Dog Collar Knockoff Page 16

  The following morning, Lucie went into mission-critical mode. If her clients were being swindled, she needed to know and deal with it. Straight away.

  She sat at the princess vanity table that had been in her childhood bedroom since her twelfth birthday. Next to the desk, she’d set up a card table with a printer and a monitor she could plug her laptop into. All of it packed into her micro bedroom.

  She’d already printed the photos she’d taken of Bart’s files and now had them set out in front of her as she dialed the number on the Contessa Gallery’s receipt.

  “Whoopsie.”

  She’d forgotten to add the digits that would mark the call as a private caller. Subterfuge. So many details to fuss over. She stabbed at the screen to clear the number just as Joey’s big head appeared in her doorway. Only eight o’clock and he was dressed and moving already. What was that about?

  “Why are you awake?”

  “I gotta run over to the apartment. The painters are coming by to give me an estimate.”

  Her brother was serious about this moving into Frankie’s house thing. She’d hoped it was a phase. “You’re painting in there?”

  “Bet your ass. That yellow isn’t exactly my style.”

  Oh. Right. The last tenant had been a woman. “Do you need a hand with picking out colors? I could get Ro over there.”

  “Nah. I’m good. Thanks though.”

  “Sure. I’ll see you later.”

  Joey left and Lucie dialed Rome again, this time making sure to punch in the privacy code. After two rings, a woman answered. “Pronto?”

  Oh, jeepers. Lucie’s Italian was more than a little rusty.

  “Buon giorno. Parla inglese?”

  “Yes,” the woman said in a peppy British accent.

  Calling Italy and getting a Brit. Fun. “Good morning,” Lucie said. “My name is Delilah. I’m calling from the United States and hoping you can help me locate a painting.”

  “Oh, of course, mum. From the States, you say?”

  “Yes. My boss is looking for a particular painting. Position Seven by Nodai. I researched it and discovered you might have it at your gallery.”

  The woman sighed. “It is a classic. And quite lovely.”

  A snapshot of the painting flooded Lucie’s already seared brain. God, that thing. She opened her mouth, silently gagging. Obviously, she’d never make it as an art critic. “Yes, it is. Which is why I’m hoping you’ll tell me you still have it.”

  In actuality, she didn’t want them to have it. That would mean Mr. Horvath might have the real painting and Lucie wouldn’t be in bed with a scheming swindler.

  “Allow me to check. Can you hold one moment?”

  For good news, she’d hold for ten moments. Lucie sat back in her desk chair.

  “Hello?” the woman with the British accent said.

  Lucie sat up, tapped her fingers on the desk, and said a silent Hail Mary. At this point, she needed whatever help she could get. “Yes. I’m here.”

  “I’ve just checked the computer. It appears we still have the painting.”

  An obscene—absolutely filthy—level of panic set in.

  Please no. Lucie lurched in her chair and her shoulder blade smacked against the wood frame sending a sharp stick of pain straight down her spine. “You… uh… have it?” she stammered.

  Please say no. That it was all a big mistake. Wrong painting. Had to be.

  “Yes, mum. Position Seven, correct?”

  Dammit. Here I am, officer, slap on the cuffs. Even Tim O’Brien couldn’t get her out of this one. Nor would she want him to. Why should he risk his career trying to help her? The mob guy’s daughter. This was just a fabulous capper to the whole getting arrested thing.

  “Mum?”

  “Yes. I’m here. I’m just… stunned.” No lie there. “My boss will be thrilled. I will have to speak with her and call you back. Thank you so much for your time.”

  Even though you’ve just sentenced me to twenty years in prison.

  Could she get that much for art fraud? A small cry sounded in her throat, all that spewing panic probably. She disconnected and sat back, breathing in a few times, then flexing her fingers and rolling her shoulders and neck.

  “I can do this.”

  No problem. After all, it wasn’t her fault, right? She hadn’t known Bart was a con artist. How could she? She’d just call Tim and tell him what she knew. That’s all. He was in the loop—more or less—on this whole thing. He’d understand.

  She hoped.

