Riley Thorn and the Dead Guy Next Door

by Lucy Score

  He drummed his fingers on the wheel. “We used to be partners.”

  “I’m guessing it didn’t end well.”

  “That’s a safe assumption,” he said, signaling to take the South Queen Street exit.

  She waited, pointedly.

  “We didn’t exactly see eye-to-eye on anything,” Nick said, giving in.

  “It’s hard to picture you as a cop. You don’t seem like you like rules.”

  And Weber lived for them. “I prefer puzzles. I thought it would be different if I was the one enforcing the rules.”

  “Were you wrong?” she asked.

  The sun slanted in through the glass, highlighting subtle threads of red in her hair.

  “Turns out I don’t like being told what to do and when to do it.”

  “Is that why you’re not married either?” she asked smugly.

  “That would be a factor,” he said, navigating down a one-way street crowded with crumbling row homes.

  He swung into a parking space between a tricked-out Suburban with custom wheels and a two-tone Honda with an aftermarket spoiler and two flat tires.

  Riley handed over the first serve, a court summons in a stolen property trial.

  “Stay here and keep the doors locked,” he instructed.

  Her brown eyes widened. “Is it safe here?”

  “Reasonably,” he said, stepping out of the car. “But there’s a charming retired car thief down the block who might try to talk you out of the car so he can help himself to it. Happened to me twice before I wised up.”

  He got lucky on the serve. Mr. Reggie Johnson was home and not too pissed off about the papers.

  By the third successful serve, Nick was starting to think Riley was a good luck charm.

  “Why are you doing serves?” she asked him after a grandma with a pack of Chihuahuas gave him two cookies for serving her foreclosure papers on a beach condo.

  He magnanimously handed over one of the cookies. “It’s all part of the exciting and glamorous life of a PI. Also, the guy who usually does serves is down with the plague. It’s on me to pick up the slack.”

  “Do you like your job?” she asked.

  He thought about it. “I like my life,” he decided. “I get to call the shots. I get to sleep in if I want. Work late if I feel like it. I can take my mom out to lunch in the middle of the day or fly out to Vegas for a long weekend without checking in with anyone.”

  Riley groaned.

  “What?” Most women usually had this response to his white-knuckled grip on his bachelorhood.

  “I think I want to be a bachelor,” she said wistfully.

  “You can be a bachelor with different equipment. There’s no genitalia requirement.”

  “My entire life is based on other people’s rules and schedules. I can’t even take a sick day without having four supervisors weigh in on it.”

  “Whose fault is that?” he asked.

  “Mine. Everything always is.”

  “Poor little Riley Thorn,” he teased. “What are you waiting for? Some white knight to sweep in and clean everything up for you?”

  “Hey. Pot. Kettle. You’re the one waiting for a paperwork fairy to show up and wave her wand. I’m not waiting for a white knight. I’m still paying for the last one.”

  There was a story there that she wasn’t sharing. He’d add it to the list of mysteries surrounding her that already included items such as what the hell had she been thinking getting herself married to Griffin “Cheese Puff Dust” Gentry?

  “Two more stops, and then I’ll feed you,” he promised, changing the subject.

  They stopped at a little twenty-four-hour diner in the middle of nowhere Pennsylvania.

  “Do people always tell you more than they should?” he asked as soon as the server wandered away, their orders stowed in her apron.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Josie and Brian, for instance. I didn’t know they were trying to get pregnant,” he said.

  “I guess I’ve never noticed,” she said, tracing a finger over the edge of the table.

  He pointed at her. “I think that’s the first lie you’ve told me.”

  She laughed and then leveled him with a smug look. “Actually it’s the third.”

  He leaned in. “I can’t tell if you’re fucking with me.”

  “Good,” she said.

  Either she knew how to push his buttons, or his bullshit detector was on the fritz.

  They ate their burgers and then hit the road, homeward bound.

  It was dark now. The moon was coming up, and the traffic was light. His work was done, and he had managed not to talk Riley into the back seat. All in all, he was pleased with himself.

