Dog Collar Couture (8 page)

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.

“No. He can't be involved. Conflict of interest. I'm afraid he'll get in trouble. Plus, he spoke to his lieutenant today and was told any information he gets should be passed on to another detective.”

“Hold it,” Dad said. “He can help you. You should use him.”

Ew. That sounded . . . harsh. In her father's world, connections were everything. And when connections were made they were to be utilized. Not this time.

“No, Dad. I will not
use
him. If I need advice, I can ask him, but as it pertains to evidence, Tim is not an option. I won't do that.”

“Seems to me—”

“No. Tim can't be involved. That's it.”

“Hey, who the hell do you think you're talking to?”

“Relax, Joe,” Mom said. “She's an adult. She told you what she wanted. Tim is her friend. She decides.”

Yay, Mom.

The doorbell rang, still the same chime that Mom had switched to after Dad had gone to prison. Rumor had it that he wanted the old chime back, but she refused. Even the doorbell was evidence of Mom's newfound independence. Prior to Dad going away, whatever he wanted, he got.

Now?

Not so much.

Ro stood. “Allow me. It'll give me something to do with my hands since I shouldn't be eating this damned cake.”

Joey's mouth opened—
please, don't let him say something sexual
—and then immediately closed.
Phew.
Maybe her brother was actually learning some restraint.

“Anyway,” Lucie said, “what do you all think? Can we start making some calls? See if anyone knows anything?”

Dad shrugged. “Baby girl, I was on this the minute those cops left this morning. Someone knows something.”

“And,” Mom added. “I can put the Franklin Press into action. You know nothing gets by those ladies.”

As annoying as the Franklin Press—aka the town gossips—could be, they knew how to get a message out.

The bell rang again and Lucie glanced over just as Ro swung the door open. “Well, hello there.”

Oh, wow.
Wow, wow, wow.

At the sight of Tim standing in the doorway, still in his suit from work, his shirt open at the collar and no tie, a burst of excitement plowed through Lucie.

He's here.

She hustled to the door, and something sparked in his deep-green eyes. She liked that about him, that when he looked at her, even with the chaos she constantly inflicted on him, his eyes sparkled.

Ro stepped away and gave him a finger wave. “Nice seeing you, O'Hottie.”

“Beat it.” Lucie elbowed Ro from the door and huddled closer to Tim. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yep.”

Lucie smiled. “Good. I wasn't expecting you. It's a nice surprise. A
great
surprise.”

“You said you were having a meeting.”

After he said he'd have to stay out of the case and knowing that Lucie had planned a family meeting tonight, he'd come over anyway.
Wow, wow, wow.

She angled back, waved her hand at her crazy crew still at the dining room table. “Yes. We're in the middle of it. I can cut it short though. I don't want you—”

“Tim,” Mom called, “have some cake.”

He grinned down at Lucie. “I gotta have cake.”

“Are you sure you want to deal with this? I mean, cake with my family? It might be easier to take your own eye out.”

He eased closer, squeezed her forearm. “It's all good, Luce. Let's do this.”

He focused on her, held her stare for a solid ten seconds while the words tumbled in her brain. “But you could get in trouble.”

“Not if I'm careful.”

He didn't care. He'd risk his job, a job he'd dedicated himself to, worked endless hours for, to help her.

“Oh, my God, Tim O'Brien. You might be the best man I've ever met.”

That got a smile out of him. A wicked one. Lucie wished they were alone so she could make those lips do things other than smile. She'd kiss those lips right from his face.

“Hey,” Joey yelled. “Are we done with this meeting, or what?”

Lucie turned back. “Pipe down! And no, we're not done yet. Tim is here to help.”

W
hat the hell
was he doing?

Tim scooped the last bite of some truly fantastic lemon pound cake into his mouth and savored the buttery flavor melting on his tongue.

Like his family, the Rizzos enjoyed good food. He could live with that. Even if it did cost him an extra thirty minutes in the gym.

Beside him, Lucie jotted notes on a pad she'd retrieved from the sideboard. As always, his girl was supremely organized, listing who would be doing what in her quest to clear her name.

Any sane man in his position—“sane” being the key word—wouldn't be here. To say he was straddling the conflict-of-interest line was an understatement. Maybe he wasn't sharing information with the Rizzos, and maybe they hadn't said anything that would change the outcome of the case, but they were making a plan.

And he wasn't just listening. He was participating. At least in a passive way that allowed him to agree that something was a good or a bad idea.

“Tim,” Lucie's father said, “what's the word from the cops about all this?”

Lucie flicked her pencil at him. “No, Dad. He can't.”

