Malicious Mischief (A Rylie Keyes Mystery) (Entangled Select) (3 page)

My mind was already shrieking when I twisted for a glimpse. The fire had left my skirt a no-show over my ass, and the scarcity of my pink thong made it a shiny moonbeam.

Arrgh.

Zach climbed to his feet, shrugged off his jacket, and tied the sleeves around my waist.

“Could this morning get any worse?” I asked, sighing.

Bad thing, questioning fate. I heard a loud gasp. My lifting gaze tracked Solo’s raised and pointing finger as he drew near in hurried steps. A hairy forearm hung out of the van. By the age spots, I knew it was a senior, almost certainly male. A round scar, silver dollar size and ugly, marred the back of his hand. It was familiar, yet no other thoughts gelled together.

Zach rushed to the van. Solo froze, his finger still suspended. My head filled with a boatload of promises to God as Zach lifted the man’s limp wrist. I started praying big time, pondering and zeroing in on my worst habit. I mumbled bargaining words about not screwing up at work for a day, maybe two days if the G-man needed a bigger carrot. Please don’t let the guy be dead.

“Alive?” I didn’t blink, couldn’t.

Zach shook his head, pushed aside the trash bags, and leaned in. “He’s an old dude, small and bald. He has a mustache and white beard. And he’s very dead.”

My mind clicked. A Nazi bullet had caused the scar. “It’s Otto Weiner, isn’t it?”

“The Jewish guy from FoY?” Zach asked. “The one who wears the beanie?”

“Kippah,” I said, and drew his puzzled gaze. “It’s called a kippah.”

“He isn’t wearing one now, but it’s him. It looks like he suffocated. A plastic bag is taped over his head.”

I stared blindly at the ground. I heard a squeak like a chew toy and cut my gaze to Solo. His eyes were bright like doppelganger comets.

“I’ve heard baking soda helps with bee stings, or rubbing alcohol.” Not only could I not bring myself to believe Otto Weiner was dead in the van, but I was babbling like a stooge.

Solo wagged his finger. “Rylie, this is bad, really bad. What if they think you did it because of that fight?”

I sucked in air; it froze in my throat.

“That’s ridiculous,” Zach told him. “What fight? Rylie never fights.”

I inched my eyes his way. “I might have once.”

“With who?” Zach wanted to know.

My ears rang so loud they ached. “Otto Weiner.”

~Just when you think life’s a bitch, it has puppies~

Typical for the Pacific Northwest, the rain rushed away as quickly as it came. Zach was on his cell, notifying police dispatch and calling my boss. Dazed and numb over Otto’s death, I shuffled like a zombie to the driver’s side mirror to check out my bare behind. My skirt had flamed up like a small weenie roast, yet only a bit of red marred my skin. And my pink thong looked okay, too, but no such luck with my butt, little firmness there. It looked like a deflated beach ball. Time to hit the gym.

I readjusted Zach’s jacket around my waist, rummaged in the van for edibles to calm my nerves, and dug up some red licorice and a Thermos of coffee. I joined Solo a few yards away. His eyes shifted to mine, held. A muscle twitched under his right eye, but he never ceased to hold my gaze.

“What the hell just happened?” He tugged nervously on the tip of his ponytail. “My God, Otto was murdered. But why?”

We looked over at the van, at the arm still hanging out the back, and we knew that Otto Weiner was the only person the seniors at FoY collectively loathed. “Which senior do you think did it?” I asked.

He turned my way with colorless cheeks, crushed eyes. “You can’t really think one of them did it.”

“Hard to say,” I said, shrugging. “But someone killed him.”

We both fell quiet, brooding. As I looked around, I remembered the Thermos and licorice in my hands. At this moment, I’d have paid a hundred dollars for a beer, but sweets and caffeine would have to do. “Want some Twizzlers?” I asked Solo.

He frowned, then grabbed several sticks from the bag. After wolfing them down, he sighed and took another handful. Food is medicine. Medicine is food. More than ever at a murder scene.

