Dog Collar Couture Page 6

  “Ms. Rizzo, around the time of the robbery yesterday, I understand you walked a dog near the auction house.”

  “Yes. I ran into the auction-house manager.”

  “I’m aware. I spoke with her this morning.” He retrieved a notepad and tablet from his briefcase and fired it up, poking at the screen a couple of times. He set it on the table and spun it to Lucie. “I collected security video. Would you mind taking a look at it? Let me know if you may have seen the men?”

  “Sure.”

  He hit the play button and a grainy video rolled. “These are the two men. They came in through the front.”

  Lucie checked the time stamp: 4:03. “I was on the other side of the building with Fin. That’s right around the time the manager came up and started chatting.”

  Edwards stopped the video. “Was that unusual?”

  “What? The chatting?”

  “Yes.”

  Lucie pondered that. As a dog walker she met people. And with a cute dog? Forget it, everyone stopped. Complete nightmare. Each time someone interrupted, her schedule slowly disintegrated. She’d gone as far as to code the attention-getter dogs and assign them to separate routes. That way the time loss fanned over two or three routes.

  “I tend to meet people while on the walks, so no, I wouldn’t say that’s unusual.”

  “What about the auction-house manager? Had you met her before?”

  “No.”

  Edwards jotted a note on his notepad—what did that mean?—before starting the video again.

  “The two men in the video? Do you recall ever seeing them in the area? Even if it was weeks ago.”

  Dad sat forward. “You think they were casing the place.”

  Edwards shrugged, and Lucie went back to the video. Both men wore police uniforms and hats. The taller one’s hair dipped below the brim of the hat. That alone would have alerted Lucie to a problem. Most policemen wore close-cropped hair. The overhead view coupled with the hat brims obscured the men’s faces, but one was broader in the chest and thicker around the middle. “I’m sorry. I don’t ever remember seeing them. It doesn’t mean they weren’t there, I just don’t recall.”

  “All right.” He stopped the video, tucked the tablet away. “Do you do the same route every day? Same timing?”

  Dad waggled his finger. “Don’t answer that.”

  “It’s okay, Dad. I’ve already told the police all this, and Mr. Edwards has indicated he works closely with them.”

  Dad leaned into his elbows and made direct eye contact with Edwards. “I know this drill. Whatever you think about me, my daughter isn’t a crook. MBA from Notre Dame. And I don’t appreciate you people coming around her business stirring things up. She’s a good girl. Leave her alone.”

  Times like this, she adored her father. They had their differences, but when it came to his baby girl, he didn’t like people messing with her.

  Edwards mirrored Dad’s body language. Had the two men been standing, Lucie imagined they’d be all up in each other’s faces by now.

  “Mr. Rizzo, I’ve been hired to do a job. All due respect, I don’t care who you are or who your daughter is. I’m charged with locating that dress. The more cooperation I get, the easier that will be.”

  She’d been around law enforcement enough to know that everyone was a potential suspect. Particularly people at the location of the theft.

  And, hello, crimes involving a gun upped the ante on jail time.

  Lucie swiveled her head to Dad. “I guess we know what we need to do then.”

  “What’s that?” Edwards asked.

  “Figure out what happened to that dress so I can clear my name.”

  5

  After dealing with an overnight burglary and grabbing a quick lunch, Tim headed back to the station. Priority one: tackle his lieutenant who’d been in meetings all damned day. Priority two: get taken off the Maxmillian dress case.

  This mess—the wanting to help Lucie, but do his job at the same time—tore him up. Talk about a balancing act.

  And that was before factoring in who her father was. His superiors would love one of their detectives dating Joe Rizzo’s kid.

  Total shit storm.

  He’d known it all along, but he hadn’t expected his personal and professional life to collide with such gusto.

  He glanced around the bullpen at the six empty desks. The other members of his unit must have been making the brass happy by being out on calls. Tim didn’t mind. When all the guys were in-house the noise could blow out the walls. Even ancient cement couldn’t handle a squad of foul-mouthed and grisly Chicago detectives.

