Riddle Me This (Detective Kate Rosetti Mystery Book 2)

by Gina LaManna

  “Nice of you to make it,” I said with a grin, chomping on a plate of grapes when he appeared in the doorway. “Saddle up, partner.”

  Chapter 8

  The flight itself was smooth.

  The mood inside the plane, however, was quite turbulent.

  It probably hadn’t been my best move ever to upset the two men who were my closest alliances on a case that could very well cost me my life. But that was about par for the course. It wasn’t often I found myself on the easy road.

  For the majority of the flight, Gem paced near the front of the cabin. He alternated between speaking in low tones into his phone and reading messages on his device. Now and again, he’d type furiously or shake his head or bark out a message to his staff.

  Meanwhile, Russo made it his business to clean Gem out of as much food as he could eat. Together, we polished off a plate of fruit, a tray of finger sandwiches, two carafes of coffee, and half a platter of miniature doughnuts.

  “Can I get you anything else?” Gem asked. “I’m sure we can scrounge up some saltine crackers that haven’t been attacked.”

  Russo patted a hand on his chest. “I’m good. Thanks.”

  I waved off Gem as well and pulled out my computer. I spent the rest of the flight catching up on emails. There was one from Melinda confirming she’d received the autopsy report from the ME I’d spoken with in LaCrosse. The two had put their heads together and gone over the prior Wilkes reports, and the determination was clear. The killer was definitely Wilkes.

  As always, there was the slight chance it was the work of a copycat, Melinda admitted. She also stated that there was always the oddball chance it was all a gigantic coincidence—but no one believed any of that. And we’d believe it even less once we confirmed there’d been correspondence between the victim and the escaped prisoner.

  I thumbed through the reports Asha had pulled but most were quite unhelpful. However, the news broke while we were on the plane that the infamous prisoner Ramone Wilkes had escaped from prison, and since the stories hit the papers, Asha reported thirteen sightings of Wilkes—everywhere from a Vegas casino to an Iowa bus stop. Officers would be running down the leads, but they wouldn’t go anywhere.

  Before I knew it, our plane touched down and my phone beeped into serviceable range again. And beep it did. Before I could count the number of messages arriving in a slew on my phone, it rang again, and I hit answer without thinking.

  “It’s me,” Lassie said into the phone. “I’ve been calling you all afternoon! Where are you? The story broke, and my best friend is a detective—the detective on the case—and I had to keep my mouth shut. What’s that all about?”

  “I’m sorry, I’ve been on a plane.”

  “An airplane?”

  “Yeah, that’s the kind I’m talking about.”

  “I mean, where are you? What’s going on?”

  I hesitated, glanced at Russo and Gem, and stepped away from them as the door opened. I caught a glimpse of bright Texas sunshine, and for the briefest of seconds, I forgot that I’d come here on a case and not a vacation.

  “You can run your story,” I said. “But there’ll be more later.”

  “Is there more now? All they’re saying is that he escaped from prison. Is he—did he kill someone? Is that why you’re suddenly jetting around the country?”

  “We think so,” I said. “LaCrosse. Look it up, do your research, and hold. I’ll confirm with you later.”

  “If I haven’t told you lately, I love you.” Lassie started to say goodbye, then she paused. “Oh, and I have a source that says Harry Brine definitely had a girlfriend. A friend of mine overheard a lady bragging about her date with him the other day.”

  “Which friend?”

  “Oh, you know, the shoe kind of friend.” Lassie expelled a breath. “Okay, she’s not a friend, but I see her enough to call her a friend. Her name’s Cassandra and she works at the shoe department inside Nordstrom’s. I was there earlier—you know, to think—and we got to talking. She said a woman was in there the other day and bought the exact same shoes I bought.”

  “What sort of shoes?”

  “Don’t judge me, Kate. Just because you have a taste in footwear to rival the Flintstones—”

  “Not judging. I’m curious.”

  “Blue shoes,” she said hesitantly. “I’d tell you the name brand, but it wouldn’t mean anything to you.”

  “High heels?”

  “Very,” Lassie gushed. “Like, you know the kind. Stilettos. Super sexy. I don’t have anywhere to wear them, but apparently the other customer did.”

  “Did you get a description?”

  “What am I, a detective?”

  “A reporter.”

  Lassie sighed. “I tried. Cassandra got a bit finicky and just said the lady had light brown hair. Which rules out pretty much nobody.”

  “Height? A photo? Weight?”

  “Nothing,” Lassie said. “But if you want to flip your badge around, maybe Cassandra will talk.”

