There Was a Crooked Man Page 3
Today was a rare moment in Sophie-world. My sister wasn’t pregnant and a baby wasn’t attached to her nipple. It was a flippin’ miracle and one she should celebrate with a spa day, a date night with her husband, and a pitcher of margaritas with her sister. I’d happily throw in a year’s supply of birth control. Even Barbie deserves a stiff drink and worry-free sex.
Sophie and I are polar opposites. We’re like night and day. Oil and water. A Kardashian afternoon. When we’re together, our time is strained at best. It’s not rocket-science to understand why. We share no genes. My alleged sister, Sophia Maria DeLuca, was switched at birth.
Here are the facts.
I’m tall like my brothers and I adore Serena Williams. Sophie’s short and disapproves of women sweating in public. I climbed trees when we were kids. Sophie had a gazillion dolls and she cut holes in their lips to force-feed them. She gave them baths. The day I held Rosie under water, Sophie sobbed. In my defense, I was five and thought her dolls had superpowers.
The last thing Sophie and I had in common was diapers.
Inga and I breezed out of the bakery with goodies in hand. Across the street, a woman outside Baumgarten Jewelry caught my eye. Something about her intrigued me. At first I thought it was her green scarf, covering her red hair. A Hermès original and deliciously gorgeous. She wore a butterscotch leather jacket and her diamond earrings blinged in the sun. She appeared fascinated with a window display of teardrop diamond necklaces. But her posture was too attentive for a dreamy necklace gape. She was on high alert, aware of everything around her. In the window’s reflection, I caught her eyes sweep the street behind her. That’s when I knew what drew me to her. She was me. Or more accurately, PI Cat DeLuca in surveillance mode.
The woman in green was a professional. A private investigator. An undercover Fed. A government spy. Or even a thief.
Cops and robbers have a lot more in common than you may think.
She seemed to intuit my radar on her and stiffened almost imperceptibly. Her eyes found me in the glass. I smiled and knelt beside Inga, fussing with her collar. She resumed her bogus fascination with the necklaces in the window.
And then my eyes hooked a real skulker and I forgot about the woman in green. He was behind the wheel of a parked Lexus. A hand half-covered his face and he hunkered down in his seat as if willing himself invisible. His shoulders sagged. His right tires flanked a fire hydrant.
He was a picture of doom.
I patted Inga’s head. “We’re going in, girl. Somebody needs a donut.”
We hoofed it to the man’s car unobserved. I whipped open the passenger door and hopped inside. Inga clambered over my lap and into the backseat. I dropped the gift bag at my feet and the bakery bag on my lap.
“Why so bummed, Bobby boy?”
Captain Bob flinched and blew a sigh. I’d startled him. And he’s a tough guy. He’s not one to get rattled.
“Christ, Cat.”
Bob Maxfield is Captain of Bridgeport’s Ninth Precinct. I had few illusions that he’d be happy to see me. Even on a good day, he forgets how much he loves me. And this was clearly not a good day.
A few decades ago, Bob and Papa were partners, cruising the streets of Bridgeport. Their careers took different paths but they’ve remained close. Bob is family. He’s attended every important milestone in my life. And now he’s like the codgy old uncle who hates what I do. Bob is a cop snob. He disrespects private investigators and he calls me a hootchie stalker.
And yet, I bring him donuts. I need therapy.
I glanced at Bob’s laptop, open on his lap. A blond Pomeranian cowered on the screen, captive in an unforgiving metal cage. His big brown eyes were pleading. He could’ve been on death row. A cardboard sign propped beside the cage had something scrawled in black marker. September 19, 1999. I thought it was a photo until the little guy blinked. He was on live feed.
Bob slammed the laptop shut.
I caught my breath. “That was Sam I Am.”
“You didn’t see that.”
“Your dog is in that horrible cage. What’s going on?”
“None of your business. Get out of my car.”
“My God, Captain. Did some monster kidnap your dog?”