  If he’d been the boyfriendly type, he’d be holding her hand right now. Instead, he changed the station to oldies.

  “So,” she said, finally breaking the silence. “Did you ghost me because of the whole psychic thing?”

  “Ghost you? What are you talking about? I didn’t ghost you,” he lied. He’d totally ghosted her.

  “Now who’s lying?” she teased. “Did you disappear on me because I had a vision my neighbor was going to get whacked?”

  He turned onto Forester Street. “No. I disappeared on you because I’m attracted to you.”

  “That’s even weirder,” she decided with a frown.

  He could feel her gaze on him in the dark as he caught the light for 3rd Street. “I’m attracted to you, but you’re the settle down and be monogamous type.”

  “I am not!”

  She sounded insulted, and he laughed. “Please, Thorn. You have white dress, family dog, and daycare drop-off written all over you.”

  “Yeah, in the future,” she said as he lined up to parallel park across the street from the office. “But right now, I’d settle for a few nights of sweaty, meaningless sex.”

  He’d been aiming for the parking space behind her Jeep and instead launched the rear wheel of the vehicle up onto the curb.

  Her laugh rang out over the crooning of The Drifters.

  “You did that on purpose,” he accused.

  She gave a sexy one-shouldered shrug. “Maybe. Thanks for dinner, Nick.”

  When she got out, he followed her to the Jeep. He stood in the open door while she settled herself behind the wheel.

  “Hey, Thorn?” Their faces were inches apart in the dark.

  “Yeah?”

  “What number am I thinking of?”

  Her smile was slow and dirty. His blood abandoned his brain, speeding south. “Sixty-nine, and I didn’t need to be psychic to know that.”

  22

  4:22 p.m., Thursday, June 25

  Nature Girls was a shithole bar located in a shithole building in a seedier section of the city. Nick remembered his time on this beat well. A rookie cop with shiny shoes and a stiff blue uniform.

  Shootings. Muggings. Carjackings. Gang activity. Drug busts. Homeless altercations. It was much the same now. The current mayor had run on the promise that he’d clean up the city and make it safe again.

  Here, there was still a good percentage of the population who had dug their roots into this neighborhood decades before and had no intentions of abandoning their brick row homes and their tiny storefronts to the criminal element.

  There was a bright yellow shop one block down that had the best empanadas in the city. They had to paint over graffiti at least once a month, but business was brisk. Cut down a side street, and there was a bakery that had been in business for forty years. On Sundays, the owners’ family handed out free bread.

  Nick felt what he’d always felt when he walked these streets. An odd mix of desolation, hope, and pride. Could the people win where law enforcement had failed? He hoped so.

  Somewhere in the distance, he heard glass break followed by shouts.

  He locked his vehicle and set the alarm for good measure before joining the scattering of pedestrians on the sidewalk. None of them paid any attention to whatever was happening d
own the street. It was safer that way. Smarter that way. No one witnessed anything here. That way there wasn’t any need for retaliation.

  Nature Girls was open according to the half burnt-out neon “open” sign in the one and only window that hadn’t been boarded up on the facade. It was afternoon. Business didn’t pick up until nine or ten at night when, under the cover of darkness, hard drinkers slunk out of the shadows and through the front door to order cheap liquor and terrible food.

  He tugged his ball cap a little lower and stepped inside. The metal door slammed ominously behind him. No one bothered to look up. It was the kind of place where dreams and secrets went to die.

  The bar was small by anyone’s account. And no one would have called it clean. The interior looked even grimier than the first time he’d set foot inside. The floor, an ancient green vinyl tile, was stained and peeling. Also sticky. The ceiling was low and held up by sporadically placed supports. At some point, an enterprising owner had thought to class the place up with fake tin ceiling tiles that matched nothing.

