KNOCK ME OFF MY FEET

  "Oh, come on, Audie. Don't be such a cold bitch. Get a sense of humor."

  She spun around and stared at him. He looked like a king on his slip-covered throne, his thinning hair a crown, his gin and tonic his scepter.

  Maybe he was nasty enough to be sending those letters, after all.

  "Do you need money, Drew?" Her voice was soft and polite.

  "What?" His entire body stiffened.

  "I asked you if you need money. Did what's-her-name wipe you out? Are you having cash-flow problems? Is there something you need to ask me?"

  Audie watched the superiority drain from her brother's expression. She observed how his entire body tensed. "You cannot possibly be suggesting that I wrote those letters," he hissed.

  She tried to feel nothing, but the anger, sadness, and, yes, fear were boiling to the surface, and she felt herself tremble.

  "I think you'd better leave," he said.

  She turned into the foyer and headed for the door. Her shaking hand reached for the brass latch.

  She heard Drew's voice echo through the huge rooms. "Make it Sunday instead, would you? I'm sailing down to the yacht club for a party Friday and may not get back until late the next day!"

  Audie slammed the door behind her, got into her car, and turned south onto Sheridan Road

  . She watched her childhood home disappear behind her in the rearview mirror, right above the words "objects are larger than they appear."

  And brothers weirder.

  "Oh, hell."

  She'd forgotten the brownies.

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  « ^ »

  Stanny-O was obviously thrilled that Audie let him behind the wheel of the Porsche that night. Though his knees were nearly in his nostrils, it didn't seem to detract from the driving experience.

  "What year is this beauty?" he asked, pulling into the southbound lanes of Lake Shore Drive

  .

  "A '96." Audie unwrapped her shin guards and fluffed out her hair. "Helen had the dealer custom-paint it this lovely champagne pink. It's your color, Stan."

  "Baby, don't I know it," he said, shifting up and taking the curve a bit too fast.

  "Hey, careful. There's always a cop waiting for speeders up here to the right."

  He shot her a toothy grin framed in goatee and kicked up the speed.

  "You're bad, Detective," she said, laughing. They drove for a few moments in friendly silence. During the past week, Audie had come to enjoy Stanny-O's shy, earthy personality. They frequently argued about Cubs statistics and Chicago politics and listened to loud rock and roll on the car radio. They went out to Baccino's for deep-dish pizza one night. And another night they went to a movie, and tonight he escorted her to her game. She felt safe with him.

  "Hey, listen, Audie. I'm supposed to tell you that I'll be hanging out with you for the next couple of days at least. Quinn's still got a bunch of other stuff he needs to do."

  She narrowed her eyes at him. "What do you mean you're supposed to tell me? Did Quinn ask you to say that? He's hiding from me, isn't he?"

  "No! No! That's not what I meant. Ah, shit." Stanny-O looked over at her a bit nervously. "Look. He's busy with work, that's all. Our commander told us to make your case a priority, but we had to clear up a whole bunch of other cases, that's all. Quinn told me to explain that to you and tell you he'd see you soon."

  "That's it?"

  "That's it."

  Audie stuck her hand out into the summer night wind and inhaled the lake air. "Does Quinn hit on women a lot?"

  Stanny-O's head spun around. "What? God, no. Not at all." He grinned again. "He don't have to."

  Audie laughed. "No, I imagine he doesn't," she said softly. "Has he had a lot of girlfriends?"

  Stanny-O adjusted himself in the leather seat. "That's the kind of thing you'll need to ask him about, OK? It's not my place."

  "Fair enough."

  "But not many. He's picky. The last one lasted about three years. I always assumed they'd get married, but she broke it off with him."

  "Really?" Audie tried to hide her smile.

  "She ran off to Miami with another guy."

  "Oh."

  They were quiet for a moment, and Audie leaned back against the headrest to watch the endless geometric blocks of light pass by, buildings clustered along the lakefront shoulder to shoulder in the night sky. "He's a good man, isn't he?"

  "Quinn? Yes, he's a good man." Stanny-O looked a bit surprised by her question. "And a good cop. Why did you ask that?"

  Audie shrugged. "I'm just trying to figure him out, I guess. Is he always so quiet? He just doesn't seem to talk very much when we're together."