Inga whimpered in the backseat.
“Go away, Cat. I got this.”
“You don’t got shit, Bob. Cuz you don’t have Sam.”
“I can’t hear you.”
“Who knows about this?”
“Peggy’s in Connecticut. Her sister had surgery.”
“You’re not alone anymore. You have me now.”
He choked a little.
“I’m a trained investigator, Bob. I’ll get Sammy back.”
“You’re a hootchie stalker.”
“That hurt, Bob, but I’ll let it slide. You’re in shock.” I opened the white bag and held it for him. “Have a donut.”
He scooped up the entire bag, peered inside and frowned. “No lemon crèmes?”
“Lemon tarts.”
“That works.”
He dragged out a tart and a bear claw and placed them both on the dash.
“Coffee?”
“At my house.”
I reached over the console to grab a donut for myself. Bob closed the bag and stuffed it between him and the door.
“You should’ve brought coffee.”
“How much do they want for Sam I Am?”
“They haven’t made any demands yet.”
“If it’s not money they want, why did they take him?”
“Again, none of your business.”
The glob of lemon curd on Bob’s nose was disturbing. I tried not to stare.
“September 19th, 1999. What does that mean?”
Bob’s face twitched and the lemon jiggled. “I don’t know.”
“Do not try to play poker.”
The lemon tart was history. He chomped into the bear claw.
“I bet Papa remembers. You two were partners then.”
“Do not involve Tony.”
“Why do I have a feeling he’s already involved?”
Suddenly Bob looked old and tired. “God, you’re irritating. Go away before I have you arrested.”
“You have to trust somebody. If you don’t want to talk to me, talk to my brother, Rocco. He’s a DeLuca. He’ll take your secret to the grave with him.”
Bob shook his head and his jowls wobbled. “I won’t involve my men. If this goes south, I’m not taking Rocco down with me.”
“You’re making a big mistake, Bob. Huge.”
My eyes wandered across the street. The woman in green had moved inside the jewelry store. The proprietor whipped out a black velvet cloth and laid out a tempting selection of diamond necklaces on the counter. I whipped out my pocket spy-eyes.
Bob blew an exaggerated sigh. “My God, Caterina. You’re incurable.”
“I’m a professional, Captain. We’re in the same business.”
He gave a hoot. “When pigs fly.”
The woman carefully selected a necklace from the counter and handed it to the jeweler. She unbuttoned her leather jacket exposing a long neck and plunging neckline. Push-up bra on steroids. The jeweler ogled appreciatively and stepped behind her. She whipped up her long red hair, holding it on top of her head as he fastened the necklace. As she lowered her hands, a deft finger snared a necklace from the counter. In one fell swoop, it dropped neatly into her pocket.
She fingered her hair and flashed a flirtatious smile at the jeweler. He grinned like an adolescent boy and produced a mirror. They studied the diamonds and sapphires blinging on her breasts. She sighed deeply and gave a regretful shake of her head. Woman in Green wasn’t buying the necklace.
“Oh my God, Bob. Did you see that? That woman just stole a diamond necklace.”
“I doubt that very much.”
“It’s in her pocket. I saw her take it with my eyes. Captain! Arrest her.”
“You arrest her. Leave me alone.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
There was a rap on the window and one of Bridgeport’s finest bellowed through the glass.
“Move it, buddy. You’re illegally parked beside a fireplug.”
Captain Bob lowered the window and the officer gulped. “Uh, sorry, Captain. I didn’t recognize you, sir.”
Tommy is a rookie from Wisconsin. He and I became fast friends his first day on the job, when a little explosion in my car almost killed him.
Tommy’s gaze drifted to me. Back to Bob’s growly face. And to me again. His eyes blinked.
“Sir, is there something I can help you with?”
“Yes, Officer,” Captain Bob barked. “Go around to Ms. DeLuca’s door and remove her from my car. With force, if necessary.”