  The bar was stickier than the floor, which was saying something. There were wear marks every foot or so from decades of sweaty elbows. Mismatched barstools lined the L-shape. There was also a collection of tables and chairs—all empty given the time of day—scattered around the floor between the ceiling jacks. A jukebox sat in the corner with a thick cobweb above it. Opposite the front door was a pair of swinging saloon doors that led to a narrow hallway with restrooms.

  The entire place felt like the basement bar in a fraternity house.

  Nick took a seat on a stool and waited for the scowling bartender to put down his vape pen. It was a different guy than the last time he was here, he noted with relief.

  “Get you something?” the bartender asked. He was a grizzled white guy with a stringy beard that trailed down into a braid. He wore a bowling shirt open over a stained tank top. A thick gold chain peeked out of thick, white chest hair.

  “Yeah. Lager.” Nick nodded toward the tap.

  There were three other patrons at the bar. One looked as though he’d passed out. The other two kept their eyes glued to a horseshoe tournament on the greasy TV screen behind the bar.

  A server shoved through the saloon doors, calling what might have been a good-natured “Fuck off” over her shoulder to someone behind the scenes.

  The uniform was ridiculous. Her pleated plaid skirt stopped about an inch below her crotch. The shirt was a white button-down that ended in a knot just beneath her breasts. A blue sash was worn beauty-contestant style. But instead of Miss Pennsylvania, it was covered in sexually suggestive pins. She had what looked like platinum blonde hair worn shaved almost to the scalp everywhere but the top of her head. The faux hawk was purple.

  “’Sup,” she said to the bartender, blowing a bubble with her gum and strolling over to the touchscreen at the service bar.

  The bartender grunted his greeting and put a plastic cup in front of Nick. Classy. Probably too many injuries from broken glass, he guessed. The mirror behind the bar was broken in two places.

  The server abandoned the register and wandered over to the jukebox. She plugged in a code, and screaming death metal filled the bar.

  The other patrons, at least the conscious ones, didn’t flinch.

  The front door opened, slammed shut again. Nick eyed the newcomer in the mirror. A short, stocky guy with a shaved head and bushy black brows. He ignored everyone and headed into the back through the saloon doors. The bartender and server shared a look.

  Nick took his shot when the bartender paused in front of him to refill a bottle of Patrón… from a plastic bottle of Captain Dennis Tequila.

  “That the new owner?” Nick asked. “Didn’t know if you’d stay open without Dickie.”

  The bartender grunted again but this time eyed him. “Do I know you?” His voice was a rattly rasp.

  Nick had been trying to figure out the same thing. It was possible, probable even, that he’d arrested this guy a few years ago. “You don’t look familiar,” he lied.

  The bartender leaned forward menacingly. “You smell like a cop.”

  Ah, shit.

  This got the attention of the two conscious patrons at the end of the bar. They flicked dead-eyed glances his way before returning their focus to the TV.

  “Not a cop,” Nick said easily and picked up his beer.

  The bald guy reappeared from the back with files tucked under his arm. This time he gave the bartender a nod before heading out the front door. Nick would have liked to follow him, but the guy had been moving at a fast clip, and there was no way to catch up without making it too obvious.

  “I’ll tell you what I told the rest of your cop buddies when they tossed the place. Fuck. Off,” the bartender snarled.

  “Relax, man,” Nick said. “There’s no problem here.” He forced himself to finish the rest of his beer leisurely. And when he was done, he left a ten spot on the bar and walked out.

  The server was leaning against the building in the alley, smoking a cigarette and texting.

  “You a cop?” she asked, cigarette clamped between her lips.

  “Nope. Just looking for some answers.”

  “Twenty bucks, and I’ll give you answers,” she said, blowing a cloud of blue smoke in his direction.

  He smelled a setup. But sometimes even setups were educational.

  He fished a bill out of his wallet, held it up between two fingers. She waited a beat before stepping forward and snatching it out of his hand.

  “We don’t like questions around here,” she said, tucking the money into her bra.

  “I hope that’s not your only answer,” Nick said. “Who’s in charge now that Dickie’s dead?”