  At his desk, he slid his suit jacket off, hung it on the back of his chair, a decent, cushioned one he’d bought himself instead of the crappy metal-framed ones the department provided. Tim’s theory was the brass didn’t want their detectives too comfortable at their desks, so they gave them the cheapest, spine-destroying chairs they could find. The chairs alone motivated the guys to hit the streets.

  Tim didn’t have a problem being on the street. He’d never be a desk jockey. A good day for him meant checking in first thing, hitting the road and not returning until the end of the day.

  He unbuttoned his shirtsleeves and rolled them while checking Lou’s office just ten feet behind him. Bingo. Door open, the man at his desk.

  “Lou.” He hustled over before someone intercepted. “I need a minute.”

  “Enter!”

  Tim stepped in, pointed at the door. “You mind if I close this?”

  Lou eyed him, his dark eyes narrowing slightly in that don’t-screw-with-me way his boss had of nonverbally communicating. He dropped his pen on his desk and sat back, hands falling over the armrests of his chair.

  “Go ahead. What’s up?”

  “The Maxmillian dress.”

  Lou’s eyebrows hitched up. “You got something?”

  Tim shifted in his seat, kept his gaze steady on his boss while his pulse went to triple time. He set his hands on his thighs, tapped his fingers. Now or never.

  Yeah, he had something all right. Not in the way his boss hoped, but he had something. “Other than a potential conflict? No.”

  Lou pressed his lips tight, his shoulders sloping as he let out a breath. “Don’t wreck my day, O’Brien.”

  No promises.

  Tim lifted his fist to his mouth, cleared his throat. “Bickel was heading out to interview a witness this morning.”

  “Yeah. Joe Rizzo’s daughter. That’s almost too good to be true.”

  Tim shoulders locked up, the tension balling tight and knifing a bolt of pain straight to his fingertips. Certain things, he could deal with. Things like ribbing from the guys about his fair skin. Or the Opie nickname Rich Laslo had laid at his feet because someone said, as a kid, he must have looked like the character from The Andy Griffith Show.

  Yeah. He could deal with all that.

  What he couldn’t deal with—apparently—were Lucie Rizzo jokes.

  He rolled his shoulders, forced the tension away. “Things can be deceiving. I tagged along on the interview. I know Lucie. Figured maybe I could be of some help.”

  Lou tilted his head. “‘Know her’ as in you met her once or twice, or more?”

  “Uh, more.”

  Way more. As in she nearly sucked my tonsils out last night.

  Lou sat forward again. “I see.”

  “Yeah. Truth is, we’re . . . uh . . . seeing each other. Dating, so to speak.”

  There. Said it. Done deal. He waited. Couple seconds at least, but his boss sat, still studying him, his dark eyes direct, but lacking heat.

  Lacking anything really.

  “Un-huh,” Lou said.

  That was it? No lecture? “I saw her last night. Before I got called in to help with the Maxmillian case. So, there’s nothing sideways there. I didn’t know Lucie was involved until Bickel talked to the auction-house manager.”

  Still no response. Okay. What the hell? By now, the guy should be no
sing around. Asking questions. Feeling him out. At the very least, asking if he’d discussed the case with Lucie privately. At which point, Tim would have to admit they’d had a general conversation about Tim’s involvement in the investigation, but nothing specific to chain of evidence.

  He had made sure of that.

  But Lou just nodded.

  “I’m thinking I should probably come off this case. No?”

  A solid twenty seconds passed. Who the hell knew twenty seconds could feel so long? Lou rested his elbows on the desk. “The media is all over this damned dress. We got kids dying in the street, and all anyone cares about is a missing dress. Eh. People. Anyways, last I heard, Ms. Rizzo didn’t give us much.”

  “She didn’t see anything. She did find the feather on the sidewalk.”

