Malicious Mischief (A Rylie Keyes Mystery) (Entangled Select) (4 page)

“Here it comes,” I said.

“Be optimistic,” Solo replied.

I rolled down my window. Lipschitz leaned in close. The unfamiliar detective stood several feet away, watching us.

“Hey, Sweet Cheeks,” Lipschitz said against my hair. “This is going to be fun.”

Sheesh, if he got a hairball, I wouldn’t gripe. Probably it’s mean to enjoy the image of him hacking and gagging on hair like a pack-a-day smoker, but given that it was Lipschitz, I made an exception. “When did you become a detective?”

He made slurpy noises in my ear. “That’s the sound of me getting promoted. It was nice to go before an all female review board. There is always time for a Lipschitz break.”

Yuck.

Solo’s eyes rounded. “I’m losing my optimism.”

“I’m losing my licorice,” I said.

“I guess you want our statements,” Solo said.

Lipschitz ignored him and gave my barely visible cleavage a cheesy brow lift. “You must be wearing the all new Miracle Bra. Anything else you’re faking? Hey, Talon,” he tossed over his shoulder to the player. “She’s hiding something. We’ll interrogate her at the station.”

“You mean interview her,” Zach said on his approach. “What’s wrong with you, Lipschitz? Rylie isn’t a suspect.”

Lipschitz worked up a wintery smile. “So, Zach, how’s it been on the information and complaint desk? Mollycoddle any bad guys lately?”

When Zach tugged at his shirt collar, a heavy crucifix that once belonged to his late father popped out. “Stalk any women lately?” he asked Lipschitz.

“Ah, that’s right,” Lipschitz said, staring at the cross. “You Catholic boys swing a different way. Boys will be toys, huh?”

Zach’s eyes darkened.

“I never stalked Rylie,” Lipschitz went on. “Though I bet she likes to think I did.” Lipschitz shot me a sour smile. “See you at the station, Sweet Cheeks. And you, Island Boy. We’ll need your statement, too.” He turned and left.

Solo dribbled a little licorice spittle on his vest.

Lipschitz’s partner started to follow, but paused. Our eyes caught, held long enough to suffer both pleasure and guilt. I considered his name: Talon. Not too friendly, yet he wore a classy gray woolen jacket with darker suede elbow patches, black pants, and a white shirt. Comfortable country chic. In contrast, his eyes were the sharp-edged blue of glacial ice.

“Careful.” Zach lifted my chin with a finger. “You’ll catch flies.”

Seagulls squawked in the awkward silence. Zach was brooding over something. What, I couldn’t tell, but—shamefully—I hoped it was jealousy.
Purgatory, here I come.

“Who is he?” I asked with forced blasé.

“He’s part of the Sister City Exchange Program. Name is Thad Talon. He’s Scottish.” He stared at me. “And he’s not your type.”

I laughed. “How come?”

But he didn’t reply, only peered over the top of the car at someone calling his name. The tow-truck was making a grinding noise and the driver was waving for Zach to help. “Give me a minute. I’ll take you home first to change clothes, then to the station.” He settled his hand at the base of my neck, left it there. “Wait for me.”

“Forever,” I said absently.

Again, he said nothing, only captured me with those gentle eyes of his. Then he walked into the field as the ME wagon drove past with Otto’s body in the back.

A minute later, Solo asked, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“That this field is a great place for a Porta-Potty.”

He cracked up; he had a great laugh, just like Santa Claus. “Seriously, that Lipschitz has disco Twinkies on his mind.”

I rested my arms on the seatback. “I may be nodding, but I don’t understand.”

“Hooking up with sister. Booty with Rylie. Aren’t you worried?”

“He’s a sleaze bag for sure, but I’m having trouble working up a real panic about him.” I dropped my head to my arms, then raised it again. “There are no witnesses to the truck running me off the road. No way to prove I didn’t fall asleep at the wheel. Leland is going to fire me. The tax assessor will auction off our house. Granddad will have another heart attack. Solo, I cannot lose him. I just can’t—”

He patted my hand. “Then grab the reigns, mawn. Do what you’re destined to do, investigate. No time like the present to start. Find the guilty driver and you’ll probably solve Otto’s murder. My gut says the two crimes are related.”

“Granddad is so against me having anything to do with detective work.”

“Aren’t you curious? Why did someone involve you? Why did they stash Otto’s body in your van? Looks to me like they wanted to frame you. I don’t mind saying, I’d be pissed.”