  She shrugged and looked bored. “Dunno.”

  “Who’s paying the bills? Who’s signing your paychecks?”

  She snorted. “Does this look like the kind of place with a payroll department?”

  “Give me something,” he insisted.

  “Who wants to know? You think the cops care about figuring out who shot Frick’s face off?”

  “Maybe Dickie’s family cares.”

  Her laugh was dry, humorless. “Dickie had a family? Ha. I always pictured him living alone in some shithole watching pornos and eating bad Chinese takeout.”

  “Can you think of anyone who would have wanted him dead?”

  She shot him a “you dumbass” look. “Only everyone who ever met him. Guy was a dick.”

  “How long have you worked here?” Nick asked.

  “Listen, you’ve about used up that twenty bucks.”

  “You haven’t given me anything worth twenty bucks.”

  “Six months. Now either cough up another bill or go.”

  He went. And when he got back in the car, he checked his dash cam footage, hoping to see a car or, better yet, a license plate for Baldy. But no such luck. The guy had walked out and headed down the block before disappearing around the corner. Nick watched and waited for a vehicle to cruise through the intersection, but none did for five full minutes.

  23

  6:30 p.m., Thursday, June 25

  It had been yet another mind-numbing day at the office for Riley. Made only more so in comparison to her road trip with Nick the night before. She’d learned that process serving wasn’t exactly glamorous, high-flying fun. But there were no production meetings, no passive-aggressive office memos, and no annual reports to proofread.

  She zipped into a parking space on the street and hauled her yoga mat out of the back seat. A dark sedan cruised by, and Riley thought she recognized Detective Weber’s profile behind the wheel.

  Dammit. If she was still at the top of the suspect list, she really was going to have to do his job for him and track down the killer.

  But first, yoga.

  Wander’s studio occupied the second floor of a tidy brick building on Twenty-First Street in Camp Hill. The first floor belonged to an antique store that didn’t mind the smell of incense or t
he sound of chiming gongs above.

  “Wait up!” Jasmine, in head-to-toe Lululemon, jogged toward her. Her long hair flowed out behind her in a glossy curtain. She carried a mat that matched the deep purple of her pants. Riley guessed that most of the people on the street were watching her move in slow motion. “Girl, you better tell me everything there is to know about this Nick guy before we get upstairs,” she demanded.

  Riley laughed. Wander had a thing about everyone entering the studio in silence.

  Jasmine opened the heavy glass door to the stairs.

  “Not much to add,” Riley said. “The deal is we continue to pretend to be engaged so he can hang out at the house and interview my neighbors. He thinks he can get more information out of them as my fiancé than as an investigator.”

  It was a long, steep flight of stairs. They tackled the first step together slowly in as much deference to Riley’s soreness as their desire to gossip.

  “So it’s just business? That’s it?” Jasmine looked disappointed.

  “Well, there was some flirting.” Riley smugly recalled Nick nearly driving the car into a streetlamp. “But he’s under the assumption that I’m shopping for husband number two. And I’m of the opinion that my lady parts are so rusty I don’t know if they could actually handle a night with Nick Santiago in my bed.”

  Jasmine was shaking her head. “Girl, we need to get you some WD-40 and a shot of confidence. You’re amazing. He’d be lucky to take your lady parts for a spin.”

  “I love you, Jas, but you’re delusional.”

  “You have an allegedly attractive man—according to your man-crazy neighbor Lily—who carried you upstairs, drove you to the hospital, yelled at your ex, and then concocted a scheme to pretend to be engaged to you. He’s interested. And unless you’re biologically dead, you’re interested, too.”

  Riley was interested. And terrified. Casual sex with Nick wouldn’t be casual for her. It would be life-changing, world-rocking, potentially vagina-ruining. It was like strapping on a pair of skis for the first time ever and plummeting down a black diamond trail. She felt like it would be smarter to start on a bunny trail until she could get the hang of things again.