“Did you know that if you eat too many Twizzlers you’ll poop candles?” he asked, his voice slow as though halfhearted.

My colon twitched over the bag of licorice I’d devoured last night. “Sorry about your brother’s Vespa.”

“It’s insured, but my cell phone was in the cubby.”

“Dang. I’m sorry.”

“No worries. It was acting kind of crazy, probably time for a new one.”

That was Solo, always looking on the bright side, if one could actually find a bright side when someone has been murdered. “This is all my fault,” I said. And then told him how the van had knocked down the beehive when it had shot through the trees. “I wish Zach hadn’t texted you. You’d be home in bed.”

He looked beyond me, back to the van. “We can’t control life, only how we deal with it.”

“I suppose.”

“FoY’s van is messed up,” he said.

I didn’t whimper, but wanted to. “Yeah.” Then a wave of nausea slid through me at the welts on his arms, all red and angry. “Do those stings hurt?”

He shrugged again. “A little.”

I cut my eyes to a piece of broken off beehive in the grass. I wondered if the hair-of-the-dog worked on bee stings. “Maybe honey will help the pain.” I dabbed some on his rain-wet welts. “Better?”

“Awesomely better, mawn,” he tossed back. “Did you know honey doesn’t go rancid?”

“True story?”

He nodded, getting some of his color back. “I read it earlier on a Snapple cap at 7-Eleven. Fire away, ski daddy, I studied hundreds of them nailed up on the wall behind the Slurpee machine. Try to stump me. Come on, give it a shot. What? I thought you drank Snapple.”

“I do. Diet peach is the bomb. I just don’t read the caps.”

“Crazy, mawn. Interesting facts, free for the taking. You know how I like to stay informed. It’s primal. What are the chances, huh, of lover-boy being the first cop to show up on the scene?” He nodded to Zach. “If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a hundred times: you two look good together, like steak and potatoes.”

Zach was definitely steak, lean and rare with his perfect blend of strength and vulnerability. “Don’t we, though?” I exhaled a long breath. “We’re still just friends, though.” I looked back and caught Solo’s weighty gaze. “What?”

“Coward,” he said. “Bad way to start the day, huh?”

“No joke. It’s like a wide-awake nightmare.”

“Thank God you didn’t kill Otto Weiner.” He relieved me of the bag of licorice. “I couldn’t take food from a murderer,” he said, chuckling, but it was a grim sort of chuckle and his cheeks were pale again.

“Want some coffee?” I gave the Thermos top a quick twist. “It’s still warm.”

“I’m good,” he said.

From across the field, Zach called out, “Head to the squad car. We need to stay clear of the scene, not destroy anything, or remove evidence.”

I stared at the Thermos. “Uh-oh.”

Solo stuffed the licorice inside his vest before he grabbed the Thermos from my hand. “Tell him it’s mine.”

Was he serious? “I can’t let you do that.”

“But you could get in trouble.”

“It isn’t like this coffee is evidence.”

“Not unless Otto was poisoned first, then suffocated. Are you sure you didn’t poison him?” he asked with a wink. “By how much he barked orders at FoY, it was only a matter of time until someone bumped him off. You know I’m getting all happy when I think of about it, a fun filled workday without grumpy ol’ Otto Weiner.”

“Wow, I know, right?”

“Um, Rylie, better not say that to the cops. Big mistake, saying things they can misconstrue. Just play it cool and hold a tight rein on anything they could take wrong.”

We fell silent, neither of us wanting to admit that my recent dispute with Otto, along with his body being found in the van, kind of made me a good suspect. Finally, Zach reached us.

“Let’s go,” he said. “It’s going to rain again. That isn’t from the van, is it?” He nodded to the Thermos. “You could get jail time for tampering with evidence.”

I froze.

Solo snorted. “Of course not. We’re not that stupid. I had the coffee with me.”

Zach eyed the Vespa ditched in the field, and turned back to Solo. “With you? Where?”