Tim sat back, assumed his hands-on-thighs relaxed-but-not-too-relaxed position. “She's right, Mr. Rizzo. I can't comment. Not because I don't want to. I do. But if something goes wrong and Lucie is somehow implicated, given the high profile of the Maxmillian dress, the local media would go nuts. Add to that her personal relationship with a detective that's even remotely involved, she'll get eaten alive. It'll hurt her.” He looked up at Lucie. “And I won't allow that.”

“Oh,” Lucie said, “that was a good answer.”

“Sure was,” Ro said.

Joe Rizzo leaned in, rested his arms on the table and fiddled with the handle of his coffee mug. “How's this gonna work then? Your seeing my daughter and being a cop. I mean, I got my people all over the street on this. My guess? Soon, someone, somewhere is gonna know something about this dress.”

That was the thing about criminals, their information network was vast. If only they'd used it on the right side of the law. “Take any relevant information to Detective Bickel.”

“Not you.”

“Noooo. Not me. Call Bickel.”

“Are you nuts or what? You want
me
to go to the cops?”

“Dad!”

Good point. That might be interesting though. A mob boss strolling into headquarters with information regarding an armed robbery.

“It's all right, Lucie. Let's speak hypothetically here. If your dad has a . . . source . . . he'd like to protect, you could go to the insurance company's investigator. As long as he has the proof, and depending on what that proof is, he might not need to reveal where he obtained the information. And, let's face it, the investigator wants to find that dress as much as you do. He wants to go back to his client and prove to them why they don't have to pay out that million-dollar claim. He'd be a great ally for you.”

Yeah, definitely straddling that line now. He should just shut the hell up and get out of here.

But Lucie tapped her pencil on the table, her lips slightly puckered as she rolled that idea around. “He gave me his card and told me to call him if anything came up. I could just slide any tips along to him. Call me his confidential informant.”

Joe Rizzo pounded his fist on the table hard enough to rattle the china, the utensils and Tim's teeth. “You're no snitch!”

Jeez, this was complicated.

“Joe,” Mrs. Rizzo said, “stop that yelling. You're insane. Who said anything about her being a snitch. She's trying to save herself here; and, frankly, you should be agreeing with just about anything, because
your
history isn't exactly helping.” Mrs. Rizzo stood, began stacking plates, smacking them together hard enough that they should have shattered. “Do you think they'd be doing this to her if her last name wasn't Rizzo?”

Actually, all of it was standard procedure. Tim wasn't about to let that fly.

Joey shoved up from the table. “I'm out. Meeting over. Time to go.”

Mrs. Rizzo, her eyes stricken, looked over at him. “You're leaving?”

“Yes, ma'am. It's about to get seriously ugly in here, and I don't want to be in the middle of it.” He slashed his hand across his throat then grabbed the back of Ro's chair. “Let's go, Ro.”

Lucie saw the wisdom and scooped up her notepad. “He's right, Mom. We're done here. The investigator is the way to go. No sense arguing about ancillary things that won't do us any good. For now, any and all tips get funneled to me, and I'll get them to the investigator. Problem solved. Now, get to work, people.”

F
in-the-staller
was at the top of his game today. By nine thirty he and Lucie had barely hit the halfway mark of his walk. Already, the morning schedule was blown.

And worse, Fin decided to plop his fuzzy butt just feet from the auction house. The scene of the crime.

The morning chill hadn't broken yet; and Lucie tilted her head back, closed her eyes. She drew a long breath of dewy, moist air, focused on it moving down her throat and into her lungs.

I can do this.

She opened her eyes, peered down at Fin, still lounging on the sidewalk. “Here's the deal.” She slid his treat bag out of her fanny pack and shook it. “You knock it off with these breaks, and you'll get two extra treats when we get back to your house. Two, Fin. Is that a deal?”

She shook the bag again and—
voilà
—Fin stood. Finally, he understood English.

“Good boy,” she gushed, giving him a rub under his chin.

She stowed the treat bag, and Fin whimpered. But she wasn't falling for that trick. No sir. A deal was a deal.

“Let's go, Fin.”

If he didn't stop again, in another thirty yards they'd be looping around the corner and heading back.
Please, please, please.
No time to spare after his morning antics.

“Ms. Rizzo?”

Lucie swung her head right, spotted a man walking toward her from the back door of the auction house.

“What now?” she muttered.

Fin pitched himself forward and let out a loud woof. The man halted then stepped back, hands in front of him. “Is he friendly?”

“That depends.”

What a load that was. Fin may have had a scary bark, but if the man got within licking distance, Fin would unleash the tongulator. What was it with the dogs she walked? Every darned one of them was a love bug.

What she needed was a scary-ass dog. Maybe then she wouldn't get into these dustups.

The man kept his distance, hands still outstretched. “I'm Lewis Dukane. I own the Maxmillian dress.”

What could he want with her?

Fin pitched forward again, and Lucie set her hand on his back, gave a slight squeeze. “Sit, Fin.”

