Riddle Me This (Detective Kate Rosetti Mystery Book 2)

by Gina LaManna

  Melinda sighed. “I’ll keep you posted, Kate. At the moment, it’s not looking like there’s anything suspicious about Harry’s death.”

  “Except the fact that he’s not alive anymore. I know there aren’t always signs of depression and the like, but he was at the peak of his career,” I said. “Didn’t Lassie run an article on him a few weeks ago? Wasn’t he dating someone?”

  Melinda rested one manicured fingernail against her lips. “I think you’re right. But it was never confirmed. Drove Lassie nuts she couldn’t break the story wide open.”

  I pulled out my phone to call Lassie, but before I could, I noticed something off in the corner of the garage. “Is that a footprint?”

  I made my way over to the corner where I’d spotted something. Harry Brine lived in a well-to-do neighborhood just across the river into Minneapolis. His home was older but well kept, and his two-car, attached garage was a rare commodity for the area.

  Harry himself was a young, charismatic reporter who’d swept across the cities in a scandal when he dated a C-list celebrity a year back. Since then, the couple had gone through a very public breakup, much to the excitement of all the single ladies around the Twin Cities.

  He’d appeared on multiple most-eligible-bachelor lists, according to Lassie. That is, until her latest blog post on the subject when she’d theorized that the playboy might’ve been yanked off the market by a mysterious woman who’d grasped the elusive key to Harry’s heart—or his bed.

  I squatted over the footprint and snapped gloves over my hands just in case. A glance up told me that the print was right underneath the button that would raise and lower the garage door. I’d need CSU to confirm for sure, but my preliminary analysis told me that the mark had been made by a women’s shoe—a high heel with a very thin stiletto at the rear.

  I called over the crime scene techs and pointed out my findings. The team got to work photographing the footprint and dusting the keypad for fingerprints. Others began trying to identify any additional shoeprints in the surrounding area.

  “I’d ask if you consider this overkill,” Melinda said, joining me, “but I don’t have any hope of convincing you to lay off, do I?”

  I shook my head. “What if he was killed? An affair gone wrong?”

  Melinda gave a thin smile. “What if the pressure got to him, and he decided to go to sleep forever? What if he was suffering from severe depression and didn’t open up about it?”

  “If I admit that’s possible, then you have to admit my theory is possible.”

  “I’ll admit it if I find something that backs it up once Harry Brine is on my autopsy table,” Melinda said. “My question to you: How would a female—who by statistical chance was smaller than the victim—force him to sit in his car while she killed him? There’s no evidence of binding on his wrists or restraint of any form.”

  I shrugged. “She drugged him?”

  Melinda clasped me on the shoulder and squeezed. “I’ll keep you posted.”

  “In the meantime, we’ll do a full sweep of the scene,” I said with a thin smile. “Just in case.”

  “And because you don’t want to do paperwork.”

  “Right,” I said. “Nor do I want to write parking tickets.”

  Melinda grinned. “Knock yourself out. Here’s Jimmy now.”

  My partner, a large African-American man with a serious gut who was more concerned with counting down the days to retirement than he was with showing up on time to work, lumbered up the driveway. I handed him the latte my mother had prepared.

  “It was extra-hot,” I said. “I didn’t think it’d take you so long to get here.”

  “The line at the bakery was long,” he grunted. “I needed a doughnut.”

  “You are a stereotype.”

  “I’ve got to work with you,” he said. “I need energy.”

  “Good. Then you can help me sweep the scene,” I said. “Harry Brine. Possible suicide.”

  “The news anchor?”

  “The one and only,” I said. “Also, one of the most eligible bachelors in the city.”

  “I can tell by that gleam in your eye you don’t believe it’s a suicide.”

  “I’ve convinced Melinda to call it suspicious until she gets Brine on her table,” I said. “Which means we’ve got until tomorrow afternoon before we know anything for certain.”

  “The dude stuck a sock in his pipe,” Jimmy said. “Why are you trying to turn this into something it’s not?”

