Riddle Me This (Detective Kate Rosetti Mystery Book 2)

by Gina LaManna

  We stepped outside, and for the first time in a long while, I squinted upward to feel sunlight hit my face. The dirty patches of snow had begun to melt, and the light sound of trickling water surrounded us—drips from the treetops, icicles clinging to the last dredges of life, pools of melted snow scurrying toward gutters. A few brave birds chirped.

  “Spring is coming, huh?” Russo shielded his eyes and glanced upward. “Downright balmy at forty-two degrees today.”

  “It always gets warm before the chill,” I warned him. “Just you wait.”

  Russo gave me a complicated look that told me he was thinking about the case, not the weather. He gave a quick nod as we climbed the stairs to a house thirty minutes outside of LaCrosse.

  It was a farm-style house without an actual farm attached. The Tate family had acreage, however, and their neighbors were few and far between. Their home was well-kept and bright, and as usual, I hated the part about having to visit a newly grieving family and pester them for details into their son’s personal life.

  Mr. Tate, Jonathan’s father, opened the door and led us into the living room where his wife waited on the couch, a tissue clutched in her hand. She wore flannel pants and a thin black t-shirt that looked a hint too stylish to be pajamas. Mr. Tate had dressed similarly in thick jeans with a flannel top that told me he’d either ordered it straight off a J. Crew catalogue, or he was actually ready to head outside and chop wood.

  “We are so sorry for your loss,” I said. “I apologize for having to come into your home under such circumstances. I’m Detective Kate Rosetti, and this is Special Agent Jack Russo. We promise to do everything we can to find the man who murdered your son.”

  At the word murder, Mrs. Tate burst into tears. Her husband gave me a dark look, then leaned over and rested a hand on his wife’s shoulder. His wedding ring glinted in the sunlight against white knuckles.

  “Who would have ever wanted to... How can Jon be dead?” Mrs. Tate asked. “He was the nicest man I’d ever met—and I swear I’m not just saying that because I’m his mother. He was an accountant, dating a nice young woman. He probably would have proposed, you know.”

  “And the name of this woman...” I prompted.

  Russo looked at me. We had the name—it’d been programmed into Jonathan Tate’s phone. But it never hurt to ask. It wouldn’t be the first time a man had harbored secrets as to his personal life.

  “Jennifer Kentwood,” Mrs. Tate said. “S-she said y’all were going to talk to her this morning. She came over last night when she heard the news and stayed until early this morning. Obviously, we’re all terribly shaken up—she’s as bad as the rest of us. Couldn’t stop crying.”

  “I understand,” I said. “And yes, we’d like to talk to Jennifer. But for now, could you tell us a bit about your son? Did he travel at all? Was he in contact with anyone in or near the state of Texas?”

  “Texas?” Mrs. Tate frowned and looked at her husband. “Do you know anyone in Texas?”

  Mr. Tate shook his head. “What sort of question is that?”

  “We’re just exploring all leads. What about Jon’s life in general? Did he travel? Was he happy at work?”

  “So far as I knew,” Mrs. Tate said. “He worked at a local accounting firm. He rarely went further than Chicago for work. He wasn’t exactly a... what some might call a high achiever when it came to his career, but he was happy with what he did. He loved hiking on the weekends—he and Jennifer just got a dog.”

  “A dog?”

  “It’s at Jennifer’s place,” Mrs. Tate said in explanation. “The two weren’t living together yet. They were waiting to get engaged. They’re a bit old fashioned,” she said proudly. “You don’t see much of that these days.”

  “Have you ever seen this man before?” I pulled out a photo from my purse of Ramone Wilkes.

  “Is that the man who—” Mr. Tate cut himself off, his knuckles whiter with each breath as he massaged his wife’s shoulder. Mrs. Tate shifted uncomfortably under his grasp, tugging herself free.

  “We’re not entirely sure,” I said. “I’m just trying to cover all of our bases.”

  “He looks...” Mrs. Tate scrunched her face in concentration. “Familiar. But not so familiar I can say a name, or even place him. Maybe I’m making it up. I’m so tired. I barely slept all night.”