“I’m guessing you want to help me investigate,” I said, amused.

“Come on, you’re lips say no, but your eyes say pissed off.”

“That’s low blood sugar, so unless you’ve a cookie handy, you’ll need to ignore what you think is interest.”

“But—”

“Listen,” I said softer than the word implied. “I can’t take the chance—”

A sudden squealing drew my attention. I looked around. Passing by was a taxicab with FoY’s associate chef scowling out the back window.

Booth Jackson’s flashy attire always struck me as over-the-top for a cozy retirement home. Out of keeping with his smooth appearance, he ambled like an old Chevy with a bad wheel, or in Booth’s case a bad hip. He was a black man with an unshakable glower and twitchy eyebrows.

The taxi stopped a few feet ahead and its reverse lights snapped on. When the cab backed up alongside the squad car, I greeted Booth warily out the side window.

“I saw the wrecked van from the freeway. Couldn’t resist detouring to see what’s up,” he said above the engine squeal, his eyes wide, and his brows lively. “I don’t usually do sympathy, but I’ll give it a try. Oh darn, Rylie, looks like you screwed up another job.”

“You’re too kind,” I said, my arms crossed.

“And don’t think I’ll cover for you and drive around those blue hairs.” He smiled unpleasantly, the mega diamond studs in his ears glistening. “I don’t drive, remember? Bad hip.”

I nodded. He hardly talked of anything else.

“I’m guessing no one let you save their sorry life at Suicide Trestle last night. The weak always crack under pressure, see, you should just let them jump.”

“Nice,” I said.

“I don’t do nice, see,” he said in a voice as dark as his skin.

“How do you know I—we…” I glanced at Solo. “…patrol the trestle?”

“I got ears, don’t I? The boss likes to talk while she cooks,” he said in reference to Tita Iglesias, FoY’s head chef. “Tell me, what kind of losers help out depressed people?”

“Don’t let me keep you, Booth,” I said, wanting him gone.

“You aren’t helping anyone by getting arrested,” he said.

What an odd thing to say. “How would my arrest help anyone?”

He said a bland and overdue hello to Solo before he shifted back to me. “I’m not judging, see,” he said. “I guess being involved in Otto’s death blows your shot at keeping a job longer than—what is it now—four months you’ve been at FoY?”

Heavy moment of silence. I wondered how he knew Otto was dead. I opened my mouth to ask, closed it, deciding to try to make him slip up. “What makes you think I’m involved?”

“I know he wanted you fired, see. I know you would lose your home. Many homeless old people die from the elements. I figured duty called. No way could you let your grandfather die on the street.”

I had heard enough. “How do you know Otto is dead?”

He raised a hand—quite a feat in view of his countless gold bracelets—and waggled a cell phone. “It’s Leland’s. I read a text message from that cop friend of yours, Zach O’Neil.”

“You have Leland’s phone, why?” I asked, surprised.

“He left it at a mutual friend’s place.”

“What friend?” Solo asked, piping in.

Booth ignored him. “Death waits for no one.” He looked strange, pleased, relieved. Sparkling. “Absolutely no one.”

“You sound like you’re glad Otto is dead,” I said.

“I won’t dance on his grave if that’s what you mean. I got a bad hip.” He faced forward and signaled the East Indian driver to leave. The taxi took off.

“It floors me how he can afford all that bling,” Solo said.

“Tita says a jeweler friend sells to him at cost,” I said. “Well, one thing is for sure, Leland forgetting his cell explains why we haven’t heard from him. Though he had it last night. I heard him pleading with Nava to take him back.”

“That Nava is a piece of work. Bat crap crazy,” he said, doing finger circles around his ear. “Leland can do better. She’s so mean.”

“Yeah, but he’s desperate to reconcile. He loves his wife,” I said. “I wonder who this mutual friend is. Booth and Leland usually don’t hang out together.”

“It surprises me that Booth even has a friend,” Solo said.

Just then, a tatty red, white, and blue panel truck sped past and pulled into the laboratory’s parking lot. To all appearances, it matched the one that ran me off the road. I was already out of the squad car when it disappeared behind the concrete wall. I considered calling for Zach, but he had his hands full with the malfunctioning tow-truck.

I leaned back in. “That looks like the truck that ran me off the road. I’m checking it out.”

“Not without me.” Solo rocketed from his seat and rounded the hood. “I knew you wouldn’t roll over. Judging by the look on your face, you’re hot on the trail of a murderer.”

