Lacey Luzzi: Sprinkled: A humorous cozy mystery! (Lacey Luzzi Mafia Mysteries Book 1) Read online

  Things had gone well during the pre-stakeout; Meg and I arrived at three p.m. for a picnic at a nearby park. We’d picnicked out front like two friends might, sipped some wine, and then meandered around. The place had been dead quiet, nobody around. The drop spot was behind the local community center, which, like my hair, had seen better days. The parking lot hadn’t seen a security camera update since I’d worn legwarmers.

  We discovered an abandoned tool shed and, still giddy from the wine, broke in at a louder decibel than we probably should have.

  There was a man inside waiting for us with a gun.

  It was a big gun, and it was pointed right at us.

  When he saw it was two ladies in sundresses, clearly loopy on alcohol, he lowered the gun and winked.

  He’d said hello.

  I said hi back and shook his hand.

  He asked if we wanted a cigarette.

  Meg said sure.

  Then, he’d taken a nice long stare at Meg’s breasts.

  That’d been his mistake.

  Meg had zapped him with a taser (she’d ‘forgotten’ to give back some of the supplies she’d borrowed from evidence lockers before the precinct gave her the boot).

  Before he came to, we’d recovered miscellaneous supplies from the dumpster, one thing had led to another, and that’s how we’d ended up with a man beside us with duct tape over his mouth, a dirty sock muting his mean words, and a rod poking him in a place I assumed was probably uncomfortable.

  Another car rumbled into the parking lot, loudly joining the others. I held my breath and peered through a creaky joint in the dumpster’s lid. Four additional spiffy cars whipped into the parking lot: flashy red, pristine white and two black vehicles. They were clearly new and very expensive.

  A group of caucasian men spilled out of the cars. Their voices wafted through the night air as they spoke in low tones.

  “They speakin’ English?” Meg asked.

  The man on the ground next to us grunted something through the tape, and Meg put a finger to his mouth, squishing his lips even more.

  “You don’t like this?” she asked, her eyes focused on his angry expression. “Then shut up. Next time it’ll be my foot in your face. Not nearly as pleasant, despite the fact that these heels are delicious enough to eat.”

  She turned to me. “I can’t understand shit.”

  “Shhh!” I couldn’t hear anything either, but it was partially because Meg was yammering in my ear.

  “I think they might be Russian.” I looked at my audience. “I don’t know for sure, but the blond hair blue eyes thing has got me wondering. I don’t think it’s Norwegian – no one has said Sven or Lena yet.”

  “Definitely not, then. Sven and Lena are the two most popular Norwegian names,” Meg said, as she bobbed her head in agreement.

  I turned back to my peephole.

  There was an influx of new people, these ones olive-skinned, dark haired, slightly shorter as a general rule, and relatively built in terms of muscular shoulders and tight, trim waists. They’d arrived in all black cars, which ran as silent as a library at midnight.

  “Hunk of burning love.” Meg pushed up against me, and I bounced against the wall. “I want to bite a piece of that ass.”

  “Get in line.” I tried to wiggle my way next to her.

  Meg elbowed me. I elbowed her back. She hip-checked me, and I bounced to the other side of the dumpster. The man with tape over his mouth rolled his eyes and shook his head disapprovingly.

  I tried to ignore him and maintain a sense of dignity, which was difficult after breaking out in a juvenile skirmish over a boy’s ass. Though, the ass in question was pretty nice.

  The owner of the ass had just stepped out of a snazzy, black Lamborghini. He was clearly the ‘lead’ Italian (one of Carlos’ men, I could only assume), and he moved like a panther, swift and sleek, his hair dark and wavy and utterly touchable-looking. He was the tallest of all the men, his shoulders broad and thick with muscles, his chest round and firm, tapering nicely into a trim waist. A waist that I was sure boasted a six pack at minimum – eighteen pack maximum, of beautiful, lickable abs. And despite his sheer mass, he moved with a grace I envied and a quiet confidence, that neither I nor Meg could ever emulate.

  I found a new peek hole, since Meg kept poking me away from hers, and watched as he strode up to a smaller Russian. If I were that little guy, I’d be pissing my pants, but he looked surprisingly calm and assertive. He said something in a snippy tone.