  “Hi, it’s me,” she said when Tim picked up. “Uh… Lucie.”

  They were far from the level where he should be required to recognize, immediately, without hesitation the voice attached to the “it’s me” statement.

  “I know who you are, Lucie.”

  Huh. How about that? Maybe she’d misconstrued their level of familiarity.

  “Plus,” he said, “there’s this cool new thing you may have heard of. Caller ID.”

  She rolled her eyes, found herself smiling in spite of her soon-to-happen arrest for art fraud. “Oh, hardy-har, Detective.”

  He laughed and the husky tone, the pleasure, immediately lifted her mood. I really like you, Tim O’Brien. Which would be a total problem when Frankie decided he wanted to come back to her. Assuming that would happen. With each day, she wondered.

  “What’s up?” Tim said “I bet you miss me.”

  As a matter of fact… “Oh, the charm. It’s almost too much to handle.”

  “I know. It’s a curse.”

  Now it was her turn to laugh. Something she’d cherish after the anxiety of the last few minutes. This guy had a way of making impossible situations seem not so impossible. “You know, Tim O’Brien, I really like you.”

  “That’s good. Because I really like you, Lucie Rizzo.”

  Most definitely, this would be a problem if Frankie changed his mind. How she felt about that, she wasn’t sure. With Tim, everything was shiny and new and fun. No baggage. But Frankie? She had history with him and that history clung to her. Truly, a lifetime of memories.

  The Falcones had been in her life since she could remember. And the idea of a life without Frankie in it darn near devastated her. Left a gaping hole. But was that because she was simply used to his presence? The other half of Frankie and Lucie.

  The bookend.

  The problem with bookends was they usually spent most of their time apart.

  But back to art fraud. “Soooo,” Lucie said. “I think I need to share some information with you.”

  Of course, Tim might not approve of her super-sleuthing techniques. Still, she’d gotten the information she needed and might possibly have enough evidence to launch an investigation into Bart Owens.

  “Can I come by and see you?”

  “Yeah. I’m at the precinct. You coming now?”

  “I can be there in thirty minutes.”

  Exactly twenty-eight minutes later, Lucie marched into the police station, where a woman manned the phone at a desk behind the glass-walled lobby. Two patrons sat in the reception area. The middle-aged woman read a magazine while a younger guy messed with his phone. Lucie stepped up to the window’s built-in speaker and told the woman Detective O’Brien was expecting her. Two minutes later—voila—a door at the side of the room opened. There stood Tim. A mighty handsome Tim in navy slacks—again without the jacket—a crisp, white shirt, tie perfectly knotted. How she loved a man who knew how to knot a tie.

  His usual flirty smile appeared. “Good morning, Ms. Rizzo. Come in.”

  I so need to jump this guy. Whew. What the heck was wrong with her these days? Even with her current stress level, she couldn’t be within feet of this man without thinking about sex. With him.

  Loneliness. Had to be. Or stress release. Right?

  Right.

  “Good morning, Detective.”

  He stepped back, holding the door open for her, his gaze on her the whole time. Once again, she was made aware of a cert
ain level of chemistry between them. Chemistry that didn’t quite crackle, but simmered long and slow and left her a little tingly. She liked this man. And she wouldn’t feel guilty about it.

  Not anymore.

  Once through the door, careful not to touch her, Tim held his arm out and motioned her down a long corridor. A minute later, they stepped into an interview room similar to the one she’d been confined to after being arrested four days ago.

  Then she’d been terrified. More than a little shell-shocked and not completely absorbing how she’d wound up in that bit of nastiness.

  Today?

  Still terrified.

  But oddly calm. Almost resigned. At least now she grasped what had happened and how she wound up here. Different day, different experience. Today, she was here to possibly blow the whistle on a fraudster.

  Which in some ways made her a squealer—a rat—and heaven knew her father hated rats. But Bart could be a thief. He may have swindled her right along with her clients. Rat or no rat, she wouldn’t tolerate being taken advantage of.

  Tim pulled out a chair for her—how sweet was that?—and then took the spot across from her. He squared his shoulders and rested his hands on his thighs. Casual but commanding at the same time. The man had a way about him. A very good way.

