Riddle Me This (Detective Kate Rosetti Mystery Book 2)

by Gina LaManna

  “The autopsy won’t be completed until tomorrow,” he said. “We treated the place like a crime scene—you’re welcome. The lab’s on everything as we speak. Aside from some high-heeled prints, there’s nothing to suggest anyone else stepped foot into Brine’s house recently.”

  “Huh.”

  “It might be a suicide, Rosetti.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You’re still not convinced.”

  I studied the handwriting of Wilkes’s notes, then closed my eyes. I tried to sort through my emotions and pull the ones from Ramone free from the ones of Harry Brine’s case. It was impossible.

  “It was a gut feeling this morning,” I said finally. “I’m not so sure anymore. But Melinda will figure it out—she’ll get it right.”

  “I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about you.”

  “I’ll be fine. I’m surrounded by feds. Even Wilkes can’t be thrilled that his first killing triggered the system. He would have expected to fly under the radar... at least for a while.”

  “He could have avoided it,” Jimmy pointed out. “All the man had to do was leave the victim’s teeth in his mouth.”

  “A very good point. Well, keep me posted on the Brine case.”

  “You’re at a dead end and needed a distraction?”

  I hid a smile. “Get back to your doughnut, Jones.”

  Next up on my distraction task list was Melinda, but her phone went straight to voicemail, which was just fine because I didn’t have much to say anyway. Lassie, however, answered with the same enthusiasm of a golden retriever pup.

  “I heard you caught a gigantically huge case!” Lassie even sounded blonde and bubbly. “Can I get an exclusive?”

  “Don’t start,” I said. “Though I do need a favor.”

  “Friendship is a two-way street.”

  “Let’s talk about Harry Brine.”

  “Harry? Oh, I can’t help you out much there. He’s ignoring me after my last article calling him an eligible bachelor—I don’t know why. It was a compliment. But don’t worry, eventually, I just wear people down. Like you. I don’t think you liked me for a long time, but eventually I wormed my way into your cold little heart.”

  I laughed, something only Lassie could make me do at a time like the present. Unfortunately, the conversation turned somber when I remembered why I’d called her in the first place.

  “That’s a long silence,” Lassie prompted. “And you don’t ask for favors unless someone’s dead. Do you think Harry killed someone? Or—oh my stars!—Harry’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “I’m afraid so. But no blog posts until I say so, okay?”

  “How can I sit on this one?!”

  “Because I told you to. And if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t know a thing.”

  “But someone’s going to break the story.”

  I could practically hear her pouting over the phone. “I think there might be more to the story than just his death.”

  “Murder?”

  “I can’t comment yet. Autopsy is tomorrow morning, and things are...” I hesitated. “Let’s call them uncertain.”

  “This is bonkers! I just ran a feature on him not too long ago!”

  “Exactly. Did you learn anything about him?”

  “I think he was having an affair with someone high profile,” she said in a hushed voice as if sharing classified secrets. “Listen, Kate. He was on all the bachelor lists including mine. Handsome, rich, sorta famous but not so famous that he was unattainable—all that juicy stuff. He went out with lots of women. Then a few weeks ago, he stopped.”

  “Which part, the dating?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Rumor is, he even declined a date with Emmy Tolinger—visiting superstar.”

  “The singer?”

  “Come on, Kate. She’s an actress.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Anyway, she came to town?”

  “Made a public declaration she wanted to go out with Harry. It looked like he was going to accept—and former Harry totally would have—then last minute, he cancelled. He didn’t make a public appearance with another woman after that!”

  “Maybe he was busy?”

  “Not that busy,” she said. “He was seeing someone.”

  “Any ideas as to who?” I asked, thinking of the high heeled shoe prints.

  “I wish I knew. Dang, that would’ve made a good story on its own. But now with Harry dead and murdered so awfully, it would make a fab story. Hey, do you think she did it? Jealous lover or something?”

  “I don’t know, Lassie,” I said. “But thanks. If you can, get ahold of Emily Toldart—”

  “Emmy Tolinger?”

