some jerk beat you up?”

  She sported black spiked hair with fuschia tips and her pierced tongue did things to bubble gum I hadn’t thought possible. I winced. Staring did nothing for my headache.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your makeup ain’t cuttin’ it, sweetie. Somebody knocked you around.”

  “I lost a fight with a sidewalk.”

  “Leave him, honey. No man is worth it.”

  “It was a sign. It said FOR LEASE.”

  She lowered her voice. “I know someone. For a small fee the jerk won’t bother you again.”

  “Thanks. But I have Uncle Joey.”

  She shrugged and smacked her gum. “What can I get you?”

  “Something for pain.”

  “Aspirin or Tylenol?”

  “Both. And a grande margarita to wash them down.”

  Two tacos and a second margarita later I figured my client had stiffed me.

  I paid the tab and padded the tip, my contribution to the emerging art on my server’s shoulder. The tattoo could be an exotic flower or a tiger eating small children. I didn’t ask. With the tongue thing going I didn’t want to encourage conversation.

  I gathered my purse, vaguely aware of eyes boring into me. I jerked my head toward the door. A crowded party of diners waited for a table and behind them, head above the rest, cobalt blue eyes held mine. Catching my breath I bolted after him, pushing past staff and a sea of waiting customers. I dashed into the street but Chance Savino had disappeared like a mirage into the night.

  “It was him.” I clenched my fists and kicked a rock.

  A voice argued in my head citing concussion, tequila, and the general insanity running rampant in my family.

  “Maybe I’m losing my mind. Maybe I’m crazy like my sister.” People were staring.

  A cool April wind shot through me and I stumbled numbly to my car. Inga wagged her tail in the back. I slid behind the wheel and bleakly pondered the future. Nothing made sense. I finally gave up, started the engine, and headed home.

  Four blocks from my house lights were on at Tino’s Deli. Tino Maroni is a round bear of a man who gives candy to the neighborhood children. His capanota is unrivaled in Chicago and a reasonable woman would kill for his recipe for tiramisu. The deli is open odd, unpredictable hours. Sometimes late at night you hear voices in the back. Some speculate a high stakes, illegal card game. Others say he’s a fence. Tino rolls in money like he won the lottery. I wonder about it sometimes, but it’s not my business.

  I rolled to a stop and Tino met me at the door. He grabbed my face in his hands and made a tsking sound. “Caterina! Back from the dead!”

  I did a grimace. “You spoke to Mama.”

  He pulled me inside. “She told me everything. You took dirty pictures and the man tried to blow you up. The explosion made you goofy in the head. You escaped the hospital and now you’re a dispatcher.” His face broke into a wide grin. “Good you should come to me. Hospitals kill you with their food.”

  My head throbbed. The shot the nurse gave me had worn off. I needed another margarita.

  “Almost everything Mama told you wasn’t true. Nobody blew me up. It was a gas leak.”

  Tino shook his head and narrowed his eyes. “It was a professional hit. The Feds found plastic explosives.”

  I was stunned but I didn’t doubt him. Tino knows what goes down in the neighborhood. Usually before the cops.

  “What about the body they found?”

  “They say his name was Savino. I didn’t know him.”

  “It’s not Chance Savino. He’s the guy I was following. I’ve seen him twice—well at least once,” I amended, “since the explosion.”

  Tino’s face hardened. “This Savino won’t hurt you again.”

  “He didn’t plant the bomb. I’m sure of it. But even if he did it wasn’t meant for me.”

  Tino studied my face for a measure of sanity. He was unconvinced. “Are y
ou certain this Savino is still alive? You’ve had a concussion. Maybe you’re…”

  “Crazy?”

  Tino smiled. “I’ll look into it.”

  I stretched my arms around his generous belly and hugged him. “I stopped by to pick up some Sopressata and a treat for Inga. Something not too spicy.”

  “Ah.” He made a clicking sound with his tongue. “I heard about the pizza.”

  I waited while he wrapped sausages and my eyes wandered outside. I stiffened.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m not sure. I think that green BMW has been following me since I left the hospital. It’s probably just my imagination.”

  A shadow passed over Tino’s eyes. “Wait here. I saved something for you in back.”

  He left and I heard the murmuring of voices. A moment later he returned with a bag stuffed with deli boxes.

  “When your Mama called, I cooked a little something for the wake.”

  “Uh, thanks, Tino.”

  “I threw in a nice bottle of Chianti. Come, I’ll walk you to your car.”

  Tino opened the car door and tossed a sausage to Inga before dropping the bag on the passenger seat. I slid a sideways glance across the street. Two bouncer type gorillas emerged from the shadows and pulled the driver out of the BMW. They shoved him against the door and worked him over with a series of one-two punches. My stalker groaned and dropped to his knees. Tino gave me a kiss on both cheeks, shut the door, and waved me cheerily away.

  I arrived home exhausted and began peeling off my clothes at the door. I slipped into an oversized tee and brushed my teeth, skipped the floss, and sank into bed as the phone rang. I winced.

  “Hey, Mama. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  The voice on the other end was strained. His breath came hard and heavy like he had run a marathon or just gotten the crap beat out of him.

  “You’re gonna pay,” he sucked air. “There won’t always be someone around to save you.”

  A chill cut through me and my mouth turned cotton. “What do you want?”

  “Forget what you saw. If you’re smart you’ll stay out of this.”

  And I thought I was crazy. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You heard me. Cross me and you won’t see your next birthday.”