“Force, sir?”
“You have a gun, don’t you? I’ll give you a donut if you shoot her.”
“Sir?”
Inga and I didn’t take our chances. We tumbled onto the sidewalk without assistance.
I poked my head back in the car. “We’ll talk tonight, Captain.”
“No, we won’t.”
I lowered my voice to a whisper. “And don’t worry about your boy. I’ll get him back before Sam I Am becomes Sam I Was.”
Chapter Four
Inga and I ran the rest of the way home. I drank a glass of water and freshened the water in her dish. She ate a sausage and I finished off yesterday’s Snickers. I took a quick shower with olive oil soap and lavender shampoo and wrapped my hair in a towel.
Then I called Rocco.
Rocco is my brother and he’s been my best friend since I can remember. He’s married to Maria, a very cool woman, and they have two daughters I adore. I go to all their games and concerts and we have sleepovers and do Disney World. My doting relationship with them seems to satisfy any mother-genes I may have. At least for now.
Rocco picked up on the first ring.
“Yo, Cat. Maria’s been bugging me to call you.”
“Why doesn’t she call me?”
“She doesn’t want to get mixed up in, and I quote, ‘your insane family’s shit.’”
“I’m jealous she has the option. What’s Mama plotting now?”
“This can’t come back to me.”
“Gee, Rocco. You’re a great big man and Mama still scares you.”
“Mama scares everybody.”
“You got that right. Spit it out.”
“Our Mama and Savino’s mama are planning a surprise party for your anniversary next week.”
“What?”
“Your anniversary. You know, it’s been a year since you and Chance have been doing the…”
“Oh. Hell, no!”
“Anyway, the Savinos are invading Chicago. There’s family coming in from Massachusetts and New York. And a retired aunt from Arizona or something.”
“Shut up.”
“The family chartered a boat and a crew. It’s gotta be a big one for their family and ours. You didn’t tell me the family has a helluva lot of money.”
“I don’t care if…” A pause. “How much money are we talking about?”
“Bouco bucks. Mama is dragging Father Timothy along. If she can drown you in champagne, she wants someone there to tie the knot.”
“Arrrrgh! That woman has no boundaries!”
“That’s what I said!” Maria had commandeered Rocco’s phone. “Your mothers are outrageous. I figured you’d want to know.”
“Thanks, Maria. You’re a good friend.”
“Here’s your brother.”
“Yo,” Rocco said.
“Seriously, Bro. You weren’t going to tell me?”
“I hadn’t decided.”
I laughed. “I’m calling about Captain Bob.”
“What’s up?”
“He’s in a shitload of trouble.”
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes.”
I was dressed in three and Rocco made it in four. The kettle whistled in five. I ground coffee beans and made a pot of French press.
Rocco’s head popped out of the fridge. He found Mama’s cannoli and the last droplets of half ’n’ half.
“Your cupboards are bare, Sis. I depend on you to stock junk food. You know Maria won’t let a Cheeto darken our door.”
“I need to go shopping.”
“Buy Cheetos.”
I scratched Cheetos on a long list on the fridge and Rocco added Fruit Loops and Cracker Jacks.
“What are you?” I said. “Eight?”
“Forget it.” Rocco dragged the list from the fridge and pocketed it. “I don’t trust you with my Fruit Loops. I’m giving this list to Jackson. He’ll drop your food off today.”
Jackson is Rocco’s partner. He’s single and he loves food almost as much as he loves women.
“Jackson won’t mind?”
“Not at all. You hate going to the grocery store and Jackson hangs out there. He says he meets his best dates in the produce department. Particularly around the cucumbers and tomatoes.”
“That’s not creepy at all.”
Rocco laughed.
I signed a blank check for the groceries. “Tell Jackson to add a case of beer and some juicy steaks for himself. And I don’t want him squeezing my tomatoes.”
“My partner is a guy. I’m making no promises.”