  Stanny-O chuckled under his breath. "He's mostly quiet, but that's because his brain is working overtime and he's listening real careful and keeping his eyes sharp.

  "But I've seen him hammered and he can let it rip then, let me tell you. He gets all sappy and tells stories that don't have no endings as far as I can tell, and he sings those gut-wrenching Irish songs that make my skin crawl.

  "And you definitely don't want to let him near his pipes when he's like that. God! The sound of those things makes me want to shoot myself in the head even when he's sober. But when he's hammered he can't play worth shit and it sounds like somebody's being tortured."

  Audie stared at Stanny-O in confusion and disbelief, laughing. She'd just been handed a huge amount of information that didn't jibe with what she knew of Quinn. And what the hell are pipes?

  "What the hell are pipes?" she asked.

  "Bagpipes." He turned toward her. "You don't know about his pipes?"

  She laughed again. "Guess not. You going to fill me in?"

  Stanny-O smoothed down his mustache and looked up at the streetlights along Lake Shore Drive

  . "He plays with the Chicago Garda Pipe and Drum Band," he said. "His dad does, too—it's the official Chicago Police Department pipe band. They do police and fire funerals, parades, weddings, festivals, stuff like that. I think their shows sound like a whole herd of cows being slaughtered myself, but some people seem to like them."

  "Bagpipes?" Audie shook her head. "Like with a kilt and everything?"

  "Oh, yeah. Whenever I give him hell about that, he tells me only real men have the balls to wear a skirt." He winced at his choice of words. "Sorry."

  Audie laughed loudly. "Well, what do you know?" She took a few moments to try to imagine the masculine Stacey Quinn in a kilt. She just couldn't do it.

  "So what's Garda mean?"

  "Quinn told me it's the name for the police in Ireland or something."

  "Oh."

  They drove for several minutes in quiet. "Hey, Stanny-O?"

  "Mmm?"

  "What about the women that Quinn meets in his work? I mean like me—one of his cases. Does he … hook up with, you know, get involved … with women he meets by being a cop?"

  Stanny-O was slowing down to take the exit to Audie's apartment building, looming huge and bright against the dark lake.

  "No. Not that I've ever seen, except maybe you," he said, giving her a shy glance. "You're pretty much the first one I've seen him interested in."

  "He gave me a really nice present the other day. Did you know about that?"

  Stanny-O smiled broadly. "Yeah. They were his mother's."

  "What?" Audie nearly jumped out of her seat. She stared at him. "Are you sure?"

  "Yeah, I'm sure."

  "Oh, crap," Audie whispered, letting her head fall back against the seat. This was too bizarre, and she didn't know whether to be appalled or flattered—and wasn't that just perfect? Wasn't that the perfect gift from Stacey Quinn, the most exasperating man she'd ever met?

  "Has he said anything to you about me?"

  "He don't have to." Stanny-O pulled into her parking garage. "It's obvious what he thinks of you."

  Audie turned to him in the bright fluorescent light of the underground ramp and huffed with impatience. "And what is that, if I may ask?
"

  The detective sliced into Audie's assigned parking spot and cut the Porsche's engine. He grinned at her, his small blue eyes glittering. "That's another thing you'll need to ask him yourself."

  * * *

  Quinn opened the door to Keenan's Pub and immediately sensed the soul of the place: the incense of cigarette smoke and spilled ale, the celestial choir of laughter and jukebox reels, the reverence for something transcendent, larger than life.

  "Over here, Stace!"

  Quinn's eyes adjusted to the dim light and dark paneling to find the smiling face of his youngest brother, Michael, and then, as the other head turned, the grin of his middle brother, Patrick.

  "Good evening, Stacey." The bartender had already drawn his pint of Guinness and placed it on the bar to sit. Quinn knew he'd repeat the process three times before he'd achieved the perfect balance of foam and liquid.

  "Matt! Good to see you. How have you been?"

  "Grand. Just grand."

  And Matt did look grand, Quinn thought to himself—the same little spark plug of a bartender he'd known nearly all his life. He gazed around him—the whole place looked wonderful. Most of the usual Friday night flock was already assembled, and as he moved toward the booth he waved at a few of the patrons, slapped the backs of a few more, and shook hands with the rest.

  Quinn reached into the booth and briefly tugged at Pat's shoulders before he joined Michael.

