Knocked Off Page 3

  A beat-up Crown Victoria came to a stop on the other side of the defiled car. Other drivers zoomed around, honking at the Crown Vic, but Lucie knew that didn't matter. Not in this city.

  Out of the double-parked car stepped Detective Tim O'Brien. As with the last time she'd seen him, O'Brien wore a suit, gray this time, and a white shirt sans the jacket and tie. Maybe those were in the car. She hadn't seen him in over three months, but he appeared bigger, more beefcake than the lanky guy she'd first met. And the lonely side of Lucie liked the beefcake look on O'Brien—a lot.

  Helloooo, Detective.

  Because of a little issue a few months back with some stolen diamonds, she hadn’t quite figured out if Detective O'Brien was friend or foe. But he liked to flirt with her, and given the serious lack of Frankie in her life, flirting wasn't such a bad thing.

  He stepped onto the curb. "Hello, Lucie."

  Bear made a move to maul O'Brien, straining against his leash. Lucie planted her feet, leaned all her weight back, and held on. She was only 105 pounds, so Bear could take her for a ride if he insisted, but she'd at least make it a challenge. Really though, she couldn't blame the dog. Where Frankie was dark-haired and a lean, 5'10" movie-star handsome, O'Brien was fair-haired but rugged and...alpha.

  Extremely alpha.

  He also had that half-cute, half-deadly handsome face inherent to fair-skinned Irish boys. Add the green eyes, the strawberry-blond hair that was more strawberry than blond, and the broad-shouldered build, and a girl could be done for.

  "Nice to see you, Detective."

  He grinned down at Bear. "Who do we have here?"

  Bear lunged and Lucie gave him a little slack. Maybe too much because he raised up on his hind legs, dropped his paws on O'Brien's shoulders, and launched into an all-out lickfest.

  Holy crap, the dog was a menace. Lucie couldn't help laughing at the rude behavior, but still found it embarrassing. "Bear! Off!"

  O'Brien set his hands on the dog's back and patted. Slow dancing. With a Great Dane. How funny was that?

  Must have been darned amusing to the hottie detective. The deep rumble of his laughter—first time she’d heard that—shot a zing right to her core.

  Seriously? She had to be lonely. When had she ever had that feeling about anyone other than Frankie?

  She didn't like it. Well, she liked the feeling, but not having it about anyone other than Frankie. Talk about your tangled web. But spending her evenings alone hadn't been a picnic. It seemed these last few years, they'd spent more time apart than together, and if she were being truly honest with herself, it was getting old. Working day and night to kill time didn't exactly make an exciting life for a twenty-six-year-old. Even Mom had a more packed social schedule.

  How the hell did that happen?

  All she could hope was that she and Frankie, as they had countless times before, worked through this break-up fairly soon because her lusting after cute Irish cops was a disaster in waiting.

  Her father would have a stroke. She didn't know which would be worse, the he's-not-Italian part or the cop part. Her father wanted his grandchildren—all of them—to have an Italian last name. In short, he wanted Frankie, a nice Italian boy from the neighborhood, who had a successful—i.e. legitimate—career. On paper, in Joe Rizzo's eyes, Frankie was the gold star of husband material.

  "Um, Lucie?" O'Brien said. "How about calling off the atomic tongue here?"

  "Ooh, shoot. Sorry!"

  She reached around Bear's ribcage and hauled him off, her feet moving backward in perfect sequence with his hind legs.

  O'Brien stepped back and slid his big hand over his cheeks. "Helluva greeting."

  Obviously exhausted—shall I get you a cigarette?—Bear dropped to the pavement for a nap. Unbelievable.

  Lucie squatted and gave him a good rub. "Sweet boy." She smiled up at O'Brien. "He's such a mush it's hard to get mad at him. At least you're tall." Somewhere about six-foot-one, she figured, but who paid attention? "A couple of months ago, he knocked a teeny-tiny grandma on her butt. It was a nightmare."

  O'Brien grinned and that little squeeze in her belly happened again.

  "How are you?" he asked.

  "I'm great. Business is good."

  "I saw your stuff in Frampton's a few weeks ago."

  Ah, yes. The big Frampton's order. Roseanne had taken it upon herself to send Chicago's largest department store samples of their doggie collars and before they knew it, they were producing thousands of diamond-studded collars and coats.