Miracle of all miracles, he actually sat. Although, it had been three minutes since his last siesta.

“Hello, Mr. Dukane. I'm very sorry about the dress.”

“Yes, thank you. It's a terrible shock. Thankfully, it's insured, but this?” He ran his hand down his face. “I never expected anything like this.”

“I'm sure.”

“Ms. Rizzo, please, is there anything you remember from the other day? Anything at all? The insurance company won't pay the claim until the investigation is complete. It's so frustrating. I've lost the dress, and the claim is in limbo. I'm stuck.”

Wow. Way too much information to tell a stranger. Lucie shook her head. “I'm sorry. I've told the police everything I can. I didn't see the robbery. I was on this side of the building, and the men went out the other side.”

“Are you sure? There's nothing that felt off? Estelle told me you walk by here every day. It could be something small. A strange car even.”

She'd love to help this man, but . . . nothing. Nothing about that day, aside from talking with the auction-house manager, was different.

“I'm sorry, sir. I told the police and the insurance investigator everything. The only odd thing was chatting with Estelle. Otherwise, it was a normal walk.”

But, whoa, fella, the sneer he leveled on her sent all the wrong energy spewing, and Fin hopped to his feet.

“I
see,
” Mr. Dukane said, his voice gritty, yet sharp.

Fin responded with a low growl of his own.

All righty, then.
Maybe she had a killer on her hands after all.

“Stay, Fin.”

He swung his head up, but ignored her command. Nothing new there. Except Mr. Dukane stepped back.
Good job, Fin.

“It's not that I don't want to help. I do. There's just nothing more I can tell you.”

“Unless you're involved.”

“Hey!”

“I thought I could appeal to you. Beg for your help. Obviously, that's not going to happen. Given your family ties, I shouldn't be surprised.”

Yep. There it was. The real reason he pounced on her this morning.

Not only did she sense it, but so did Fin. He tilted his snout up and sent three rapid-fire barks Mr. Dukane's way.

“For all I know,” Mr. Dukane continued, “maybe the robbers made a deal with you. You pretend you didn't see anything, and you get a cut of whatever they make on the dress. I should have expected it from the likes of you.”

Lucie's mouth flew open. Now that was enough. More than enough. She'd been minding her owned darned business, trying to make a living—an honest living—and he had the nerve to insult her and her family.

People. For years she'd been shying away from the gossips, pretending to ignore what people said about her family. Well, no more. No more hiding, no more shrinking away, no more shame. “There is no need for that.
Sir.
”

Fin, bless his devoted soul, lifted his leg.

No.

“Fin!”

Too late. A steady stream of urine soaked Mr. Dukane's pant leg and panic shot right out of Lucie's pores. After a few seconds of stunned silence, the man's eyes bulged and his face twisted, its color deepening. This was so not good. Not good, not good, not good.

Instinctively, Lucie slid in front of Fin. Just in case lunatic Dukane got any violent ideas.

“Teach that dog some manners! Do you know what this suit cost?”

Well, too bad. He deserved it. In fact, she wouldn't mind Fin peeing on Dukane's other leg.
Bad, Lucie. Bad.

“Hey.” She poked a finger at him. “I'm giving you slack. You've had a tough couple of days, but accusing me of a crime is way out of line. Way out.” Fin barked and Lucie squeezed his leash in case he made a leap for it. Right now she was mad enough to let him do it. Just let him take a chunk out of this jerk. “You don't know anything about me. What gives you the right to interrupt my workday with this slander? Be careful, Mr. Dukane, I might just sue you. And then you'll have a much bigger problem than a missing dress. Now, I have work to do. Let's go, Fin.”

She stepped around Mr. Dukane, being careful not to come in contact with him. For all she knew, she could bump him and wind up with an assault charge.

Ooh, the rotten bastard. The absolute, bone-deep nerve. She'd like to wrap her hands around that skinny neck of his and just strangle him.

But no.

If she did that, she'd be everything the people in this city thought. The mob princess. All that nonsense about rising above would be a lie. A scam.

But,
God,
the naysayers were never-ending. They just kept coming and coming and coming.

“I'm so tired of people doing this, Fin. I really am.”

Breathe.
That's all she needed to do. Just keep moving and breathing and the anger would wash away.

Shake it off.

A Chevy with a broken grille turned the corner and—oh, no—slowed as it came closer. She knew that car. Dammit, this day. The driver pulled to the open spot in front of the fire hydrant across the street and peered out at her.

She met the gaze of Detective Bickel and nodded despite the collapsing of her insides. When Bickel didn't move from behind the wheel, Lucie turned her attention back to Fin. “Maybe he's not here for us.”

Probably wishful thinking, but a girl could hope.