  "Is Da coming?" Pat asked.

  "What? The two of us aren't good enough for you?" Michael edged over in the booth as Quinn pushed harshly against him as a greeting.

  "Move your wide ass," Quinn said.

  Then he winked across the table at Pat and settled in with a sigh of pleasure. "Da stayed a little late at practice tonight," Quinn said. "He'll be here eventually."

  "So is the band ready for CityPest?" Pat asked. "I hope to God you've got some new sets, because we're getting tired of the same old crap every year. Have pity on your fans, Stacey."

  Quinn smiled at Pat, realizing it had been six years since his ordination, but it was still sometimes jarring to see his smart-aleck brother in a priest's collar.

  "Sure, Pat. We thought we'd do some gangsta rap this year. Maybe a few calypso tunes."

  Pat and Michael snickered for a moment before they launched into their favorite pastime—arguing with each other. Quinn sat back and expected to be entertained.

  As he observed, he remembered how there'd been more than a few broken hearts in the neighborhood the day Patrick went into the seminary. It was as if God decided only one child would get the very best from the union of Patricia Stacey and James Quinn—and it had been Patrick.

  He had Da's eyes—like Quinn himself—but Pat's were softer, kinder, and shaded in lashes that in a fair world would have gone to a girl. Pat's shock of light brown hair was thick and heavy, but it balanced out the elegant bone structure of his face. He had Da's ability to draw you into a tall tale like a lamb to slaughter. He had his mother's soft heart and curious mind but none of her idiosyncrasies.

  Those had all gone to Quinn along with her family name, as he'd heard often enough.

  Quinn looked over at his baby brother Michael, now vehemently pressing his case about something or other, and smiled. Michael had gotten Patricia Stacey's quick tongue and quicker temper, as well as her pale blue eyes. Yet all those traits dwelled in a carbon copy of Da's big, open face and husky body and were served up with a depraved sense of humor.

  Lucky for all of Chicago, Michael had found his niche as a Cook County assistant state's attorney, where his fine brain and wicked lip helped keep the streets clean.

  As Quinn half-listened to his brothers, he thought about where he fit in. He was the oldest, the quiet one, as he'd heard all his life. He was the one with his father's stubbornness, fierce sense of loyalty, and love of music—all wrapped up in his mother's need for order.

  How many times had Quinn heard it? "If one of those boys were to be a priest, my money would have been on Stacey!" He never quite knew if that was intended as a compliment.

  The Quinn boys were now men, ranging in age from thirty-three to twenty-nine, and as Da always told his pals: "My lads can bust 'em, prosecute 'em, and forgive 'em all in a day's work."

  Michael and Pat's argument had deteriorated into a dispute over the name of a short-lived family dog from the late seventies. These two could argue about the color of the sky, Quinn knew.

  "The damn dog's name was Caesar," Michael said, looking shocked. "I can't believe you don't remember that."

  "Caesar?" Pat laughed. "Do you really think our father would have allowed an animal with that fruity name into our house? The dog's name was Jake."

  "What are you, nuts?" Michael said, laughing. "If we ever owned a dog named Jake, then my dick is the size of the Space Shuttle…"

  Quinn shook his head and wondered again what it would be like if John had lived, if he could sit here in the booth in the empty space across from him, where he belonged. As he did every day, Quinn wondered what it would be like if he hadn't let his baby brother die, and said a small prayer for everyone concerned.

  Quinn was jolted out of his melancholy by Matt Lawler's delivery of his beer. "Perfect, Matt. Thanks."

  He felt the dark, rich stout slide down mellow and smoky at the back of his throat and sighed. A pint was always best at Keenan's, in the company of his brothers and in the memory of John.

  "So, how's lifestyles of the rich and fatuous, Stacey?" Pat smiled at him.

  "Oh, it's rough," Quinn answered.

  "Tell Pat about the household hints chick. He's gonna love it." Michael's eyes flashed above his full cheeks. "He's working on a stalking case with Homey Helen. Can you believe it? Is that perfect or what?"

  "Really?" Patrick took a reverent sip of his own pint and eyed his older brother. "The new one or the dead one?"

  "The dead one would be easier to handle." Quinn raised an eyebrow as his brothers laughed.