“Whoa.” I held up a splayed palm. “A confession to running me off the road, that’s all I want. If Leland gets that, maybe he won’t fire me.”

We hoofed down the street and circled the building. We found the truck nosed into an upward-sloped spot across from the delivery entrance. I signaled for Solo to follow me into the bushes. There, we flattened against the bricks. Well, as much as Solo could flatten—he was the direct opposite of flat. We peered around the corner.

Up close, the panel truck was more rundown than I first realized, a bit like a decaying American flag. The rear was medium blue with pale splotches, the front dirty white with horizontal rust streaks. Inside a light blinked on. The shotgun seat was empty, so I figured the unseen driver must be opening their door. The light blinked off. Still no sign of anyone.

Then a gray-haired woman rose in the passenger side and settled in the seat. I relaxed a bit. Granddad said I have a knack with seniors; he called me a senior whisperer. My plan was to confront them about the accident and try to reason out a confession. Here’s hoping the driver was also elderly.

“I’m going in,” I told Solo.

“Want back up?” he asked.

“Nope, this is a job for the senior whisperer.” I stepped from the bushes, adjusted Zach’s jacket on my hips, and climbed the steep incline to the panel truck. The woman now appeared to be rummaging through the center console. She was bent, her back to me. I knew it wasn’t wise to startle the elderly, so I paused a few feet away until she straightened again. When she did, I approached.

As I neared, she rolled down her window and beamed me a toothless grin. “Where’s the cheap bastard who usually meets us?” Her breathless voice held a rough English accent. “That Jew.”

I killed my smile; I found her tone insulting. “Leland Rosenberg?”

“That’s him, Duckie. You and Leland in cahoots? Looky here.” She punched the man at the wheel in the shoulder. “Leland’s business is booming. The tightwad has himself a helper.”

“And because of us he won’t get his nuts ripped off through his nose.” The man flicked an annoyed finger to a note taped to the dashboard.

“You got that wrong, love,” she said. “That comedian bloke said wallet, not nose.”

“What’s it matter? We should’ve demanded more money,” he said.

The woman looked back at me. “Where’s your cart?”

“Cart?”

She blew out a huge breath, her lips flapping. “We haul this flippin’ shit, not unload it.”

Her skin was specter white; her grizzled hair pulled tight with a barrette atop her head. Both sides were teased out like elephant ears. The man was refugee thin and sunken, an air hose snaking from his nose to a nearby canister.

“I’m Doris. This here is Cokey Bill. He’s got black lung from the coalmines. We’re the Oleys. We do odd jobs. You need something done, odd or otherwise, you call us.”

Cokey Bill Oley barked a laugh. “Odd or otherwise. Good one, Doris.”

Contemplating the best way to bring up the accident, I nibbled my lower lip.

“Not so good at small talk, huh?” Cokey Bill opened his door, hocked up a loogie, and spit it out. “Well, don’t just stand there, then. Go get the cart, girlie. And don’t forget our extra cash. We did as we was told; we always do as we was told, week in, week out. We’re like trawlers or trollers, only we got no poles.”

Doris Oley beamed. “He’s saving to buy some of those new extra-long ciggys, the ones with the nic-out filters. My man is trying to quit.”

I eyed his air hose. “It’s never too late, I guess.”

“Blimey, you sound like my pecker-headed doctor.” Cokey Bill settled back in his seat and gave me an impatient gesture. “Now beat it. And don’t come back until you got our lolly and the cart. Come on, Doris, get back at it.” When I didn’t move, his head snapped around. “Go on, girlie. We’re busy.”

Doris massaged her wrist. “Busy, my ass. There ain’t nothin’ busy around here but my hand. I’m done wankin’ that thing.”

“The hell you are!” Cokey Bill snapped.

“The hell I am!” She grabbed a half-eaten muffin from the dash, pitched it, thumping Cokey Bill on the shoulder, gobs of poppy seeds scattering.

My eyebrows went up, froze there.

“Well, you better get to it,” he howled at her. “That little blue pill don’t last forever.”

“It don’t last at all,” she said. “You need one of them penile implants, you limp dick.”

“I’ll show you limp.” Cokey Bill wormed an arm behind her seat, pushed aside several orange and black boxes, and pulled out a fat fish. Rearing back, he pitched it at her.

Doris cried out, ducking. The fish sailed through the open window and plopped at my feet. Two seconds passed while I stood there, staring at it, its cloudy eye and shiny skin. I turned to look at Solo for help, but he was nowhere in sight.