  “Oh, you sock him,” Meg said, as if cheering on a MMA match. “I wanna see blood, you sexy mofo.” She turned to look at me. “I bet you wouldn’t have even charged him extra for a lap dance.”

  I shook my head. “On the house.”

  “Yeah, except he’d probably turn it down. I heard from Cinnabuns that last time you gave a lap dance the dude walked away with a bloody nose.”

  “Yeah, yeah, shut up.”

  The beautiful Italian said nothing. He merely cocked his head sideways and crossed his arms. I caught a glimpse of a small tattoo at the side of his neck, though I couldn’t make out the words.

  My breath stopped in my throat as his eyes flicked towards the dumpster where we hid, and it felt like I’d swallowed a large jawbreaker. I spluttered a bit and Meg smacked me on the back.

  I lurched forward, feeling as if I’d been hit by a wrecking ball. “Did he see us?”

  “Nah,” Meg said. “He’s probably just being attentive. You know his type.”

  I knew his type only too well; Carlos’ guards were primo material. The best in the business. Hand-picked, hand-trained, more loyal than the Secret Service to the President. Smart, intelligent, and apparently sexy as hell.

  To my relief, he looked back to his Russian counterpart, and I had to wonder if he’d even glanced this way, or if it’d simply been my imagination.

  He said a few quiet words, which seemed to anger the Russian.

  The smaller man took a few steps back and conferred with his men. One of them brought out a small bag and tossed it over to the Italian guards flanking their leader’s side. A smaller Italian guard, one I recognized since he’d moved under the streetlamp – Federico – peered curiously at the bag.

  The main Italian Stud waited patiently before murmuring a few more words to the Russians.

  There was a standstill, a thick silence which spread through the chilly night air like the stench of a two week old bag of sports bras and tube socks.

  Suddenly, Federico flung the small bag as hard as he could.

  A flurry of staccato Italian pierced the night air.

  A gunshot blasted away my eardrums.

  I ducked.

  Chapter 3

  “SLAM THE LID!” I shouted to Meg. Because unfortunately, Federico had flung the package in our direction. And I was betting that it wasn’t a zip lock baggie stuffed with dinner mints.

  Thankfully, maybe due to her police training, or her bar owner intuitiveness, or just plain old shock, Meg listened.

  She shut the lid with a clatter and hit the floor. I tried not to scream, covering my mouth and biting my tongue, but it wouldn’t have mattered even if I’d succeeded. The explosion that followed rattled the dumpster as if we’d been in an earthquake capable of separating California from the mainland. A wave of heat laced the edges of the dumpster, framing the lid like an orange ribbon.

  The explosion rendered me deaf. Meg moved blindly, arms straight out like a busty Frankenstein, accidently stumbling over the taped man and tripping to the ground. The man had been trying to right himself, probably thinking he’d escape in the chaos, but he took a fall so hard when Meg ran into him that I thought he might be unconscious.

  I stood up, forced to sit back down almost immediately. My head spun; stars blinked and winked and giggled at me as they swirled through my vision, and I was hearing a constant bass drum buzzing inside my skull.

  I sat down, hoping that everyone else had scattered. I wanted to climb out of this dump,
go home, shower, and sleep for a year. I wanted to peel these filthy clothes from my limbs and throw them into the industrial laundry machines I’d spent so many hours guarding.

  The flames died down and I was just feeling the nerve to attempt standing up again when the edge of the lid was lifted from the outside. Three circles appeared at once: a pair of eyes and a gun’s nose.

  “Dammit!” I stood up, my knees wobbly. “Carlos didn’t say there’d be one gun here, let alone seven million bagillion!”

  I raised my hands as the attacker slid the rest of his face over the edge of the dumpster. “Please don’t shoot me. I’ve had a rough day, these jeans are relatively new, and now I have to throw them away. And I HATE jeans shopping. I HATE JEANS. I HATE PANTS!”

  Meg was staring at me wide-eyed. I looked down the barrel of the gun, but was suddenly not scared. My anger at being misled by Carlos was burning and bubbling to the surface. There was a headache pricking at my brain from the explosion, the garbage stench, and a smell I was convinced was emitting from taped man, who I swore had been farting for the past six hours straight.