  “There’s a woman’s footprint.”

  “What’d she do? Love him to death, then shove him in the car?” Jimmy shook his head. “You’re stretching.”

  “Stretch with me, partner.” I snapped a glove against my wrist. “How many days until retirement?”

  “Not few enough,” he mumbled. “Where do you want me to start?”

  “You take the house,” I said. “I’ll take the car. Call me if you—oh, crap.”

  I glanced down at my phone. The chief of police’s direct line flashed across the top. I flipped the phone around to show Jimmy. He just raised his eyebrows.

  “Better answer it,” he said. “While you’re at it, let me see your latte. Your mother made mine skim again.”

  I curled my latte defensively against my chest and answered the phone. “Detective Rosetti.”

  “Rosetti, it’s the chief.”

  “I gathered that from your number on my phone.”

  “Watch it,” he growled. “I need you in my office. Now.”

  “But—”

  “Is Jones with you?”

  “He’s always with me,” I said, glancing over at my partner who was currently frowning into his skim latte and digging around in his pocket, presumably for a few packs of contraband sugar.

  “Let him handle it.”

  “Sir, can I ask what this is about?”

  “No.”

  “Alright, then.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Just across the bridge.”

  “Be in my office in five minutes.”

  “It’ll take me ten to get back to the precinct.”

  “See you in five,” he snapped. “And Rosetti, keep this quiet for now. I’m not...” He hesitated, considered his words. “I’m not sure what this all means yet. But I’m afraid it’s urgent.”

  “Yes, sir. However, I believe the scene I’m on now may be a homicide masked as a suicide.”

  “Brine can wait,” the chief said cryptically. “This can’t. You’ve got four minutes. Move it, detective.”

  SEVEN MINUTES LATER I marched into the chief’s office at the TC Homicide Task Force headquarters down on West Seventh Street. Chief Rex Sturgeon’s regular office was at the downtown precinct, but when we’d set up a specific homicide task force based in St. Paul, he’d acquired an office there, too.

  I marched into the bare space and stopped before a simple metal desk. On the surface was a cheap letter tray overflowing with papers and a huge monitor with a few dings from use along the sides. The walls were devoid of anything personal, save for a few recent clippings of the TC Task Force’s accomplishments.

  Sturgeon’s eyes raised to meet mine. “You’re late.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  Sturgeon reached for the stack of papers on his desk and removed a manila envelope from the top. He was sixty-something years old and, unlike Jimmy, was studiously ignoring the inquiries as to when he planned to retire. The chief and I were more alike than I cared to admit in some ways which probably contributed to the reason we occasionally butted heads. At the end of the day, however, he held my respect. And I think I had his—depending on the day.

  The chief tipped the envelope sideways and emptied a stack of photos into his hand. He slid them across the desk and gestured for me to sit, all without speaking.

  A somewhat ashen expression had taken over the chief’s face, which mystified me more than the blank envelope in his hand. In his tenure as chief, he’d seen the worst of the worst. And before
that, he’d been a decorated homicide detective. Before that, a beat cop on the East side of St. Paul. There wasn’t anything the man hadn’t seen, and even less that rendered him speechless.

  I sat down heavily on the chair across from him. The seat felt hard, a skeleton of metal and worn padding that’d seen better days decades ago. My fingers slid the photos the rest of the way toward me.

  My throat went dry.

  “Are these from...” I swallowed. “How old are these?”

  “Fresh.” Sturgeon’s eyes landed directly on mine. “They came in this morning. An hour ago.”

  “But Wilkes is in prison,” I said. “Life without parole.”

  “He was.”

  “Was?” My heart pounded against my chest. “Sir?”

  “There was an escape.”

  I closed my eyes. My pulse pounded as adrenaline raced through my veins. This couldn’t be happening. Ramone Wilkes was the famed murderer who’d rocked the Twin Cities on a killing spree. He’d been dubbed The Dentist by the newspapers thanks to his fondness for removing each of his victims’ teeth—while they were still alive.