  I nodded. “Was Jonathan acting strangely at all in the last few weeks? Was there any indication that something in his schedule had changed?”

  Mrs. Tate shook his head. “I saw him once or twice a week—I sometimes helped watch the dog while the kids were at work. I’m sorry, detective. There’s just nothing more for me to tell you. My son was a good man. He didn’t deserve to die.”

  We left the Tate family home after a few more wrap up questions and another round of heartfelt apologies for their son’s death that would never be enough. Russo and I made our way back to the car with somber steps. The birds no longer seemed to chirp as cheerily.

  “Jennifer Kentwood,” Russo muttered under his breath. “Another dead end, no doubt.”

  Still, he pointed the vehicle back toward LaCrosse and made the drive in twenty minutes flat. The house we parked in front of this time was a very pale shade of pink that had faded from years of sun and snow and all sorts of in-between weather.

  “If I’ve learned one thing from Wilkes, it’s that you never know when you’ll hit a dead end,” I said, thinking of his non-descriptive letters, “or when he’s leaving us a message.”

  Russo wisely kept any commentary to himself as I raised a fist and knocked twice on the door. It opened . I assumed Jennifer had been watching from the windows for our arrival because it happened almost instantaneously.

  The second I caught sight of Jennifer, my heart sank. Her eyes were swollen and bloodshot, and there was an emptiness in them that ached from a foot away. She was thin and petite, her blonde hair scraggly and tossed over one shoulder, tied back in a flimsy ponytail.

  “Y-you’re the cops,” she said in a shaky voice. “They told me you’d be asking questions about Jonathan.”

  “I’m Detective Rosetti,” I said again, then introduced Russo with the same song and dance, adding yet another apology to the mix. “We are sorry to be here under these circumstances, but anything you might remember about your boyfriend could be helpful to us in finding his killer.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “I just can’t believe he’s gone.”

  I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. “May we...”

  “Oh, of course.” Jennifer pulled the door the rest of the way open. “Come on in. Can I get you coffee? Er, tea? I don’t know how things like this go.”

  “We’re fine,” I said. “Can we get you anything? Maybe it would be best if we sat down.”

  Once we’d moved to a sitting room with large bay windows that opened to reveal the quaint residential street out front, I looked to Russo to see if he wanted to take the lead. He gave me a thin smile that passed the torch back to me.

  “Ms. Kentwood—”

  “Jennifer, please.”

  “Jennifer, tell us about Jonathan—specifically, if there were any changes to his personality lately,” I said. “Was he normally kind and patient, but recently antsy and tired? Or maybe the reverse? Did he travel more or less, stay out late or come home early?”

  Jennifer gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Not really. I mean, we had a nice schedule. We both went to work during the day. He’d get home first, let the dog out from his place. Then, most nights, I’d join him—often at his place but sometimes at mine, and we’d... I don’t know, do normal things. Cook dinner together. Watch some TV. Sometimes at night, we’d just be together quietly—I’d read or something, and he would clock some overtime or work on a project around the house. We were a normal couple.”

  “Did you stay at his place often?”

  “Sure, and when I didn’t, he stayed at mine. More nights than not, I mean. If one of us had to work late or early, sometimes we’
d sleep apart, but that was the exception not the rule.”

  “Did Jonathan ever travel for work?”

  “Not much. A few times to Chicago, but they were short trips. I didn’t go with, if that’s what you’re asking. Do you think...” Jennifer hesitated. “Do you think he met someone there?”

  “Not—”

  “No, he wouldn’t have.” She shook her head, answered her own question. “You’re talking about another woman, right? Absolutely not. He was honest, and he loved me. We loved each other. There was no way he would’ve done that to me.”

  “I was actually wondering if he ever visited Texas.”

  “Texas?” Her eyes flickered toward both of us in confusion. “Why Texas?”

  “Did he know anyone there? Work acquaintances, family, etc.?”

  “I don’t think he’s ever stepped foot in Texas. Jonathan was born and raised in Wisconsin, and aside from a few weekend trips in the area, I don’t think he’s stepped foot out of the Midwest.”

  “And you?”