  “That’s the one. See if you can get a read on what went wrong with their planned date.”

  “You got it. But hey, if you’re on a case in Wisconsin, the super huge one that we’re not mentioning, how come you’re so interested in Brine? Shouldn’t that belong to someone else?”

  “Multitasking,” I said. “Talk to you soon.”

  With my list of to-dos checked off, I looked at the clock and was surprised to find that I was supposed to meet Russo in half an hour. I tidied up, added a bit of mascara and fluffed my hair, and opted to forego the lip gloss for the evening. That whole crossing lines business weighed heavily on my mind.

  I grabbed a small purse and shoved my phone and credit cards inside, along with my room key. My gun was at my hip. This definitely wasn’t a date. As my mother had pointed out, weapons were not a conducive accessory to a romantic evening.

  Picking up the letters from Wilkes, I debated tossing them in my bag as well. I’d considered bringing them to the chief from the moment they’d arrived in my mailbox, but I’d opted not to. Wilkes had been arrested, safely stashed in a cell behind metal bars that couldn’t be broken or bent. He had no chance of parole.

  I’d thought he had no chance of escape.

  Even more importantly, perhaps, was the fact that the letters had felt intensely personal. They alternated between Wilkes’s extreme hate for me, and a fascination that felt almost loving in nature. I’d already had enough of my personal life exposed on the case, and I hadn’t wanted to draw more attention to myself.

  The chief, Jimmy, and my family had already worried about my mental health after Wilkes’s trial, and telling them about his continued correspondence felt borderline selfish. Why should they worry about Wilkes when they couldn’t do anything about it? I already worried enough to make up for everyone else.

  I stashed the letters deep in my purse and slung it over my shoulder. Maybe I’d show Russo. Maybe not. I’d make the decision in the heat of the moment.

  I met Russo in the lobby of the hotel. He looked sharp in jeans and a quarter-zip, blue cashmere sweater that appeared soft enough to use as a blanket. His hair was damp and pushed upward messily, as if he’d run his fingers through it after a shower. His hands were shoved in his pockets, and he leaned against the wall, one leg kicked up behind him, waiting for my arrival.

  When he saw me, his face melted into a smile. “Hey, you.”

  “Russo.” I nodded, twitched my purse higher. “Where do you want to eat?”

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I made us reservations. The best place here fills up quick.”

  “In the middle of Wisconsin?” I raised my eyebrows. “You’re joking.”

  He winked, flipped his keys in a circle over his fingers. “You don’t mind going out, do you? I need to clear my head.”

  “Doesn’t sound like I have much of a choice.”

  “You always have a choice, detective,” Russo said. “But if you trust me, you’ll come along without complaining. You have to admit, I have excellent taste.”

  “In what?”

  He grinned again. “We’ll start with food and work our way up from there.”

  It was easy to slip into the familiar conversational banter with Russo. We made small talk on the way to the restaurant, neither of us addressing the weeks of silence that had passed
after our last case together.

  He’d called twice. I’d answered once, but I’d been on a case. The second time he’d called, I’d listened to the message and promptly forgotten about it. By the time I’d remembered some five days later, it had seemed too late to call him back out of the blue.

  We pulled up in front of a darkened building with a single neon sign announcing the restaurant as a steakhouse.

  “Come to the Midwest, you need to get a steak,” he said. “It’s a rule.”

  I didn’t argue. My stomach grumbled as I thought back to the sandwich I’d slammed into the trashcan earlier that evening. I’d be needing a big steak to keep my mind off the way Russo’s arms filled out his soft-looking sweater, or the way his tiny dimples appeared when he smiled.

  The restaurant looked older than most homes in the area. It was well-kept in a way that maintained the original flavor of the era in which it’d been built. Lots of deep reds and mahoganies made for a rich ambiance, combined with a dim glow from an array of crystal chandeliers.

  “I’ll take...” I scanned the menu, then pointed to the biggest, most expensive steak. I glanced up at Russo to see if he blanched at my choice.