  But when I turned back to face the gun, I saw that it was the gorgeous Italian leader.

  His face was stern, but I was pretty sure one of his cheeks had twitched in a way that wasn’t quite menacing. Almost as if he were amused.

  “I, uh, I think we’re on the same team,” I blurted, my hands still raised.

  “Yes.” He turned away.

  “Hey,” I called after him. Why? I had no idea. I didn’t know what I was going to say until the words flew straight out of my mouth, circumventing my brain and filter system on the way. “I don’t normally look like this.”

  He turned back, and despite his calm face, his milk chocolate eyes seemed to soften the slightest amount; they went from bitter espresso to café latte. “I know.”

  More Italian phrases burst from behind the cars. I couldn’t understand all of it, but the tone was frantic. The handsome Italian turned away.

  “What’s happening?” I yelled. The Russians and their cars were gone; they must’ve used the bomb as a distraction to get away.

  “Man down,” he murmured before sprinting away. I briefly wondered if he knew who I was, or if he thought I was a crazy cookie monster grouch lady living in the dumpster.

  The men gathered on the other side of the cars, and I could only see bits and pieces of the ensuing events: flashes of fabric and Mediterranean skin, dark hair in glimpses, gauze being wrapped around an appendage.

  They loaded a body into one of the black cars and it whizzed away.

  Meg was watching the whole exchange with her mouth open, sitting on the floor. It was as if the bomb had hit her ten minutes later than everyone else, and she was just now going into shock.

  “Come on, let’s get him out of here,” I said to Meg, nudging the disgruntled man we’d kidnapped. “The good guys are left. They’ll know what to do with him.”

  Meg nodded dumbly, but moved her body as if it weren’t attached to her brain and helped me lug the man’s limbs over the side of the dumpster.

  “Hold it, hold it,” I said.

  Meg had let go one second too soon, and I couldn’t support the man’s weight all by myself.

  “NO, STOP,” I whimpered, crumbling under his mass.

  The man toppled to the gravel pavement.

  I heaved my own body out from the dumpster and knelt over him. “Sorry, buddy.”

  His eyes remained closed, and I wasn’t sure if it was anger, pain, or pure unconsciousness. I hoped the latter, for his sake.

  When I glanced up, the Italian leader had rejoined us, his face one shade paler than it’d been moments before. Then again, I’d be white as a psych ward’s walls if I’d seen a shot man.

  “Can you take care of him?” I asked. “We don’t really know what to do with him. In fact, he’s been kind of a turd, so if you want to scare him a bit, that’s cool by us.”

  The leader pursed his lips, his presence behind me almost unbearable. His crisp, foresty scent – pine trees with a lemon twist was the right amount of fresh and manly, clean yet husky. I wanted to lean back into him and close my eyes, inhale his scent, and float away. And if his lips happened to fall on mine, then so be it.

  He leaned over me, his thick bicep grazing my boob. I was a little embarrassed to admit that my nipple maybe hardened on impact.

  I felt my mouth drop open as he ripped the tape off the man’s mouth and propped him up against the dumpster. He patted the hostage’s cheek lightly, and then gave him a little slap.

  I caught Meg’s eye, and she mimed wiping drool from her face. I could read her mind with amazing clarity: she wouldn’t mind being slapped by this man, preferably on the ass.

  “What are you doing?” I asked. “We captured him. You can’t just let him go free.”

  “Unless he’s gonna torture this little squirt. That I wanna see,” Meg chimed in, finally finding her voice.

  “Eh – Marco, tu come stai, tesoro?” The leader’s voice was deep and confident, smooth and sleek like his movements. I could listen to it all night long… in bed.

  I shook myself. Stop daydreaming about criminals!

  “Do you know him?” I asked. It was kind of an obvious question, since ‘tesoro’ was a form of endearment similar to baby, honey or sweet cheeks. Except I guessed this was used in sarcasm.

  “Do I know you, eh, Marco?” He stood up, staring down at the taped man. I couldn’t tell if his voice was full of hatred or mild interest.