  It’d been a game to him, the killings. Wilkes had kept the teeth as souvenirs, wearing a necklace of them during our final confrontation. A confrontation that had landed me in the hospital for a week because, for some odd reason, Wilkes had taken a peculiar interest in me. His fascination had left me with a scar across my hip and a series of nightmares. It had been our first case on the TC Task Force. Some initiation.

  “How could he have possibly escaped?” I tried to keep my voice steady. “He was in Texas, maximum security. Everyone knew how dangerous he was. He’s only been there for a year.”

  Sturgeon gave a nod. “I don’t have all of the information yet, but I got a call this morning from the FBI requesting your presence in LaCrosse.”

  “Wisconsin?”

  “You say that as if it’s the Bermuda Triangle.”

  I ignored the chief’s wry smile. “What’s Wilkes doing there?”

  Sturgeon shook his head. “I’m not sure. But this man...” He paused, tapped the photos. “He was found this morning. All of his teeth missing—likely pulled perimortem.”

  “His hands?”

  “Fingerprints completely burned.”

  “DNA?”

  “We’re waiting for a hit to come back, but as you well know...”

  I nodded. We still had one unidentified Jane Doe from Wilkes’s last spree. He’d killed three victims—two women, one man. He enjoyed the game, the thrill, the hunt. By removing teeth and fingerprints, it made identifying the bodies on our end that much more difficult. Without a missing persons report, there was the potential for Wilkes’s victims to remain nameless for an eternity. He’d smiled when he’d told me so.

  “The agent who caught the case asked for you by name.”

  “I see my reputation precedes me.” I rested a hand against my hip. The scar there seared. Hot and fierce, as if Wilkes’s blade had run across my stomach just yesterday.

  Sturgeon’s eyes didn’t miss the movement. “I can tell them you’re busy.”

  “I think...” I hesitated, on the verge of telling him that his suggestion might be best, but deep down I knew there was no option.

  Wilkes was back. The man who had kicked off my career as detective... and just about broken my spirit. He’d returned north, and I suspected he had a reason why. He was drawing me out.

  “It’s not your jurisdiction,” Sturgeon said. “The FBI will handle it.”

  “Wilkes won’t be happy unless he sees I’m involved.”

  Sturgeon nodded. “Again, not your problem. It’s probably safer for you to stay out of it.”

  “Is that an order?”

  He glanced down at the gruesome images, then rested wrinkled hands on his desk and surveyed me. “You’ve earned the right to make the call on this one.”

  “LaCrosse,” I said. “Just over a two-hour drive.”

  “The FBI asked for you as a consultant. You can take Jimmy with you.”

  “Leave Jimmy out of this,” I said, standing. “Can I keep these?”

  The chief tipped the photos back into the manila envelope and handed everything across the desk. “Detective,” he said, raising a hand to stop me from leaving. “Be careful.”

  I pressed my lips together. Being careful was the last thing on my mind.

  Ramone Wilkes’s face stared at me every time I blinked. When I slept. When I dreamed. The man was a monster who belonged behind bars, and that’s where I would put him again—no matter what it took.

  Chapter 3

  The drive to LaCrosse took me two hours and six minutes, a bit faster than expected, especially seeing as I stopped twice—once for a cup of coffee, the second time to relieve myself of the cup of coffee. The third time I stopped was a mile from the crime scene. That last stop was because my hands were so jittery I could barely hold the steering wheel straight.

  I pulled over to the side of the road and put the car in park. I sat staring at my fingers, willing them to work. Willing my foot to press the gas pedal and continue to the waiting investigation.

  Three blocks away sat the handiwork of a man who’d come closer to killing me than anyone since, or anyone before. Worse was the look in his eyes when he’d done it. Loving, affectionate even. He loved it—the kill, the fear, the desperate desire of his victims to reach for life, even as he stole it from them.

  I shuddered. I’d had to complete hours of therapy after I’d last seen Wilkes. Then had come his trial, my testimony... and the nightmares had started all over. It’d been the way he looked at me in court—hungry, excited—as if he’d known the end hadn’t arrived.