  “What’s going on, Lucie?”

  Now or never. “Ro and I did a little sleuthing.”

  His body remained still, but something in his eyes changed. More direct, maybe a little suspicion thrown in.

  “Sleuthing.”

  “Yes. On Bart Owens.” She pulled the large envelope with the photos from her tote and slapped it on the table.

  He glanced down at the envelope, a small grin playing on his lips. “This, I can’t wait to hear.”

  “Position Seven.”

  “The wheelbarrow?”

  “Again with the wheelbarrow?”

  He hit her with a slow-moving smile that definitely stirred dormant parts of her anatomy. The heavy eye contact didn’t hurt.

  “Fine. The wheelbarrow.” She slid the photo of the receipt out of the envelope and showed it to him. “This is the receipt for the sale of the painting.”

  He picked up the photo and scanned it. “How’d you get it?”

  This is where it could get sticky. Technically, she wasn’t sure if her snooping would be considered trespassing. Or some other legal term.

  She held up a hand. “Full disclosure. Just as you asked.”

  “Full disclosure.”

  “I snooped in Bart’s files.”

  His head dropped forward. “You… snooped?”

  “Yes. When I walk Oscar, I pick him up in Bart’s office. It’s in the rear of the gallery. He keeps a filing cabinet in there. Ro and I went to the gallery last night.”

  “Why?”

  “I needed someone to keep Bart busy so I could snoop. Ro can be… uh… distracting.”

  “Holy crap,” Tim said. “You girls are evil.”

  “I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration, Detective. It’s not my fault men are idiots and drool at the sight of Ro’s cleavage.”

  Immediately, Tim’s eyes went to Lucie’s chest. Idiot. She sighed.

  He held up a finger. “For the record, I don’t drool at the sight of Ro’s cleavage. Yours on the other hand—”

  As usual, Lucie’s cheeks fired. Flop-peeing and flop-blushing. Terrific. She couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t do it. If she did, she knew what she’d see. She’d see heat and lust and an opportunity to haul herself over this table and plant one on him.

  No hauling or planting. Time to be serious here and stay out of prison.

  Instead, she studied the envelope, analyzed the side seams for a solid ten seconds. Finally, hormones relatively under control, she raised her gaze, found the handsome detective with a slightly amused half-smile. “So. Okay.” She waggled her hand. “While Ro kept Bart busy looking at art, I went in to say hello to Oscar the Perv.”

  “Oscar the Perv?”

  “He humps my leg.”

  “Lucky bastard.”

  Lucie burst out laughing, picked up the envelope, and smacked his forearm. Five minutes ago, she’d walked in here half a wreck, wondering if she’d get locked up before she had a chance to explain herself. Now, she wondered if she’d get locked up for jumping a cute detective.

  “Hey,” he said, “I can’t help it if I have a jealous streak.”

  “Tim! I’m being serious.”

  “So was I.”

  Lucie shook her head, scrunched her nose and tried to put a little mean into her stare-down.

  He grinned again. Apparently, her mean stare needed work.

  “I couldn’t resist.” He rolled his hand. “Continue.”

  “Thank you. Yeesh!”

  It took all of two minutes to fill him in on the covert mission and phone call to Rome.

  After Lucie carefully outlined the details of her investigation, Tim picked up the photos, scanned them again and stuffed the pages back in the envelope. He secured the flap, his fingers deftly handling the doo-hickey clasp. The man had some long fingers. His hands overall were large. She thought back to the night on the lake when she’d walked beside him with her much smaller fingers wrapped in his. Nice feeling. All around a good night.

  She cleared her throat. “What are you going to do with those?”

  He tapped the edge of the envelope on the table. “Call Rome and talk to the owner of the gallery. See what he has to say about this receipt you just gave me. If it’s one of theirs, it’ll tie back to something. If it’s not”—Tim shrugged—“we’ll know Bart forged it.”

  *

  After finishing with Tim, Lucie trekked back to Franklin and—lucky her—found a parking spot right in front of her store. Two doors down, Petey’s hopped with double-parked Caddies and Lincolns. Must be a meeting of the minds this morning.