  "The dead always are," Pat said broodingly. "It's the living that piss me off to no end."

  "Bad day in the confessional, Father Pat?" Quinn asked.

  "The usual." He waved his hand and sighed. "So somebody's stalking Homey Helen? What the hell for, to get their hands on her secret recipe for window cleaner?"

  "Haven't quite figured that out yet," Quinn said. "Could take a while."

  "I've seen her on TV," Michael offered. "She's a complete babe. Now tell Pat who she used to date."

  Quinn leaned across the booth and whispered, "Timmy Burke."

  Pat nearly spit out his beer. "Jaysus! No way!"

  Quinn nodded. "A little over a year ago. Just after he oozed his way into City Hall."

  "My God, is the poor woman daft or just a rotten judge of character?" Pat asked.

  Quinn shrugged. "I think Timmy pulled his usual on her. She didn't hang around long. She's too good for him."

  "My shit-stained drawers are too good for Timmy Burke," Michael quipped.

  "Yeah, well I had to go talk to the man this morning."

  Both Pat and Michael went silent.

  "He's a possible suspect, like all her old boyfriends," Quinn continued. "Would you believe that bastard made me wait outside his office for twenty minutes?"

  Pat cleared his throat. "How long had it been since you talked to him, Stace?"

  "I don't know. Mom's funeral, I guess, so a couple years."

  Pat nodded silently, feeling Michael kick him under the table. "What?" he whispered, scowling at Michael. "Stop it, you eejit."

  Quinn shook his head at his brothers. "We were quite civil to each other, as far as Timmy and I go. No bloody noses or anything. He just threatened to fire me." He smiled. "Of course, I'd like nothing more than to arrest the dickhead, but Audie seems to think he's got nothing to do with the threats."

  "Who's Audie?" Michael asked, confused.

  "Oh. Homey Helen. Her real name is Autumn Adams—people call her Audie."

  Pat set down his beer and
smiled at Quinn, relieved to direct the conversation anywhere other than Timmy Burke. He wanted to enjoy himself tonight.

  "So did you tell this Audie person how important she was to Mom? How she made our lives an anal-retentive hell?"

  Quinn laughed at Pat. "That was her mother, really, but I may have mentioned it. I kind of had to. She saw Mom's box."

  Michael jerked back as if Quinn had slapped him. "The box at your place?"

  "Shit…" he hissed to himself, rubbing a hand over his face. Quinn was toast now and he knew it.

  "Need I remind you you're under oath, Stacey?" Michael draped a big arm around his brother's shoulders and grinned. "You had the squeaky-clean babe in your house and I bet you weren't reorganizing the linen closet."

  "So he likes her, so what?" Pat said, frowning at Michael. "It's not a big deal. Leave him be."

  "The hell it's not a big deal!" Michael's eyes went wide. "I think it's the first time he's brought a woman to his house since Laura took off. Am I right?"

  Pat's eyebrows shot up. "Really? Is that true, Stace?"

  He wasn't responding to his brother's taunts in his usual brusque fashion, and Pat wondered if Stacey still hurt over Laura—it had been more than a year since she'd had a fling with Timmy Burke and then left with the radio disc jockey. And good riddance to her, Pat thought. She wasn't right for Stacey, not that anyone in the family ever dared say so to his face.

  Pat studied his older brother carefully, almost hearing the gears inside his brain as they clicked into place.

  "Uh-oh," Pat whispered, turning to Michael, suddenly making the connection.

  "Hel-lo," Michael said in singsong.

  "Shut up, both of you," Quinn said, looking down into his pint glass. "I like her."

  Michael's lips flapped together in a sudden burst of laughter and Pat joined in. "Well, of course you'd like her, Stacey!" Michael said. "She's your fantasy woman!"

  "Martha Stewart…" Pat began.

  "And Carmen Electra," Michael finished for him.

  "So we were wrong—she does exist," Pat whispered respectfully, before he and Michael began laughing again. "No, really, I think that's great, Stace," Pat said. "So how much do you like her?"

  Good question, Quinn thought to himself. What did it mean when a woman you'd just met monopolized your thoughts? What did it mean when you stayed away from her because you didn't trust yourself in her presence? What did it mean when you wanted her to have your grandmother's handkerchiefs and saw her face every time you closed your eyes?