We carried our coffees and cannoli into the living room. I told Rocco about finding Captain Bob parked by the bakery, skulking in his car.
“He was skulking?”
“He didn’t want to be seen. He was watching the live feed of Sammy.”
“Why there?”
“Huh?”
“Why was the Captain parked on that block?”
“I dunno. Maybe he was driving and pulled over to make a call.”
“Maybe.”
I knew he didn’t believe it.
“Sammy wants to come home. He’s scared.” Inga climbed on my lap and watched me with soulful eyes. “Who could do such a terrible thing?”
“And why? What do they want?”
“They haven’t made demands yet. But I get the feeling Bob knows what this is about.”
Rocco dragged out his cell. “It’s about September 19, 1999. When we know what happened that day, we’ll have a list of possible suspects. One of those meatheads will have Sammy.”
He punched a number and put the phone on speaker.
“Rocco!” Papa said. “Come on down to Mickey’s. Your Uncle Rudy will buy you a beer.”
Mickey’s is a cop bar and if you wear a shield, everybody knows your name. It’s a hangout for the good men and women of the Ninth. The food is good and the drinks are strong. And if you like cops, you’ll enjoy the company.
“Maybe later. I’m kind of into something. I’m hoping you can help.”
“Name it.”
“September 19, 1999. You and Bob were partners. What happened that day?”
Silence.
“Papa? Are you there?”
“That’s not your goddamn business.”
Click.
“Papa?”
Rocco turned to me, stunned. “He hung up on me.”
I took the last bite of my cannoli and licked my fingers. “He can hang up but he can’t hide. We know where he lives.”
Rocco’s mouth hardened to a thin line. “I’m not waiting for him to go home. I’m hunting his ass down.” He jerked his White Sox cap onto his head, stomped out of the kitchen, and slammed the front door behind him.
Inga nuzzled her head in my lap. “This will not go well,” I said.
Rocco was on his way to Mickey’s now. I didn’t need a crystal ball to see a train wreck. My brother would demand answers from Papa. They would butt heads. And a whole bar-full of cops would slowly rise to their feet.
Rocco might have the respect of his fellow officers. But Tony DeLuca is a hero. He was struck down on the mean streets of Chicago. And he’s not above playing the wounded warrior card. The moment Rocco raises his voice, every cop at Mickey’s will line up behind Papa.
I looked at Inga. “Meet me in the office, partner. We need a backup plan.”
***
Before Rocco could drive to Mickey’s and make an ass of himself, I knew what Papa didn’t want to tell us. What I didn’t know was why.
It wasn’t rocket science. I Googled the Chicago Sun-Times Archives. The Times is a morning paper so I brought up the following day’s edition. September 20, 1999. I keyed in the words: Bridgeport, police, DeLuca, Maxfield. Two articles flashed on my screen.
The first piece reported a hit-and-run incident involving a beloved Bridgeport man the previous day. According to witnesses, Daniel Baumgarten was attempting to cross the street outside his jewelry store when he was struck down by a white van. He was hospitalized in critical condition. The identity of the hit-and-run driver was not immediately known. The Chicago Police requested anyone with information to contact Officers Antonio DeLuca or Robert Maxfield at the Ninth Precinct.
The next article revered Daniel Baumgarten as a generous man known for his dry humor and wit. The staff writer went in-depth about the jeweler’s background and contribution to the community.
A second paragraph detailed his training in Amsterdam’s Gassan Dam Square and his distinctive and creative use of colored stones. The writer included a photograph of the governor’s wife at the inauguration ball wearing an original Baumgarten diamond-and-ruby brooch. She appeared considerably happier than she would a few years later after her husband was indicted on corruption charges.
I pressed Print and glanced at my watch. It was almost twelve-thirty and Sophie would be here at two. Captain Bob had hijacked her lemon tart so I plated two pieces of Tino’s tiramisu. I was putting them in the fridge when Rocco swept in and snatched one from my hand.