  “It’s the least the FBI can do for its esteemed consultant,” he said with a mock bow of his head. He glanced up at the waiter. “I’ll take the same. We’ll share a bottle of the cab. We’ll take sides of mac and cheese, potatoes with mushrooms, and an appetizer of fried calamari—extra sauce.”

  “Well,” I said, folding up the menu and handing it back to the waiter. “Looks like I won’t have to eat for a year after this.”

  “There’s this place in DC, if you’re ever in the area, I’d love to—”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call you back,” I blurted. “It wasn’t on purpose.”

  Russo unfolded the napkin over his lap. “It’s fine. You were a long shot in the first place.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Come on, you know exactly what I mean. We never got along, Kate. You hated my guts from the second you laid eyes on me.”

  “Hate is a very strong word.”

  “Let me try and remember your exact first words about me.”

  “Please don’t,” I mumbled.

  “Something about a colossal pain in the ass?” Russo shrugged. “And that was quite polite, I’m guessing, compared to what actually crossed your mind.”

  “It wasn’t personal. I was just upset about the case.”

  “You get very emotionally invested in your work.” Russo’s eyes landed knowingly on mine. “I am well aware. I admire it.”

  I shifted, uncomfortable under his piercing stare. “I meant it about the phone call. I listened to your message on the way to a crime scene. Then I got there, and the case took up my time for the next few days. By the time I wrapped paperwork on it and pulled my head out of the sand, it was a week later, and...”

  “You felt awkward?” Russo shrugged. “I would’ve understood. I never expected you to call me back the second you got off the clock. I work long hours too. I get this job; I really do. I know it’s hard to find someone who understands—I haven’t found anyone either.”

  “Have you ever been married?”

  “Once. Briefly.”

  “I’m sorry it, uh, ended.”

  “It was a long time ago. We were both young,” Russo said. “She wanted kids right away, and I wanted to wait. She left me for someone older. And more importantly, in the banking industry.”

  I winced. “Jeez.”

  “We weren’t meant to be together. College sweethearts.” Russo gave a quick shrug. “Neither of us anticipated the road our lives would take. And I underestimated how much of my life would be given to the job.”

  “Do you ever regret it?”

  “The marriage or the career choice?”

  “Either?” I shrugged. “Both?”

  He considered while a waiter appeared with a bottle of cabernet. The server let me test it first. I awkwardly swirled the wine around and gulped it down. The waiter looked displeased with my tasting procedures.

  “I take it you don’t mind the taste,” Russo said with a laugh. He gestured for the server to leave the bottle. “We’ll take some waters, too. And maybe bread for the table at the rate she’s going.”

  My cheeks flushed. “I never claimed to be classy.”

  Russo poured out two glasses. “You’re honest, which is better.”

  We clinked our wine glasses together and took a sip before relaxing into our respective chairs.

  “No,” he said finally. “I don’t regret it. Either. My ex-wife is a very sweet woman, just not the one for me. I’ve never looked back. She deserved to be happy with a family just like she dreamed. As for the career...” His eyes fixed on me. “I am the job. I wouldn’t know who to be without it.”

  “I know,” I whispered. “I feel the same way.”

  I gulped another sip of cabernet at my admission. It felt keenly personal to admit such a thing.

  “My mother wants me to be married,” I said. “But little does she know, my only love notes come from killers.”

  Russo’s eyebrows furrowed together. “Are you talking about—”

  “It’s an expression. One I made up,” I said quickly. “You know, dead bodies being my Valentine—ha, ha, ha—good joke.”

  Russo didn’t look convinced, but he gave a slight nod. “Have you ever considered a career with the FBI?”

  I spluttered a laugh. When Russo didn’t echo my amusement, I shook my head. “You’ve got to be joking. Me?”

  “With your pedigree, you could do it,” Russo said. “You bagged Wilkes the first time around. Youngest female detective in the Twin Cities. You just added a new tally mark to your wins by throwing Reggie in the slammer on our last case. If you ever wanted, I could put in a good word for you.”