  “Yeah, I heard. Bickel is processing it.” Lou sat back again, drummed his fingers on the armrests of his chair. He relaxed his head back, casting his gaze up. “If we clear her, there’s no conflict. If you get any calls or leads, turn them over to Bickel. Let’s keep this clean until we confirm her story.”

  Crap. Not exactly what Tim wanted to hear. He needed off this case. There’d been plenty of cases he didn’t like, cases that drove him nearly insane with crazy witnesses, unruly defendants, filthy, unlivable crime scenes. All of it he’d dealt with and never, not once, asked to be taken off a case.

  Now? Being stuck between Lucie and his job, he wanted out.

  Lou brought his attention back to him. “Unless you got some reason I should feel otherwise?”

  Suck this up. “Yes, sir.”

  “And, O’Brien, I don’t think I need to tell you to be sure you know what you’re doing with this girl.”

  And . . . come again? Tim shook his head. Did he just . . . yeah . . . sure did. Plenty of four-letter responses came to mind. Plenty. But, reversing the roles, if Tim were the superior officer and one of his detectives marched into his office announcing he was dating a notorious mobster’s daughter, Tim probably would have issued the same warning.

  Hell, Tim had issued that warning to himself a few thousand times.

  But he had more than a minor itch for Lucie. And when had scratching ever helped?

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Good. Get on the reports from this morning. I’ll let you know if anything comes up on this dress.”

  Tim left the office, grabbed his cell phone from his desk and headed outside for privacy. With that nastiness done, he could talk to Lucie with a clear conscience. He just wouldn’t be able to discuss the case.

  “Hi,” she said.

  He hopped down the back steps and strode to the edge of the building, away from any potential eavesdroppers. Call him paranoid. So what? “Hi. How’s it going?”

  “Um . . .”

  “Don’t answer that. I just talked to my lieutenant about getting pulled off this case.”

  “And?”

  “No dice. For now, any evidence or info that comes my way, I have to shuttle to Bickel. I need to stay out of it.”

  “Okay. I understand. I hate that I put you in this position. I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “I guess. Anyway, the owner’s insurance company hired an investigator. He came to see me around lunchtime.”

  Not a shocking development. High-value items always warranted an investigation. The fact that they were moving this fast though? That was . . . interesting. “They didn’t waste any time.”

  “The dress is worth millions. Can you blame them?”

  “Just so you know, that’s standard procedure.”

  “Well, he made it fairly clear that I’m a suspect.”

  Tim bit down. He should say something. Anything. Natural instinct was to reassure her. But he couldn’t. For both their sakes, he needed to follow his lieutenant’s orders. The local press was all over this story. Before long, the entertainment rags would get in on the action. And what was juicier than a missing Maxmillian dress?

  Ha. How about a detective involved with a suspect who was also Joe Rizzo’s daughter.

  Television movie if he’d ever heard of one. And he didn’t even watch them. His sisters? They loved ’em.

  “These things have a natural order,” he said. “Be patient.”

  Lame response. Piss poor. He squeezed his eyes shut, banged his open hand against his head. Impossible situation.

  “I know. I’ve decided to talk to my family tonight. Sort of a family meeting to figure out how to find the dress and clear my name. Between my mom, dad, Joey and Ro, they know half the state.”

  “Not a good idea.”

  “Well, Tim, I can’t sit here and do nothing. I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to prove myself to people. Now I have a business to protect. I can’t have my superwealthy clients thinking I’m a thief.”

  “No one thinks that.”

  “Really? What would you think? Would you take a chance letting me inside your three-million-dollar home when I might be a coconspirator in a robbery?”

  No. He wouldn’t. “Hell no. But this is an armed robbery. We’re not talking about gum being lifted from the drugstore. These guys had weapons. If you start chasing them down, who knows what they’ll do. I’m not letting you do that. No way.”

  “You’re not letting me? Huh. Last I checked, my last name and the legal system aren’t a great match. I can’t chance it. I need to do what I can to help this investigation along. And that means utilizing my family’s contacts.”