The dog swung his head up, clearly sensing the rotten energy. It probably shot right through the leash. He nuzzled her leg, running his snout up and down; and she dropped to her knees, right there on the sidewalk, and hugged him. Just wrapped both arms around him and squeezed, and he rewarded her with licks. Her cheeks, her chin, her neck, everywhere he could get. All that love just for her.

At least until her phone rang. Still on her knees and getting tongulated—ooh, that sounded bad—she slipped the phone from her bag. Tim. First Fin and now O'Hottie. Things were picking up. “Sit, Fin.” She shoved his rear down, and he went into siesta mode. “Good boy.” She tapped the screen. “Hi.”

“Good morning. How's your day so far?”

“Don't ask.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Is it legal for someone to accuse someone else of a crime?”

“It's not even ten o'clock. What the hell happened?”

She'd love to tell him. Absolutely would. Because Tim, being the man he was, would offer some form of comfort. He'd talk her down.

But when it came to this case, he couldn't be involved, and she wasn't about to risk getting him fired. “Forget it.”

“Don't do that. Talk to me. It's about the case?”

“Yes. But nothing to do with evidence. It won't move the investigation along.”

“Then right now I'm a guy talking to his girlfriend.”

Girlfriend. There was that word again. She was his girlfriend, and this a private conversation. She hoped. “Your buddy Detective Bickel is watching me. I think.”

“Where are you?”

“By the auction house. I'm walking Fin, and he just pulled up.”

Tim made a noise she couldn't quite decipher. “He's probably keeping tabs on you. Adding some pressure.”

“Well, it's working. And the owner of the Maxmillian dress was waiting for me at the auction house.”

“Really.”

A woman heading to the bus stop, stepped over Lucie without even breaking stride. Gotta love city life.

“Sorry,” she said, then went back to Tim. “Yes. Mr. Dukane implored me to tell the police everything I know. I told him I had, and he accused me of being in on the robbery. Because, after all, I'm Joe Rizzo's kid.”

“Shithead.”

“Thank you.”

“Did you kick him in the shins?”

“No.”

“Want me to?”

Lucie grinned. Tim. Always on her side. “No.”

“I could punch him.”

Now she laughed. A good, solid gurgle that sent the misery of the last few minutes on the run. “Maybe. Let me think about it.”

“You do that. Put Dukane out of your head. He's pissed because the insurance company won't pay his claim right away.”

“So he takes it out on me?”

“I didn't say it was right. It's not. Believe me, don't let anything he says get under your skin. You're better than that. You know it, and everyone who loves you knows it.”

“Wow. Detective, that was quite a speech.”

“Did it work?”

She rolled to the side to stand. At least until Fin, thinking it was playtime, pounced, the force of his front paws shoving her backward flat on her rear. The dog was an absolute animal. “Off, Fin.”

“Luce? You okay?”

She snorted as Fin shoved his snout into her ear and licked. Licked again. Lucie squealed and shoved him away, which only made the lovefest more impassioned. He climbed on top of her, pinning her shoulders to the ground, licking her cheeks—
lick
—nose—
lick
—chin—
lick.

“Off!”

“Luce?”

“I'm okay. Hang on.” She dropped the phone, held Fin at bay with both hands, wiggled from under him and sat up. “Fin, you are just ridiculous.”

She picked up the phone, shoved her hair out of her face and smoothed it. “Holy cow, that was crazy. Fin just licked inside my ear.”

“Lucky damned dog.”

Snort. “Hardy har, Detective.”

“You all right now?”

She rolled to her feet, tugged her jacket down and adjusted her fanny pack. “I'll live. You're a terrific guy, Tim O'Brien. I just want you to know that.”

“Glad to hear it because you're not getting rid of me anytime soon. I gotta go. I'll call you later. Do me a favor, and don't let anyone else lick inside your ear.”

A
t eleven
, Lucie marched into Coco Barknell, still feeling the aftereffects of Mr. Dukane's barbs. Tim had done a fine job of distracting her, but every time she thought about that awful encounter, it blurred her vision.

Something had to be done to get this investigation moving faster. Ro sat at her desk, fingers flying across her laptop keyboard, her nails click-click-clicking as they slammed the keys. She'd piled her long hair on top of her head, securing it with one of those eighties-style banana clips. Lucie didn't even know they still made those things. Perched on Ro's nose were the drugstore readers she insisted she needed. Probably just a ruse to make herself look more studious. At least she sprung for the expensive, faux-tortoiseshell frames.

“Hi,” Lucie said.

Ro tipped her head down, gave Lucie a stern-librarian stare over the rims of her glasses. “Hey. You're back early.”

She tossed her messenger bag on the conference table and slid behind her desk. “I'm preoccupied with this stolen dress, so I had Lauren cover the afternoon walks for me.”