Dog Collar Knockoff (14 page)

Another noise came through the phone. Water running maybe. No, more of a direct stream.

Oh. My. God.

The last bit of her control let loose and roared, filling her brain with swear words she’d never in her life uttered.

“You’re peeing!”

God, he was such a pig.

“Hey, you woke me up. I had to go.”

Forget killing him.
I’ll bury him alive in one of those suits.

“Get your butt down to Carlucci’s and get these boxes out of here.”

“They’re not my boxes!”

The swooshing of the toilet flushing came through the phone and Lucie fought a sudden sickness in her empty stomach. “Make sure you wash your hands.”

“Luce?”

“What?”

“I’m wiping my hand all over my phone. While I’m talking to you.”

Ew. Just gross. She’d never touch his phone again.

“Ass!”

Her brother laughed, and a second later, she heard running water. “You are so flipping easy. But back to your stolen track suits. I’m pissed that you think I’d do that to you. Seriously?”

The hot stab of guilt wasn’t his style, but it was most definitely effective. She’d totally let her emotions run amok.

No, he wouldn’t do that to her. Five months ago, she’d done the same thing and jumped to conclusions when she’d found that diamond stored in her craft supplies. He’d been innocent then too.

She sucked a huge breath, then let a good dose of guilt sink in. “I’m sorry. I just… We’re the only ones who have keys.”

“You haven’t changed the locks yet, dummy. How do you know who has keys? Those locks are forty friggin’ years old. Plus, they’re so cheap any novice could pick them.”

He had a point there. Another load of guilt piled on. She had to stop thinking the worst of her brother. Needling her was his favorite hobby, but as far as she knew, he’d never expose her to any trouble.

“I’m coming down there,” he said. “Give me fifteen minutes to shower.”

“What are you going to do?”

“You know what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna find out who has big enough balls to store that crap in your place. If they’re hot, Dad will lose his mind and we don’t need that right before he comes home. He’ll wind up violating parole and be in a jackpot again.”

“Dad can’t know about this, Joey. You know how he gets about me starting a new business.”

“Be real, Luce. Even if I don’t tell him, someone knows they’re there. And my guess is if they’re dumbass enough to put them there, they’re dumbass enough to tell someone.”

Unfortunately, all true. In Lucie’s limited experience, her father’s cronies liked to gossip. On most days, Petey’s was an all-out gossip-fest, which was one of the reasons Frankie liked going in there. One-stop shopping. Lunch plus all the crime family dirt.

But she couldn’t think about Frankie now. She needed to get rid of these suspect tracksuits. Fast.

Stolen or not, she wanted no part of it.

And as soon as Joey got here, they’d deal with it. For now, she’d set all five boxes right next to the back door so they could load them into their cars and dump them. She just wanted them gone. Disposed of immediately.

Outside, sirens blared. From the sound, they were coming closer. Nothing new, considering Petey’s was only a few doors down. Someone was always getting arrested over there. As long as the cops stayed at Petey’s and didn’t wander the block looking for velour tracksuits, she’d be fine.

What a thought.

The sirens grew louder then went quiet. Close. Really close. Had to be Petey’s.

She shoved one box against the back wall, then dragged the others over. The last box still had the flaps open.

“Hi, Lucie.”

Whoa.
She spun around and came face-to-face with Brock Lang, an old schoolmate of Frankie and Joey’s. He now stood in front of her in his Franklin P.D. uniform.

Casually, she shifted right, stood in front of one of the open boxes.

“Hey, Brock.”

Much like Tim the night before, Brock scanned the room then settled his gaze on Lucie doing a crummy job of trying to hide the tracksuits.

“What’s up?”

“We got a tip about some stolen merchandise stored here.” He peeked over Lucie’s shoulder. “Tracksuits. Just like those.”

I
n the three
seconds it took Brock to step around her, Lucie’s stomach curled, nearly doubling her over from the cramping. No.
Nuh, nuh, nuh, nuh, nuh.