  She stood again, but with his height, she barely reached his chest. "It's been insane. We're so busy. It's good though. And fun."

  "That's great." He tilted his head and studied her for a second. "I, uh, heard you and Frank Falcone split up."

  Heard that, did he? She wouldn't bother asking where or how he came upon this information. What did it matter? "Yes. A few months ago."

  Right after you thought I stole a million dollars-worth of diamonds.

  "Sorry to hear that," he said in that voice that telegraphed he wasn't sorry at all.

  Lucie shrugged. What else could she do? She'd cried enough tears over Frankie to fill Wrigley Field. Now she just had to wait and hope they once again found their way back to each other. With both of their fathers in the life, she and Frankie understood each other. There was an acceptance between mob kids. Except, sometimes that didn't quite measure up and they found themselves in a place where they couldn't agree on how much interference from their families was too much.

  For Lucie, it was always too much.

  Bear rose from his power nap, sniffed the parking meter, and squirted a few measly drops on it. This dog was a never-ending pee factory.

  The radio clipped to O'Brien's waistband squawked. He stared at the ground for a second while he listened to a dispatcher throw around a stream of codes. The radio once again fell silent and he looked up, all the amusement from a second ago now gone.

  "I gotta go."

  "Oh, no. I hope it's okay." She stopped, then smacked herself on the head. "Of course it's not okay. It's a crime. Forget it. Dumb thing to say."

  A corner of his mouth quirked. "How about I call you? Maybe we can grab a bite and catch up?"

  "Sure."

  Sure? What did she just do? Pretty positive she just agreed to go out with the Irish cop. And considering the only man she'd gone out with in the last four years was Frankie, this was a problem.

  But she didn't hear herself backing out. Nope. She just stood there—mute—while the hunky cop drove off.

  Bear stared at her with disappointed eyes.

  "It just slipped out," she said. "And I'm lonely. You think that's easy to admit? Besides, it's not your business."

  It wasn't anybody's business. Particularly Frankie's.

  Or her father's.

  * * *

  "An Irish cop," Roseanne said. "Have you suffered a head trauma?"

  Lucie propped her elbows on her mother's dining room table, shoved her dinner plate aside, and dropped her head into her hands. "I don't know what happened. One minute the dog was mauling him, the next my stomach was flip-flopping, and O'Brien was asking me for a date. I think it's a date anyway. It's been so long since someone asked me out I'm not sure."

  Across from her, Ro pushed food around her still-full plate. "Go out with him. I only saw him the one time, but he's a hot one. Besides, you're not getting any from Frankie."

  Lucie gasped. "I'm not having sex with him. It'll be a date. That's all."

  "All I'm saying is you shouldn't turn into a nun because you and Frankie broke up. Again. This is what? The twelfth time? Go out with the cute Irish cop and let Frankie find out. He'll come back. Men are stupid that way. They always want what they can't—or shouldn't—have."

  Ro knew men, for sure, but her current attitude had more to do with her cheating husband than Lucie dating someone new. No. If Lucie decided to see O'Brien, it wouldn't be to lure Frankie back. It would be because she was lonely and O'Br
ien, bless his handsome self, made her feel something she hadn't felt since Frankie dumped her.

  She lifted her head. Behind Ro an antique mirror spanned the length of the short wall and Lucie stared at her best friend's reflection. That mirror, like Ro, had been around since Lucie could remember. Its unchanged presence somehow anchored Lucie. Gave her a place to belong even when she didn't necessarily want to.

  She brought her gaze back to Ro, who continued playing with her food. Her friend's marriage was in crisis and Lucie was moaning about a date that might not even happen. What kind of friend did that?

  "I don't know why I'm worrying about this. He hasn't even called yet." She picked up her notepad and pen. "Let's get back to the timeline on the new office space."

  "Is it official?"

  "Yes. I called Mrs. Carlucci. She'll pay for all the fixtures if we handle installing them. She's also covering the paint but not the floors."

  "Good work. I'll pick up some samples and run them by the store tomorrow. Maybe I can get the flooring cheap."

  Cheap to Ro meant something that fell off a truck in a dubious location. "It has to be legitimate."