  “Are you asking me if I’d ever move to DC?”

  A small part of me took pleasure in the fact that Russo’s face pinkened ever so slightly. He was saved by the server who appeared with a basket of bread. The waiter took one look at our glasses and reached for the cab, topped us both off.

  “The last case was teamwork,” I said. “I couldn’t have done it without your help. I still think you didn’t take enough credit.”

  “I didn’t do it for the credit.”

  “The feds always do it for the credit,” I said teasingly. Russo’s eyes crinkled in response, but I wanted to see his full-on smile. “I mean it. I appreciate your help on the case, and I’m sorry about how I acted at first. You know, and later. When I didn’t call you back. Is that why you didn’t call me personally to come out to LaCrosse?”

  Russo wrapped his fingers around his wine glass and studied the red liquid there. “Would you have answered?”

  I thought back to the Harry Brine case and realized that the answer was probably no. I would have seen the message, pegged it as personal territory I wanted to avoid, and shoved it to the back of my mind until the Brine case was wrapped. A week later, I would have remembered about the call and determined it much too late to call Russo back, yet again.

  “I see your point,” I said. “But understand my surprise when I showed up and found you here. It wasn’t an accident, was it?”

  “Not exactly. The case pinged because of certain parameters we had set up. The guy who caught it noticed that you and I had just worked together, and that your name was all over Wilkes’s case files.”

  “And my reputation precedes me,” I said with a hint of a smile. “He decided to hand the case off to you so he didn’t have to deal with me.”

  “His loss.”

  I barked a laugh. “Yeah, right. For what it’s worth, I was glad to see you there. At least I know someone capable is covering the case.”

  “That might just be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  “Don’t get used to it. I’m buttering you up to ask who the case belongs to.”

  “If everything comes back tom
orrow, and it’s determined that Wilkes is most likely behind the murders—”

  “—which it will—”

  “—this will fall within the FBI’s jurisdiction.”

  “I suppose that means I’ll be shipped back to Minnesota to work on Harry Brine’s suicide that I’m trying to turn into a murder?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Forget it.”

  Russo spread his hands wide just as the server deposited bread on the table. “As a matter of fact, consider this your welcome dinner. I won’t call you an honorary agent, but I hope you won’t mind the title of a consultant to the FBI.”

  I pretended to consider. “Do I get a windbreaker?”

  “I’ll trade you a windbreaker for your agreement to have a protective detail put on you.”

  “Keep your damn windbreaker.”

  Russo covered his mouth with a hand to hide his smile. “I’ll wear you down yet. But in all seriousness, detective, we’d like to ask you to consult on the case.”

  “Because you think he’ll come after me?” I shook my head. “No, thanks. I prefer not to be federal bait.”

  “The FBI doesn’t want to take you on as a consultant. Too much red tape, and we’d have to pay you,” Russo said with a wry smile. “But I think differently, and I managed to convince the big dogs that you’re worth it. Nobody knows Wilkes better than you. I might never have met the man before, but I’m willing to bet he’ll be killing again.”

  “That’s about the only thing I know for certain.”

  “Then we need your help, detective. Where does he go from here? What’s Wilkes’s endgame?”

  The letters burned a hole in my purse, but I couldn’t bring myself to take them out. Couldn’t bring myself to expose the weakness Wilkes had unearthed in me and trampled until he radiated through my nightmares.

  I coughed, swallowed. “Well, Wilkes’s last killings were all in the Twin Cities. He was originally born in Chicago. His dad left when he was just a baby—”

  “Let me guess, his mom was a prostitute, a series of men abused him?”

  I bit my lip, looked at the table. “Contrary to what you might think, Wilkes was raised by his single mother—a fourth grade teacher at a local public school in the Chi-town suburbs. They didn’t have a life of luxury, but so far as anyone knows, he wasn’t tortured, beaten, raped, or mistreated in any way.”