  “How did you trap him?” Those chocolate brown eyes landed on me, and suddenly I couldn’t remember my own name.

  “He stared at my tits,” Meg burst in. “So I fried him with my zapper. Wanna see it? Brand new.”

  The Italian looked like he might vomit – I suddenly felt clammy and cold. Had I read this all wrong? Had I zapped the wrong man? What if the man in the tape was our friend, and this tall, sex-on-legs piece of man was the enemy?

  And then, to my great surprise and relief, the stoic leader let out a bark of laughter.

  “Marco, Marco,” he said, bending over and untying the hostage. “Hopefully he’s learned his lessons.”

  “I think so,” Meg said. “He won’t be staring at my boobs ever again.”

  The leader and I exchanged a quick glance, but neither of us commented.

  “He’s one of ours,” the Italian said.

  “Oooops.” I winced.

  “It’s okay. Nice work – most amateurs can’t capture one of Carlos’ men.”

  “What can I say? I guess boobs are good for something.” I blushed as soon as the words leapt off my tongue.

  The Italian looked as if he had a good retort, but refrained at the last minute. However, I didn’t miss his eyes darkening or the quick gaze he cast over my own average-sized chest. I shivered, and it had nothing to do with the chill in the night air.

  “Yeah, plus I was a cop.” Meg whipped out her gun, as if to show it off, but accidentally dropped it, firing a round into the basketball hoop that’d recently held our boy hostage. “Ooops,” she giggled, a sound I didn’t hear often. She bent over to pick it up. “Probably a good thing I’m retired.”

  Or fired, I wanted to correct.

  The man raised his eyebrows then yapped to a few of the other guards huddled over by the car. They leapt to attention and helped Marco over to the backseat, where he slowly came to his senses. The first few words I heard from across the room were jibberish. I kind of hoped he had a case of amnesia – I didn’t need Carlos to find out I’d taken down the wrong team.

  The leader of the pack pulled his gaze away from Meg and I, marching across the parking lot to the shiny black car.

  “Hey!” I called after him. “What’s your name?”

  And in the darkness of night, I couldn’t tell if he winked or blinked or neither, the movement happened so quickly.

  But the next thing I knew he’d slipped into the car, cruising away in the night air, departing
as silently as he’d arrived.

  “Damn,” Meg broke the tense silence. “That man is a mysterious mofo. If he weren’t so sneaky I’d get my hands all over him.”

  “You and me both,” I said. “You and me both.”

  “How we getting home?” Meg asked.

  “What do you mean? I drove here…” I trailed off as I noticed a few bullet holes in the tires of my crappy-little-Kia. “Oh, bummer.”

  “Clay?” Meg asked.

  I nodded, and went to my default solution for any problem.

  I called my tech-whiz cousin Clay, who doubled as my roommate. He could move money around the world faster than I could tie my shoes, and he could hack into secure websites with his hands tied to his ankles. This didn’t mean he knew anything about fixing cars, but I figured it should be a simple matter for him to get us a lift.

  Indeed, Clay came to our rescue. He called a repair man from car a shop around the corner – a business that specialized in tires, transmissions, and stolen cars – and we were in action. Except the wheels on my crappy-little-Kia were much too small, and Meg and I sat much lower than most of the traffic on the street. As we pulled out of the parking lot, I felt as if I’d finally gotten one of those motorized Barbie Jeeps I’d asked for as a child. Special Edition: Bullet-Riddled Tires.

  Honestly though, it wasn’t our fault trouble followed us everywhere.

  As we cruised across town to Meg’s bar, I used the time to brainstorm exactly what to tell my grandfather that’d convince him to let me keep my job. There was no way I was going back to the laundromat now. Not when I needed four tires replaced.

  Chapter 4

  I dropped Meg off at her bar, Drink – a divey, little place near Uptown. It was known for its generous pours, interesting clientele and dark corners perfect for quiet discussions.

  Meg snapped her gum and waved as she hauled ass inside, just in time for the late night happy hour rush.

  A pit lodged in my stomach. I had absolutely zero reasons to procrastinate anymore. I debated going into the bar and sloshing back vodka diets until I couldn’t possibly drive.