“In my vest.” He tugged it open to show the stowed licorice. “I could fit a whole meal in here. It’s my brother’s vest, actually.”

“Oh yeah, which one? Big, Bad, or Beastly?” Zach asked in reference to the three oldest Namulau’ulu brothers who play for the Seattle Seahawks.

Solo let out a half laugh. “No way could I wear their stuff. They’re way too small. No, this here is my little brother Atomic’s vest. He let me wear it on account of it matching my lava-lava.” He patted a hand to his sarong-like skirt. “I like to match.”

Confusion sparkled in Zach’s eyes. “Why haven’t I heard of this younger brother before? Don’t tell me he’s also in the NFL.”

“Guilty as charged,” Solo said. “He just got drafted. Went in the first round. He’s going to tough it out as a Packer, on account of how he hates snow.”

“And here you gave up all of that to someday be in the circus.”

“Roger, that.” Solo tucked away the Thermos.

“Wake up, man. It’s the NFL,” Zach said.

“And give up my circus dream? Are you kidding?”

“Sorry.” Zach shook his head. “Stupid of me.”

Wishing to end this ongoing disagreement between them, I touched Zach’s arm. “What did Leland say? Am I fired?”

“I left a voicemail and text message,” he said. “No reply yet.”

“That’s odd. Where could he be at this hour?”

We settled inside the squad car, me in the backseat, Zach and Solo up front. Outside: sloppy drizzle. Inside: Solo whistling, Zach drumming his fingers, me riled with nervous tension.

Falling into a brief account of last night, I steered clear of reasoning why someone would want to kill Otto Weiner. Fact was I found his murder sad—I did—but not shocking. As Solo had said, the man was super nasty.

“So the fundraiser was like all the others?” Zach asked. “No arguments?”

“None that I noticed. People checked out the donations and made their bids. We ate, then most everyone left. Only a small crowd stayed for the bonfire, mostly seniors.”

“And Otto was there?” Zach asked.

“No, he stayed back at FoY. It was the Sabbath.”

“Then you drove the seniors back to FoY? One trip or two?” Zach asked.

“One,” I said. “The van holds fifteen. Like I said, we had a small group.”

“And the trash bags, when were they loaded into the van?”

“Toward the end of the night, Leland did it. He asked me to dump them in the laboratory’s Dumpsters. I tossed in the last bag while he stood guard.”

“Guard over what?”

“Two seniors, Elsa Utterback and Gilad Kupper.”

“Gilad Kupper, as in Leland’s uncle, the retired Nazi hunter?”

“Not to mention a germaphobe,” Solo said. “You know, when I spot him in weight room, he sanitizes the bar afterward. Like I’m a leper, or something.”

“That’s Gilad, all right,” I said. “Elsa and he were arguing. Elsa threatened to walk home. Leland calmed her down. She falls sometimes, balance issues. Inner ear problem, I think.”

“Did you look inside the van before Leland loaded the trash?”

“No. Not that it matters. Otto wasn’t at the fundraiser.”

Zach appeared to reconsider. “So you left the van for how long at FoY?”

“I never left. The night staff helped the seniors inside. I waited behind the wheel. Then I drove to Suicide Trestle.”

Solo shot me an anxious look over his shoulder.

“Zach already knows,” I assured him. “I spilled the beans earlier.”

“How long you two going to keep that up?” Zach asked.

“We’re doing a good thing,” Solo told him, “And it’s a karma lift. You gotta rally behind anything that saves lives.”

“Save anyone yet?” Zach asked, with a hint of mirth in his voice. “Or even see a jumper?”

“Nope,” I said, sighing.

Zach grinned. “I know that sigh. You’re thinking of quitting. Good. I see a chocolate moment coming up.”

I swallowed hard. Trust Zach to realize I’d been struggling not to give up my Saturday night routine.

“So before you reached the trestle, you were rear-ended, right?” Zach asked.

