Trust Me, I'm Trouble (5 page)

Thirty-three-year-old Alessandra Moretti reported missing. Last seen at Deer Run Café on Mercator Dr. Reward for information leading to her recovery. Call 555-…

I pull back in confusion, then scroll to the top of the page and down to the article again.

“This can’t be right,” I say. “It’s a missing person report. It says she disappeared three years ago.”

“I told you it wasn’t a good lead.”

“I don’t understand.” It’s definitely her. Dark brown hair, blue eyes, the same smile I used to see in the mirror before everything went haywire last year. I may not have seen my mom in eight years, but I’d still recognize her in a picture. “Why wouldn’t I have heard about it? Who would have reported her missing if not me and my dad?”

“I don’t know,” Murphy says. “It’s a local article from some nothing town in Alabama. A missing person is hardly national news. Still, it seems like they would have notified next of kin if they knew her name.”

I pull out my phone and dial the number listed in the article, but all I get is a “This number is no longer in service” message.

Then my stomach drops. “Wait. Did it say February of 2012?” I scan the newspaper header for confirmation.

“I think so. Why?”

My knees shudder, and I sink into my chair. “I would have been thirteen. And that’s about the time of year my dad took off and was gone for two weeks with no explanation.”

Murphy goes quiet, digesting this. “Do you think he knows about it?”

“I—I never asked him where he went or why. I just assumed it had to do with a job that had gone wrong. I thought he left to protect me. But now…It can’t be a coincidence.”

Murphy shoots me a sympathetic look as he resumes control of the laptop. “Speaking of coincidences…,” he says, pulling up a web page he bookmarked.

WELCOME TO THE ALL-NEW BAR63.

“What is this?” I ask, the sixty-three pinging around in my head like an eight ball.

“Maybe nothing,” he says. “But it might be worth checking out.”

Located in the vibrant Rogers Park area, just steps away from the campus of Loyola University, the new Bar63 offers something for everyone…opened its doors in March. Talented bartender Victoria Febbi…live music every Thursday night…designed for sports enthusiasts, with more than twenty giant flat-screens…

“What is it?” Lily asks, no doubt tired of our cryptic discussion.

“It’s a bar that just opened a couple of months ago called Bar63.”

“Why is that significant?”

“My father has this saying: ‘You, me, and sixty-three.’ He used it as a clue last year when everything went down with the mob. I always thought the sixty-three was meaningless, something he just made up because it rhymed and it was catchy. But now there’s this bar.” I look up at Murphy. “I don’t know, Murph. This one really could be just a coincidence.”

“I thought so, too, when I first read the article. But something about it kept nagging me. So I dug around a bit, and I found something else pretty coincidental.”

He uses the keyboard shortcut to bring up the next browser window. The Wikipedia page for Victoria Febbi appears. Except it’s not Victoria, it’s Vittoria. And it’s not a page about a bartender. It’s a page about the actress who voiced the Blue Fairy in an Italian production of
Pinocchio.

“We already know from the inscription on the gun that the blue fairy somehow relates to your mom,” Murphy says, his bespectacled gaze intense. “What if the sixty-three relates to her, too?”

I stare at the screen without really seeing it. Is that what my dad meant? Every time he said
You, me, and sixty-three,
did he mean my mom? All these years, I thought it was just me and him against the world; I thought my mom had left us without a backward glance. But maybe that’s not what happened at all. Maybe my dad was trying to tell me something.

“Well…” I shut Murphy’s laptop. “There’s only one way to find out.”

F
orty minutes and a fake Loyola student ID later, Murphy slows the van to a stop on the street just outside Bar63.

“Are you sure you want to see what’s behind that door?”

It looks like a harmless enough door. Dark wood siding, lanterns above it. People bustle by, some of them bona fide Loyola students, and their reflections in the bar’s front window follow them from pane to pane.

“I think I can handle it,” I say, giving Murphy a halfhearted smile and slipping out of the van.

I thread my way through the passersby and pull open the heavy oak door, the darkness inside greeting me like a shill roping a mark. It’s packed for a Tuesday night. All the seats at the bar are filled, and I can make out only the bartender’s back in the dim light as she hustles to make drinks for the sports-cheering patrons.

Taking advantage of the crowd, I loop around the perimeter, scanning the walls for clues. But if there are any among the vintage team shots and event posters, they’re too well hidden for me to find. The room is long and narrow, with a row of two-seater tables along the right wall. It connects in the back to a series of adjoining rooms, some filled with high tables, others with sofas. One of the rooms contains a closed door marked
OFFICE
.

The crowd explodes into a simultaneous cheer that makes me jump. I look over at the screens they’re riveted to and see a brown diamond surrounded by a green field. I lean against the rough granite wall across from the bar, which is still too crowded for comfort. I want to actually talk to the bartender, not just order a drink and have her flit off again. I can afford to wait, though. It’s the bottom of the ninth, and the Cubs aren’t doing very well.

Since I’m waiting anyway, I pull out my phone and open Contacts. As I scroll up to Mrs. Antolini’s number, I happen to pass Sam’s number. And as I often do when I see it, I hesitate with my thumb over the Call button. I’ve talked to him only once since he left for military school—only one time since that night. I tried to call him on his birthday. I tried to call him on my birthday. But he won’t answer my calls. So I gave up trying. And soon maybe I’ll stop hesitating every time I see his name in my contacts.

Of its own volition, my thumb moves to the Delete Contact button. I might as well save myself. I could do it with a simple press of my finger. But then I hear Sam’s voice in my head, telling me why he’d decided to accept his dad’s military-school ultimatum. That he didn’t know who he was without me. That he needed to find that out before he had anything to offer me. I don’t pretend to know what the hell that means, much less how the hell I feel about it. But regardless, he’s still the best hacker I’ve ever met, still my partner…always my best friend. Whether or not either of us still believes it, it’s the truth.