  “Contacts? What contacts? I mean, no offense, Lucie, but your father’s contacts . . . let’s be nice and call them questionable.”

  This was a cluster. And he couldn’t help. Not if he didn’t want to make it a bigger cluster. And possibly lose his job. Life with Lucie Rizzo was slowly killing him. He should walk away. Let her and her nutty family become a memory. He’d told himself that a hundred—a thousand—times.

  Lot of good that had done. He simply couldn’t do it. Couldn’t give her up. She made him laugh. Settled him. Nope. Not giving that up.

  “O’Brien!”

  Tim reared back to where one of his squad mates stood on the steps waving him inside. “Luce, something’s up here. I gotta go. I’ll call you later. Relax. Okay? Don’t do anything rash.”

  That evening, while she had a captive audience, meaning Dad, Joey, Ro and Mom were all still seated at the dining room table, Lucie tapped her fork against her favorite Notre Dame glass. The tapping rose above the chatter at the table, and her father paused his effort to convince Ro to become a republican.

  Ro and Dad talking politics. There was something she didn’t see every day.

  The two of them went silent, her father still grinning from the verbal swordplay and—pow—something pinged at the back of Lucie’s neck.

  For once, the atmosphere, that lively, frenetic energy that came with her family, brought about a happy, contented feeling. Gone was the embarrassment and shame she often felt when entrenched in her father’s legal troubles. Life as Lucie Rizzo was a vicious cycle. For years she had tried to distance herself from her family’s reputation, but here she was about to ask for their help.

  Which brought an entire other level of shame and guilt. What kind of person can love, but be simultaneously mortified? So confusing.

  Her family was crazy.

  Straight-up nuts. In a lot of ways, she probably was too, but it didn’t need to define her.

  For once, she could look at these people, feel her love for them and savor it without any shame or guilt.

  “Ho,” Dad said, “we were talking. What’s with the clinking?”

  Coming out of her stupor, Lucie cleared her throat. “Sorry. Since we’re all here, let’s have a quick family meeting.”

  Joey, swallowing the last of his dinner pushed his empty plate away and held his hands out. “What meeting?”

  “Shush,” Ro said, bumping his elbow. “This is important.”

  �
��You knew about this?”

  Mom hopped up from her spot next to Lucie. “Wait. I made a nice lemon pound cake today. Let me get it.”

  Ro’s jaw dropped. “Oh, my God, with the cake. It has to stop.”

  “I like cake,” Dad said.

  Joey nodded. “Me too. Get the cake, Ma.”

  “I like cake, too.” Ro waggled her finger at Dad and Joey. “So does my rear.”

  Now that was funny.

  “Go ahead and laugh,” Ro said to Lucie. “It’s easy for the skinny one.”

  Disregarding Ro’s plea, Mom ran into the kitchen, grabbed her precious pound cake and brought it back to the table. While Mom sliced, Lucie scanned the room to make sure she had everyone’s attention. “I need your help.”

  Joey, the mama’s boy, was handed the first piece of cake. “Who?”

  “Everyone.”

  “Whatever you need, baby girl,” Dad said.

  Yep. People could say what they wanted about the Rizzos, but they stuck together.

  “Thanks, Dad. Just to fill Mom in, Dad was with me today when that investigator from the insurance company showed up. Between him and the police, it’s clear that everyone is considered a suspect. And with Coco Barknell growing, we can’t afford any negative press. If our high-end clients get wind of this, we’re sunk.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” Ro, the one whose ass was growing, accepted a slice of cake. “But you’re right. It’s not good for business. Not when I’m talking to national department stores.”

  “Exactly. But between all of us, we know a lot of people in this city.”

  Joey swallowed a mouthful of cake. “You want us to put the word out?”

  “Well, yes. Quietly. We might come up with something the investigator can use. He said he works closely with the police.”

  Ro squinted. “You’re thinking if we get intel, he’ll pass it to the cops.”

  Intel. Look at Ro going all Charlie’s Angels on her.

  “What about O’Brien?” Joey asked.