  The letters started after that. Long, involved ramblings that bordered on love notes. He’d promised he’d see me again, that our courtship hadn’t yet ended.

  Apparently, he’d been right.

  With a jerk, I pulled back out onto the road. I ignored the honk of a truck that swerved out of my way to avoid a collision. I felt the sweat pooling on my forehead, the dampness under my arms. I was a wreck.

  My phone rang. I hit answer and turned on speaker. “Rosetti.”

  “Kate.” It was Jimmy, and he sounded serious. “I just talked to the chief.”

  “Sorry for taking off on you this morning.”

  “You’re in LaCrosse.” He didn’t wait for confirmation. “You should have taken me with you.”

  “Don’t be stupid. The Feds asked for me,” I said, adding a joking lightness to my voice. “No need for you to get a headache working with them, too.”

  “It’s Wilkes, isn’t it? The chief didn’t confirm. But I saw the look in his eyes.”

  My throat felt scratchy. “Looks like it might be that way.”

  “Stay out of this, Kate. Come on—use your brain.”

  “I’m just checking it out, doing a favor for the suits. Maybe it’s not him.”

  The silence on the other end of the line was all consuming.

  The truth was that Jimmy had been the one to find me on the verge of death. He’d been there when one of my colleagues had shot Wilkes in the shoulder and saved my life. Jimmy had been the one to untie my wrists. He’d seen me at the mercy of Wilkes. He’d seen it all, and still, he’d kept it quiet, out of the reports as much as possible.

  And that was why, despite Jimmy’s lackluster enthusiasm for the job and his somewhat light-hearted countdown to retirement, he remained my partner. He had my back. Always.

  “I’ll call you later,” I said. “I’m just pulling up at the scene.”

  “Kate—”

  “Oh, man,” I breathed.

  “What is it?” Jimmy asked sharply. “Kate, get out of there. Come home.”

  “It’s not that,” I said, throwing the car door open and lifting the phone to my ear, turning it off speaker. “It’s him.”

  “Wilkes?”

  “No,” I growled. “Russo.”

  I stared at the group of federal
agents swarming the small, single-family home tucked into the college town. There was one man in particular everyone seemed to swarm—a man dressed in a sharp suit with a windbreaker over the back spelling out FBI in bold letters.

  “You scared me,” Jimmy said. “What’s wrong with Russo? I thought the two of you were friends.”

  “We were,” I said. “That is the problem. I gotta go.”

  “Call me later.”

  I hung up on Jimmy and stomped my way through the yard to where the suits had gathered. The sidewalks were devoid of snow in this part of town, with only small mounds of dirty white visible in clumpy patches on the grass.

  I marched up to where Russo was speaking in low tones with a woman who looked like she belonged in a shampoo commercial, not an FBI windbreaker. I tapped Russo’s shoulder and waited until he turned around, his eyes widening in surprise.

  “Claire, can you give me a minute?” he murmured to the pretty blonde.

  Claire nodded and backed away, but not before giving me a top to bottom scan that had me wondering if there was more going on between the female agent and Russo than I’d initially suspected.

  “Don’t look so shocked,” I said. “I heard I was asked here by name. I should have known you’d be involved.”

  “Kate.” Russo smiled, dropped the clipboard in his hand down to his side. “It’s nice to see you.”

  “The circumstances are unfortunate,” I said, dodging his gaze. “I take it you’ve heard about my experience with Wilkes?”

  “To a certain degree.”

  I glanced toward the house. “And there’s enough evidence here to point to him?”

  “I wouldn’t have made you drive two hours on a wild goose chase.”

  “Is that right,” I said dryly. “For some reason, I’m not convinced.”

  “Now, Kate, I thought we ended on good terms. I’m not going to have to win you over from scratch, am I?”

  “Depends,” I said, my eyes landing on Claire before flicking to the house. “What do you have on Wilkes?”