  “What about me?” she asked weakly.

  “Do you have any family in Texas, travel there?”

  “No family, no travel there. I’m from Iowa but have been living in Wisconsin for years. It’s home now.”

  “How long had the two of you been together?”

  “Two years. We met on a dating app, believe it or not.”

  “What do you do for work?”

  “I’m a teacher. Middle school.”

  I nodded, took a break to reassess, and jotted down a few notes. Not that I had anything noteworthy to report, but the process let my brain catch up to the conversation.

  “What do you know about Jonathan’s death?” she asked while I scribbled. “I feel like there’s something you all aren’t telling us. Please, I loved him. So did his parents. We deserve to know.”

  “Absolutely,” I agreed. “You absolutely deserve to know. And we’ll keep you posted as soon as we have any leads.”

  “Was it random? Who would do something like that?”

  “That’s what we’re looking into.” I glanced at Russo, then back to Jennifer. “And yes, there does seem to be an unfortunate element of bad luck and opportunity to your boyfriend’s death. Wrong place, wrong time. Some things... just can’t be explained. I know that doesn’t help, but sometimes it’s the truth.”

  She sniffed, tears falling from her eyes. “I only ask for the truth. Will you find him? Whoever did this to Jonathan? Did he... did he suffer?”

  I opted not to answer the latter. Wilkes’s victims always suffered. Both the living and the dead. “We will find him,” I promised instead. “It’s my personal priority to ensure this man is put behind bars for a long, long time.”

  She nodded, stood. “Can I get you a bite to eat before you go? Or maybe, I don’t know—” She was cut off by the sound of a dog barking. A little Yorkie wriggled into the room and stood at Jennifer’s feet, yipping up at her. “This is Biscuit. We’d just gotten him before... well, you know.”

  An idea struck me. “Did Jonathan keep anything else here? You said the two of you often spent the night at each other’s houses?”

  Her eyes shifted between the two of us. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “We have a team sorting through Jonathan’s house for any clues that might lead us to his killer, but maybe he left something here instead.”

  “I guess that’s not entirely accurate, what I told you before. We mostly stayed at his place,” she admitted. “If Jonathan kept anything here, it’d be in the spare bedroom. A lot of the time when he stayed over, I’d go to bed first. He’d be up later working, and he always went in there so as not to disturb me. I need my sleep, you know—dealing with kids all day, every day.”

  “Do you mind if I take a peek in there?”

  “Sure, of course. Whatever you need.”

  I could feel the question mark radiating from Russo’s direction as I stood and followed Jennifer out of the room. She led me up a rickety staircase that creaked and groaned as we moved to the second level.

  I glimpsed a room through the first door. A fluffy white comforter sat on the bed, rumpled, as if she hadn’t had the time to make it that morning. Pillows and throws had been scattered on the floor and forgotten.

  “It’s in here.” Jennifer interrupted my scan of the master bedroom, pointing toward the room at the other end of the hallway.

  I gave her an apologetic nod, then let myself in and found a daybed pressed up against one wall and a petite desk against another. A small light sat over the desk, along with a few notepads and a calculator.

  “Didn’t know anyone still used one of these,” I said, gesturing toward the calculator as I scanned the desk. “It was Jonathan’s?”

  “He was a bit old fashioned.” Jennifer gave an indulgent smile. “Didn’t want to move in together until we got engaged. He preferred to use the calculator for some of his little projects instead of the computer. Said it gave his eyes a break and let his brain wander.”

  “I get it.” I reached for a drawer. “Do you mind if I poke through?”

  “I don’t know what’s in there. Originally, I’d thought I might use this desk for writing letters or something. It seemed like a cute idea, but...” She shrugged as if to say ‘who writes letters anymore?’ and smiled. “It’s all Jonathan’s stuff. He’s the only one who used this room—except for Biscuit. There’s a comfy spot near the window where he likes to nap.”

  I thumbed through the drawers, but there wasn’t much inside except for a few reams of loose-leaf paper and old notebooks with doodles scrawled across the tattered pages.