  She rolled her eyes. "I was talking about remnant flooring. Have you forgotten my louse of a husband is president of the town council? Maybe he can do something through one of the city contractors. Those guys always have leftover stuff from jobs. Right now, he'd probably do anything I asked. Even if I asked him to cut off his own penis. Rat bastard that he is."

  "That would be fine." Ooof. She needed to focus here. "Yikes! Sorry. Not the penis part."

  At least her mother wasn't around for this conversation. Because yes, once again, Mom was out to dinner with friends, proving Lucie's theory that she had a more active social life than her unmarried daughter.

  Ro made snoring noises. "Whatever. I knew what you meant."

  Grand day so far, an Irish cop, and now she'd insulted her dearest friend's husband's penis. "Anyway, I'm still training the new part-timer, but I could meet you tomorrow afternoon to look at the samples. Or you can just do it. You have a better feel for that stuff anyway."

  "I'll narrow it down and then you can pick. How's the new girl working out?"

  "So far, so good. I have to work on her about keeping on schedule. She got sidetracked yesterday staring at that painting Mr. L. bought from the crazy gallery owner."

  "The one who called my Gucci purse gauche?"

  "Yes."

  Ro tossed her long, sable hair over her shoulder. "That guy is an ass."

  "Yes, but he's a good client. I've picked up several dogs because of his recommendation. Plus, he gave me a finder's fee on the painting Mr. L. bought. And that little hunk of cash is helping to finance our new headquarters."

  "Really?"

  "Yep. He said he'll make it a standing deal. If anyone I introduce him to buys a painting, he'll give me a commission. And we need a whole lot more paintings like that to fuel our expansion."

  Ro stood, gathered her plate, then walked around to Lucie's side and took hers as well. "Doesn't sound like a bad deal."

  "It's an excellent deal. And the extra cash will come in handy as we're expanding Coco Barknell."

  "Then why do I think you have a problem with it?"

  Huh. Her friend knew her too well. "Eh. Not really a problem. I guess it feels a little smarmy. Like I'm using my clients."

  On her way to the kitchen to dump the plates, Ro made snoring noises again and Lucie threw her napkin at her. A napkin. As if that would do any damage. "I can't help analyzing this Gomez thing. It's what I do. But heck, when I was in banking, a lot of stuff felt smarmy. What's the difference?"

  Ro came back into the room and stood beside Lucie. "Think of yourself as a recruiter. They get paid for matching employees with companies all the time. You're doing the same thing, only with a product."

  In a twisted way, it made sense. "Exactly!"

  "Glad we once again agree. Now let's ditch this subject and run down to the hardware store and see about paint samples. You can show me what colors you like. That college kid who wants to do me usually works evenings. If I give him a little cleavage, he ponies up a discount." She ran a hand down the side of her halter-top. "I'm dressed appropriately for this mission."

  Lucie shoved out of her chair. "By all means, if your boobs will save us money, let's use them."

  She glanced down at her Notre Dame T-shirt and cut-off shorts, and contemplated a wardrobe change. Eh. Why bother? Lucie didn't have the wow factor Ro had. Not that this was a pity party. She knew she was attractive. If she tried hard enough, like she'd done for Frankie a few months back, she was downright pretty. Alluring. But she didn't have that sexy, I-will-destroy-you-in-bed look that Ro possessed.

  Ro bent over, gave her boobs a shimmy to get them boosted in her top and flipped back up, adjusting where necessary. "All in a day's work, girlfriend. You can thank me later. Let's move."

  * * *

  "Brace yourself, Lauren."

  Lauren stood frozen, a feat considering the blazing late-afternoon sun in front of the Owens Gallery. "I'm so excited. I've never been to this gallery. And to actually meet the owner? You have no idea."

  "Well, we don't actually go into the gallery. The dog stays in the office at the back of the building."

  She swiped her hands over her jeans and bobbed her head, sending her ponytail flying. "Still, it's exciting."

  Lucie laughed. This girl was a nut, but her enthusiasm was nothing short of enviable. "Bart might be in the office though. If so, I'll introduce you."

  Couldn't hurt to give her employee a potential networking contact in her field of choice. Lucie had learned that from Mr. Lutz. Despite being forced to downsize her, he remained one of her biggest supporters. For that, she'd always be grateful. And would also pay it forward.