My thumb moves again, past Sam’s number and up the alphabet to Mrs. Antolini. I tap the number, and then clear my throat as I press my phone hard to one ear to block out the sound. I move to a quieter corner of the room and put my palm over my other ear. I should probably wait until I’m outside to do this, but I don’t want to lead her on. If I’m changing my mind about the job, she deserves to know as soon as possible.

After three rings, her voice mail picks up.

“Hi, Mrs. Antolini. This is Julep Dupree. I’m sorry, but I’ve reconsidered taking your case. Based on my preliminary research, I don’t think it’s a good fit for my team. I have a list of private investigators who might be able to help you. I can email it to you in the morning. Thanks for your understanding.”

As I press the End button, I get a text message from Mike.

Twenty-minute warning.

Halfway across the country, and he’s still tracking my curfew.

Angela’s making me cookies as we speak.

That’s proof? She always makes cookies on Tues. How about I call her?

Chuckling, I reply,

You got me. I’m on my way back now.

Better be.

Just then, the crowd heaves a collective sigh of disappointment and breaks into smaller groups of twos and threes. Most groups head for the door, while some stay to finish their drinks. A stool opens up at the south end of the bar. I pocket my phone and make my way over to it.

After sliding onto the stool, I signal to the bartender that I’m ready to place my order. She’s probably in her late thirties or so, and looks like a cross between a biker and a hippie—dark jeans, a form-fitting tie-dyed tank revealing a barbed-wire tattoo, and bleached dreads piled messily on her head. Her brown eyes linger on me a beat too long before she goes back to smearing the guts of a lime wedge on the rim of the glass she’s holding. If she’s the famed Victoria Febbi, then we can pretty much chalk this one up to coincidence. She’s about as far from my überfeminine, fashion-forward mom as it is possible to get.

“What’ll you have?” she says, wiping her hands on a towel as she comes over to me.

“Club soda,” I say. “With a twist.”

She snorts. “Can I see some ID?”

“For a club soda?”

“For being in the bar at all. No minors.”

“I didn’t see a bouncer,” I say, producing my fake Loyola ID.

She glances at it and hands it back. “I need a license.”

Wow, not even a smile. Such customer service. I take out my fake driver’s license and hand it to her.

She pulls a black-light flashlight from under the counter and checks the hologram. Good thing I know what I’m doing in the fake-ID department—just ask the hundred or so St. Aggie’s students I made IDs for last year to cover rent while my dad moonlighted as the mob’s pet bullet-cushion. On second thought, don’t ask them. They’d probably give me a lousy reference, since I threw them all under the honor-code-violation bus to save the Ukrainian girls from both Petrov and deportation. And speaking of getting kicked out of places…

“Is it the Catholic schoolgirl getup?” I say to the bartender, heaping on the charm as she pores over every molecule of the license. “I’m in a play. Dress rehearsals all this week. I just came in to catch the end of the Cubs game.”

She studies my face, and then hands back the license. “Club soda?”

“With a twist.”

She stows the flashlight, grabs a glass, and fills it using a soda gun. She’s watching me with an expression that’s half suspicious, half befuddled, and there’s a certain tension in her shoulders that, in my experience, usually indicates fear. Which makes no sense. Even if I were busted as a minor in her bar, I’d be the one with a black mark on my rap sheet. She carded me. She did her job. So why the fear?

The bartender plunks the glass down on the bar in front of me, sans twist, and starts her retreat. I have to act now if I’m going to figure anything out.

“I read about this bar online. Are you Victoria Feb—Fab—Fib— Help me out here.”

“Yes,” she says, eyeing the other patrons, but she doesn’t elaborate. My heart sinks an inch or two as her admission confirms my guess that my errand here has been for nothing. As much as I don’t believe in coincidences, this bar really must be one. There’s nothing here but a bevy of masochistic sports fans, a surly staff, and an unusual couple of names. Nevertheless, I’ll give it one more shot.

“You know, you remind me of someone,” I lie, sipping my soda. “Her name’s Moretti. Any relation?”

The bartender doesn’t so much as bat an eyelash at the name. “Nope. I have a niece Sylvia in Spokane, though.”

I slump over my drink, depressed. Looks like I may have to take that NWI job after all. I need to find my mom. Especially now that I know she’s officially missing. I pull out a five and leave it on the bar. I didn’t really want the soda anyway.

I slide off the stool and head for the door. Just as I reach for the handle, my phone buzzes with a text notification. I glance back at the bartender, but someone else has taken my stool already, so all I see are her bleached dreads. My phone buzzes again. I pull it out of my pocket, and when I read the two messages from Dani, all thoughts of biker-hippie bartenders fly out of my head.

Where are you?

You are in danger.

I don’t bother texting back as I swing the door open and step out onto the sidewalk. Dani picks up on the first ring.

“Where are you?” she says.

“I’m on North Broadway, near Loyola,” I say, scanning the street for Dani’s rental car. It’s not in sight, though, which doesn’t do much to improve my anxiety. “What do you mean I’m in danger?”

“I just heard from one of my contacts. He is not reliable, but if he is telling the truth about this—”

“Back up. Telling the truth about what?”

“There’s a contract out on you.”

A contract. Perfect. “That means the Chevelle was about me, wasn’t it? Dang it. I hate it when Murphy’s right.”

“This is not a time for jokes,” she says, her accent getting thicker.

“It’s not a joke. Murphy is unbearable when he’s right. Thank god Mike’s out of town, or I’d be on a one-way flight to Albuquerque before I could say—”