“Uh-huh, but I was never more than a foot from the van. We exchanged information, made sure the back doors opened, then we left. I know what you’re thinking, but I stood at the bumper the entire time. I’d have noticed if the guy tossed in Otto’s body.”

Short pause. “You said the accident happened on Lake Hills. What part?”

Had he returned my call last night, he would have known. “Just before Richards,” I said.

“Scary place,” Solo said. “Like I told Rylie earlier, my friend ran his car into a culvert there. He almost died.”

Zach said nothing, his mouth tight. “What kind of deliveries?” he asked.

“Food, Dragon Fresh,” I said. “The guy’s truck broke down. He worked late to finish up.”

“Sounds to me like that was the first attempt on your life,” Solo said.

My eyes bugged. “That’s crazy talk.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” he said in a feebly agreeable voice.

“That’s everything, the entire night?” Zach asked.

I nodded.

“Hey,” Solo said. “I read that murder often comes down to love or money. Trace those things, you’ll find the killer.”

“Those are good places to start,” I said, brightening.

“Oh, hell no!” Zach said. “Leave this to Homicide. This is not Suicide Trestle, where jumpers rarely show. A man has been murdered.”

“Two jumped last year,” Solo reminded him.

Zach was not amused, his lips thin, eyes hard. “Listen to me. There is a murderer out there. Not only is it ridiculous, but insane to think you’ll do more than just make yourselves targets by asking questions.” He shot me a narrowed look, then moved to Solo and back to me again. “Let this go, both of you.”

We fell into silence for a second time, Zach once again drumming his fingers, Solo chomping on licorice, and me staring out the window. I wanted a licorice stick, too, but held back. The thought of a wax-plug clogging up my colon creeped me out.

The early morning traffic was light on the nearby freeway. The rain, now the usual Seattle spit, was hardly noticeable, yet drab and crushing. In the distance, Rosenberg Laboratory still looked dim and vacant.

“Holy crud, what’s that smell?” Solo rummaged around. “Never mind, it’s me.”

“Come on, man, light a match. Forget it, you’ve done that already. I need air.” Zach climbed from the squad car.

“It was only my shoe. It slipped off my foot,” Solo said nonplussed, but grinning.

That got a laugh out of me as I joined Zach outside. With our backs against the car, we waited. The last vestiges of streetlights were blinking off in the full morning light when several squad cars arrived, followed by a fire engine and an EMT wagon.

Fire Engine #16 bumped over the curb and drove into the field with its diesel engine rumbling. I had gone to middle school with the firefighter riding shotgun. Curtis Hobbs had been my first kiss. Tranquilizing warmth had flowed over me the moment our lips touched, while he’d asked me to open up my mouth more.
Everyone is a critic
.

“Showtime,” Zach said and headed to meet the gathering officers.

I climbed back inside the squad car, surrendering to a fistful of licorice as the crime scene took shape. The ME’s wagon finally arrived, bringing with it a big-ass tow-truck. I had expected to see Granddad’s old partner Detective Alistair Barclay inspecting the scene. What I saw was Officer Karl Lipschitz playing detective in street clothes, a badge clipped to his belt, a notebook in hand.

At twenty-seven, Lipschitz wore his whitish hair like an overturned salad bowl and was a sick piece of work, vengefully speaking. After I’d repeatedly turned him down for a date in high school, he’d dogged my every move until his graduation that same year. To date, things have not improved between us.

A young, unfamiliar detective probed the scene alongside Lipschitz. The guy was definitely a newbie to the Bellevue Police Force. I would have never forgotten a face like that. I tried not to look at his strong jaw, not stare at his amazing dark hair, or his sexy shoulders. I knew guys like him, stayed clear of guys like him. Players. The road to find a decent man, one destined never to ditch me—something my mother never found in my love ’em and leave ’em dad—was not paved with players.

Both detectives headed our way after ducking under the yellow police tape. As they drew near, Lipschitz beamed me one of his famous leers.