  I opened the drawers in turn, finding each one progressively barer than the last. The bottom drawer contained nothing more than a couple of gum wrappers and broken nubs of pencils. A few paperclips rattled around as I pressed it closed.

  That’s when I noticed the envelope underneath the desk. I bent and retrieved it, my fingers going clammy when I recognized it. I straightened and set it on the desk. It wasn’t an envelope, as a matter of fact, but a letter on blank white cardstock. There were no markings on the front, but when I flipped it open, I saw a familiar scrawl.

  Somewhere, deep down, the neatly folded loose-leaf had triggered a response in me. I’d known it would be him, known it was Wilkes.

  My fingers shook. I didn’t register Jennifer’s presence by my side until it was too late.

  “What is that?” she asked. “Is it Jonathan’s? There’s no name on it—no anything.”

  Except Jennifer was wrong. There was a one-line message on it, and it was addressed to me—even if my name wasn’t written in pen.

  I’ll See You Soon.

  It wasn’t signed. Wasn’t addressed. There was no envelope to go with it. I dropped to my knees and scoured the floor. Then I re-opened the drawers, snapped on a pair of gloves, and sorted through everything in painstaking detail.

  I was vaguely aware of Russo and Jennifer whispering in the background, but I couldn’t make out a word they said. I was sure one of them asked me a question at some point, but it flew right over my head.

  Finally, I’d surmised that there was nothing more. Wilkes would have been careful, and anyone he worked with in any capacity would have been careful as well. So, what was this? His best attempt at a threat?

  I must have wondered the last question aloud because a hand touched my elbow, and I jumped in surprise. A glance up told me it was Russo, who looked inherently concerned.

  “Is what a threat?” he asked. Lowering his voice, he stepped closer. “You’re making Jennifer nervous and, frankly, me too. What’s going on?”

  “It’s him.” I reached for the letter, spun it around. “That’s his writing.”

  Russo studied it. “You’re certain?”

  “It’ll have to be tested, but yes, I’m sure.”

  “How?”

  “I—” I stopped abruptly. It didn’t feel like the time or place to spill about the secret letters
. Not in front of a grieving girlfriend. “I studied him for months before and during his trial. I’ve seen his writing.”

  Russo’s hand slid over my wrist, grasped me firmly. His eyes dropped to mine, then watched my lips as he spoke. “I don’t believe you.”

  I twisted my arm out of his. “Not my problem. We’ll need to get a team in here to search for anything else.”

  “What have you found?” Jennifer’s voice rose. “Nobody’s telling me anything.”

  “Do you know who this is from?” I flipped the note around and showed Jennifer. “Please, look carefully. Tell me if you’ve seen this—or anything like it—before.”

  “No, I told you. I haven’t seen it before. Was it under the desk? Why would it be there?” She inhaled a breath. “He dropped it? Did the dog move it? I don’t understand.”

  “Would he have kept things anywhere else?”

  She shook her head. “Maybe a toothbrush in the bathroom or a pair of socks in the master bedroom. Feel free to look around, but any of his papers and stuff he was working on would be in here. You can see for yourself that it’s pretty sparse.”

  I nodded, glanced at the floor. “Maybe he hadn’t intended to leave this at your place. It could have fallen to the ground, drifted under the desk. Did Jonathan receive mail here?”

  “No, nothing. Like I said, we were waiting—”

  “Until you were engaged to make things official. Right.” I sighed. “Jennifer, there was a reason I asked if Jonathan had contact with anyone in Texas. I believe—we believe—that a man who recently escaped from prison might be responsible for your boyfriend’s death.”

  Her eyes widened, and her skin paled. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Jonathan? Financial wizard Jonathan? Why on earth would a deranged convict travel across the country to kill my boyfriend?”

  “I don’t know, but there’s a chance this is his handwriting. Obviously, we’ll have to get the sample confirmed by the lab, and I’d appreciate you keeping this quiet. But if you can think of anything that might tie Jonathan to a—”

  “A murderer? Wait a second. I am such an idiot.” Jennifer slapped her forehead, her eyes flashing with pain. “I didn’t put two and two together. His charity project must have been with a prisoner from Texas. I am so stupid.”