  Frankie’s father, no doubt, would be there. His entire crew spent an inordinate amount of time at their corner table, reading the newspaper, talking smack, and generally killing time in between their activities. Whatever those activities might be.

  And here she was, opening an office just feet away as her father was about to be released from prison.

  If her father took to hanging at Petey’s again, she’d go insane. Full-blown commitment-worthy insanity. He’d be popping in and out on her all day. And then he’d bring his cronies with him. All while she tried to run a business.

  Maybe one of his parole restrictions would be to stay out of Petey’s.

  That’s all she could hope for.

  Her voicemail chimed as she got out of the car. She must have missed a call. On the sidewalk, she paused to enjoy the decidedly not-suffocating warmth—finally the humidity gave mercy—while she checked the call log. Two calls missed. One being Frankie.

  An instant quasi excitement-slash-panic flooded her. As usual, she wondered if this would be it. The call. The one where he’d say he was ready to try again. That he missed her and their life together.

  That he wanted her back.

  Her stomach pinched. Squeezed like a tight fist inside her. A week ago, she’d have been overjoyed at the prospect of a reunion. Now, suddenly, it gave her stomach cramps.

  Confused.

  That’s all she was. The super-cute Irish cop had gotten her all hot and bothered with his charm and humor and…well…newness. But she had history with Frankie. He knew her inside and out. He fit every curve and nuance. He understood her.

  And he’d just called her. A week ago, she’d have run straight to him. Now, thinking back on all the nights alone—and spending time with Tim—she didn’t know.

  Don’t think about it.

  She tapped the voicemail button. One voicemail. Not Frankie. The plumber Joey had hired couldn’t start the job today.

  “I should have hired someone myself.”

  She scrolled her phone for Joey and waited for the call to connect. No answer. He said he’d be at Frankie’s, just a few bl
ocks away, working with the painters. Since she suddenly had time on her hands, she’d swing over there and let him know his plumber crapped out on them. And wow, that term was appropriate in so many ways.

  She headed east toward Frankie’s. Depending on his schedule, he might be at work and she wouldn’t have to see him. After just seeing Tim—and experiencing the lightness and fun that always came with him—she didn’t want to squash it by worrying over the current status of the Frankie situation.

  Soon, they’d have to decide what they were doing. Not today. But soon.

  Her phone rang. Probably Joey calling back. Strange number and definitely not Joey’s. Wait. A Michigan area code. Ooh. Roger Isby. The Gomez family lawyer. Ooh, ooh, ooh.

  She tapped the screen. “Hello? This is L… Delilah.”

  Close one. Almost catastrophic since Mr. Isby only knew her as Delilah, the overworked assistant.

  “Hello, Delilah. This is Roger Isby.”

  “Yes. Hi, Mr. Isby.”

  At the corner, Lucie turned left and ran into Mrs. Delvin, a retired teacher from her grammar school days.

  “Good morning, Lucie,” she said.

  Ach! All she needed was her cover being blown by her third grade teacher. Get rid of her. Not wanting to be rude to either Mr. Isby or Mrs. Delvin, Lucie smiled and waved at the woman and then pointed to her phone while mouthing an “I’m sorry.”

  Mrs. Delvin nodded, patted Lucie’s shoulder, and moved on toward the center of town.

  “Delilah,” Mr. Isby said, “I spoke to the family regarding your interest in the painting.”

  Uh-oh. This didn’t sound positive. Or maybe the lawyer always had that flat tone. “Thank you. Hopefully it’s good news.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Oh?”

  “The family is retaining the painting for their private collection.”

  Lucie halted in the middle of the sidewalk. Her vision did a loop-the-loop and she swayed a little, put her free hand out for balance. No good. She fell back a step, literally blown backward by the lawyer’s announcement that the Gomez family still had control of the original painting.

  That swindling Bart. Thief.

  “They still own it?”

  “Yes. Arturo’s younger sister has it in her home. She is quite attached to it and doesn’t intend on selling.”