He reached for the box, his movements steady and efficient, but in Lucie’s mind, everything had gone into super slow motion. Her hands shook furiously at her sides, but her feet stayed put.
Don’t move.
She’d seen enough with her father to know that if she made any attempt to stop Brock, she’d be in handcuffs.

Brock set one of his hands on the edge of the box and smirked. In high school he’d been a skinny, pencil-necked—the slutty girls called another part of his anatomy a pencil—weasel who’d done everything he could to cause trouble for other students. She wouldn’t go as far as to say he was the most hated kid in school, but his sneaky, deceiving ways hadn’t earned him many friends.

From what she’d heard, nothing had changed, and the fact that he now wore a uniform only made him worse. The uniform equaled a massive dose of attitude on steroids.

A ‘roided weasel.

Terrific.

She pointed at the box. “Brock, you may not believe this, but those aren’t mine.”

“You’re right,” he said. “I don’t believe it. This is your place. If they’re not yours, who do they belong to?”

“I… don’t know.”

Lamest excuse ever, but hey, it was true. Even if no one would believe it.

“And I suppose you don’t have a bill of sale for them?”

Uh, hello? If she didn’t know who they belonged to, why would she have a bill of sale? At this point, as her father had taught her, she should probably just shut up. Stop talking.

Now.

But darn it, the pencil-necked weasel obviously thought she’d turned out just like her father. The one thing she’d fought so hard against.

Brock strode to the door where she had lined up the other boxes. Slowly, he opened the top flaps on each box and peeked in.

Every nerve Lucie possessed fired, urged her to deny, deny, deny. But would that make her look guiltier?

Brock reached for the radio fastened at his shoulder. “This is unit 29. I need assistance transporting large boxes. Evidence. SUV would do it.”

Evidence. Was he kidding?

“Brock, please. There’s a mix-up. I honestly don’t know who they belong to.”

“Yeah, well, tell it to a judge, Lucie.”

Lucie lunged backward, held her hands in front of her. “Wait. What?”

Meeting her gaze with those hateful, smug eyes, he slipped handcuffs from his utility belt and held them up. “Hands behind your back. You’re under arrest.”

Nothing had changed. Old Brock was still that weasel who took joy in watching other people in turmoil.

“Luce?” Joey hollered from the front of the store.

Finally. “Back here. Joey, I’m being
arrested
!”

Two seconds later, Joey pushed through the saloon doors, nearly smacking her in the face. Those damned doors had to go.

He spotted Lucie with her hands cuffed and pulled a face. “What the hell? Brock, you dumbass, take those cuffs off her.”

“Yeah,” Lucie said. “Not the dumbass part. The handcuff part. Please.”

The weasel didn’t look convinced. He grabbed Lucie by the elbow, his grip hardly gentle. He held out his arm to shove Joey aside. “I’m taking her in.”

Being a good five inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than Brock, Joey folded his arms and turned himself into a wall blocking the path. “For what?”

Brock jerked his thumb toward the boxes. “We got a tip about stolen tracksuits. Five boxes from a robbery a few months back—and guess what?”

“I don’t need to guess. This is stupid. You’re arresting
Lucie
? She won’t go thirty-six in a thirty-five zone because she’s afraid she’ll get locked up.”

Brock the pencil-necked weasel grinned. “I guess you don’t know your sister so well. You Rizzos are keeping it all in the family. Let’s go, Lucie.”

Oh and didn’t that just make her skin burn.

Using way more force than necessary, he gripped her arm and pushed her forward. And one thing Joey never tolerated was someone threatening or manhandling his sister. Considering her lineage, not that many people had actually ever
put
their hands on her.
Leave it to the weasel.

Joey stepped forward and got right into Brock’s space. “Take your hands off my sister. Now.”

“Screw off, Joey. She’s going to jail.”

But Brock hesitated, probably thought better of making an enemy out of any member of the Rizzo clan, and let out a long breath. “I’m just doing my job.”

He nudged her forward, a little gentler this time, and held his other arm out to angle around Joey.