  Lauren followed her through the alley between the gallery and the boutique next door while Lucie dug in her messenger bag for the key. "The office door stays locked, so you have to remember the key. I'll keep it in the office. Whoever has Oscar on their schedule that day can pick it up. Bart isn't always here, and if you don't have the key, you can't get in to walk the dog. Got it?"

  "Got it. Does he leave the dog where the art is stored?"

  "Absolutely not. Bart is obsessive about that. All the art is kept in a climate-controlled area. Oscar isn't allowed anywhere near it. He can walk through the gallery only because he can't reach the paintings. That's it. He's a good boy, but he's still an animal."

  "He's the Maltese-poodle mix, right?"

  "Yes. Two years old and cute as can be. Just pray he likes you because he can be a real hater."

  Lucie had an arsenal of small, but mighty dogs on her route. Josie and Fannie, a couple of shih tzus a neighbor had nicknamed the Ninja Bitches, could chew off a man's leg in one bite. Well, maybe that was an exaggeration, but only a fool would mess with those girls. Being petite herself, Lucie liked their spunk.

  Sometimes she even encouraged it. Bad, Lucie. Bad.

  Inside the office, Oscar, in all his fluffy, white glory, scampered to them and immediately sat. Lucie bent to nuzzle him. "Good boy, Oscar."

  "Well trained."

  "Yes, but I'm telling you, there's a switch in his brain. If he doesn't like someone—bam—he turns into the Incredible Hulk."

  "Let's see if he likes me." Lauren stuck her hand out and let Oscar sniff. "Good boy, Oscar."

  Lucie closed one eye. Please let him like her. As if reading her mind, Oscar leveled his big brown eyes on Lucie—did he just smile?—before licking Lauren's hand.

  But then he blew it by turning to Lucie, mounting her lower calf and hanging on for the ride while he humped her.

  "Wow," Lauren said.

  Lucie gently pushed him off. "He's a total horndog."

  A loud voice came from behind the office door that led to the gallery. Sounded like Bart's voice. Something about someone getting screwed.

  Ouch.

  "Whoa," Lauren said. "That didn't
sound good."

  No fooling there. But they were dog walkers, not eavesdroppers. "We should go. We only have thirty minutes to walk Oscar and he's fussy about the route."

  The voices drew closer to the door. Lucie hustled to the spot on the wall where Oscar's leash hung. Time to go, kids.

  "You keep ducking me!" a deep-toned voice—definitely not Bart's—came from what sounded like just the other side of the door.

  "Stop, Robert." Bart's voice. Definitely. "How incredibly offensive. I'm not ducking you."

  They're close. Yikes. If Bart walked in now, he'd think Lucie and Lauren were doing exactly what they were doing. Eavesdropping.

  Lucie bent low to clip Oscar's leash. "Good baby, Oscar. Here we go," she whispered, but Lauren's attention was plastered to the door. "Psst, Lauren."

  She spun to Lucie, who jerked her head to the door.

  "You get on the phone with that gallery and get my paintings back!" Robert—whoever he was—hollered. "They've been on loan for six months. They either need to buy them or send them back. I want my money."

  Lauren made an eeekkk face and the veins in her neck popped. Time to go. Lucie paddled her hand to the door and Lauren did a half-run, half-walk to get there. Who knew life as a dog walker packed this much drama?

  "Robert, it's almost eleven at night there. I'll call them in the morning for God's sake. Calm down."

  "Don't tell me to calm down. I'm losing money on those paintings. Get. Them. Back."

  Lucie nudged Lauren through the door. Once outside, Oscar trotted along beside Lucie until she led him to the tree in front of the gallery. Right about now would be the appropriate time to warn Lauren about maintaining discretion when it came to overhearing things related to their clients' businesses.

  "So, obviously," Lucie began, "you'll sometimes hear things that maybe you shouldn't."

  "Um, I guess."

  "And I'm sure I don't need to tell you this, but part of Coco Barknell's excellent reputation comes from our discretion."

  What a load of bull that was. First off, Coco Barknell wasn't quite established enough to have a reputation for discretion. Second, half the time, the dog owners weren't even home, so there wasn't a whole lot happening to feed the gossip mill. And third, they'd just narrowly avoided being locked up for hiding stolen jewelry from a twenty-year-old heist.