Panic mixed with Lucie’s burning anger and she dug her feet in. Heck no, she wasn’t going to jail. “I… They’re not mine. I swear.”

“Yeah, I know,” Brock said. “Move it.”

He led her past Joey, whose eyes turned vicious, absolutely hateful, as he stared down the weasel. She whipped her head back. “Joey, please, help me. What do I do?”

He held up his giant hands, all calm and cool as if he’d done this time and again. “Relax. I’ll take care of it. I’ll have you out pronto. Trust me.”

“I need a lawyer.”

Already, he was scrolling on his phone. “I’m on it. I’ll get you Dad’s guy. He’s on retainer anyway.”

Great. A criminal defense attorney on retainer. If it got her out of the clink before anyone found out about this, she’d never comment on it again.

How humiliating.

“Thank you, Joey.”

Brock pushed open the main door. Harsh sunlight blinded her and she blinked a couple of times to adjust her eyes. On the sidewalk, a small crowd had gathered and the low murmur of voices scraped against Lucie’s already pulverized nerves. Pretty soon the entire town would know. Her poor mother.

Relax. Concentrate.
She swallowed back a lump in her throat and lifted her head a little higher. And she certainly wouldn’t cry. Rizzos didn’t cry. Any sign of weakness made for great gossip.

Jimmy Two-Toes, one of her dad’s cronies from Petey’s, shoved through the small crowd with Lemon, another of Dad’s crew, on his heels.

“What’s this now?” Jimmy said. “Brock, you dickhead, you got nothing better to do than harass innocent people?”

“Yeah,” Lemon said. “Leave her alone.”

The men she’d spent years despising were now defending her. But they shouldn’t be speaking to an officer that way. Even if it was true. If they kept this up, Brock would arrest them too and her father would lose his mind.

She needed to shut them up. “It’s all right, guys. Please.”

“No,” Lemon said. “You’re a good girl. Everyone knows that.”

One more time she glanced back, found Joey right behind her, lowering his phone from his ear. “I’m on it,” he said. “We’ll get her out.”

Brock opened the rear door of the patrol car, set his weasel hand on top of her head, and guided her in. Her butt landed on hot leather, stinging the backs of her legs. She wiggled back, trying to keep her shorts from riding up, but no luck.

Gently, she leaned back, let her shoulders slump forward to ease the pressure. Outside the window, a dozen sets of eyes watched her. Mrs. Overmeijer snapped a photo with her phone and Lucie nearly lost that tight hold on her control.

Head high, she turned away from the window, aimed her gaze at a jagged rip in the headrest in front of her. She’d just concentrate on that tear, imagine all the ways it could have gotten there and the number of people who would have sat in this very spot staring at it. Her mind zeroed in and slowly, the roaring panic, the skin frying anger, dissipated.

“I’m okay,” she muttered. “Just a mix-up.”

But in the back of her mind, she understood all too well that she was in the one place she’d never wanted to be.

On her way to jail.

*

Lucie sat on
the bench in the holding cell, knees together, elbows glued to her side because—heaven help her—who knew what kind of germs might be in residence. She refused to let her bare skin touch anything. Anything!

But all in all, the cell was nicer than she’d expected. Well lit with concrete walls painted a pale beige, it didn’t have that dank dungeony feel she’d expected.

On the bench bolted to the far wall sat Fusion—hopefully not her real name. Fusion had been arrested that morning for prostitution. Or as she called it, providing services down at the Love-Thy-Neighbor-Here place on Janes Avenue. The place was legendary in Franklin for all the wrong reasons. Reasons that included Lucie’s not-so-saintly mother committing adultery there twenty years earlier. One thing about Franklin, the landmarks saw a lot of action. Literally and figuratively.

Lucie sighed.

What a life.

The door at the end of the hallway slammed. She perked up, hoping that maybe—
please, please, please
—her lawyer might be the one strolling the corridor. Did lawyers even come back here? Wow, she was criminally bad—pun intended—at being a jailbird.