  “When I’m back in town, what do you say about taking me shoe shopping?”

  “I thought you’d never ask!” Lassie clapped gleefully. “I’d love to.”

  I waited a beat. “You know it’s just a cover story, right? I’m not actually going to buy a pair of shoes.”

  “No, but I will. I deserve them. Good detective work and all that.”

  I bid goodbye to Lassie as I caught Russo fending off the crew members who were trying to help him lug his suitcase away from the plane. My floral bag appeared mysteriously at my feet and someone handed me a bottle of water.

  A traitorous thought crossed my mind—just for a split second—that I could get used to this. Jetting around the country on a lark, having my every whim tended to by a pack of tireless staff, wearing the finest clothes and eating the finest foods without a care about the bill that’d arrive at the end of the month.

  Ripping open the bottle of water, I pushed the thought away. No wonder money looked so good on Gem, so easy. He’d gotten used to it. I could never get used to that much wealth, no matter how much I tried. Or so I told myself as I watched Gem climb down from the stairs and grin at me with perfectly white teeth.

  “Life isn’t fair,” I muttered as Russo pulled up beside me.

  “Oh,” he grunted. “So now we’re talking?”

  Gem joined us, looking carefully between me and Russo. “Where are we headed?”

  “We’ll take it from here,” Russo said. “Thank you.”

  “You won’t need transportation from the airfield?” Gem raised a hand and a car approached. It was red and shiny and didn’t look like any police vehicle I’d ever seen.

  I glanced over at Russo who was practically drooling. I knew as much about cars as I knew about shoes, but it appeared that the vehicle before us was a special one in the eyes of both males.

  “You can drive,” Gem volunteered.

  “Me?” Russo gave a shake of his head. “I mean, I couldn’t. We’ll rent our own car. FBI protocol.”

  “And waste all that time?” Gem pulled out a set of keys, flipped them into his palm. “Seems like a shame. And I don’t have anywhere to go, so this guy would have to sit here. Alone.”

  “Maybe...” Russo gave a pained look at the car, then at the keys in Gem’s hand.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” I said, reaching for Gem’s hand and retrieving the keys. “Get in the car.”

  “I was supposed to drive,” Russo argued weakly.

  “Too late,” I said.

  “Shotgun.” Gem winked in my direction.

  It took Russo a few minutes to catch up to what had happened. When he did, a scowl took over his face and he stomped back across the airfield to the car. He pounded on the trunk to load in his suitcase, and it took me a full minute of fumbling with the keychain before Gem reached over and released it with an easy little click.

  Gem’s hand rested on mine for a second longer than necessary, but he pulled it back when Russo
straightened and went for the car. I went for the driver’s side, Gem the passenger’s seat.

  “Dang,” I said, once we’d all gotten situated. “I don’t know how to drive a stick.”

  Russo didn’t waste another moment. Before I knew what had happened, he’d shoved me into the back seat and taken control of the front. As Russo lovingly stroked the steering wheel and tested the seat, Gem’s gaze met mine in the rearview mirror. I rolled my eyes back.

  The prison was forty minutes away. The route took us down lots of long and winding open roads on which Russo took full advantage of stretching the car’s legs.

  “She’s amazing,” Russo said, not for the first time, as he patted the dashboard. “Is she yours?”

  Gem shrugged. “She can be.”

  “I’ve always wanted to sit in one of these, but I’ve never gotten the chance. Do you have a garage in the Cities?”

  “I do.” Gem’s eyes gleamed. “I’ve added a few to my collection recently. Maybe you’d like to stop by and check it out sometime?”

  “I’m a classic guy.”

  “I’ve got classics.”

  “Tell me you’ve got an Aston Martin DB5, and I’m there.”

  “Two. You can test drive one if you’re interested.”

  Russo’s eyes practically rolled back in his head. The look on his face told me the car in question was better than most finer things in life.

  “Hey, when you two flirts decide to stop this little mating dance, can you tell me why you took a left instead of a right back there?” I thumbed over my shoulder. “That was the sign for the prison.”

  “Whoops,” Russo said. “I guess I missed the turn-off.”

  “Better go around the block,” Gem said agreeably. “The big block.”

  Twenty minutes later, we finally pulled into the correct parking facility and found our way to the front desk. It took some badge flashing and gun checking and metal detecting before we got through. Russo had thankfully called ahead with his FBI credentials to grease the wheels that got us inside faster.

  “Who’s he?” the guard asked, nodding at Gem. “He’s not on my list.”

  “He’s...” Russo looked pained. As if he wanted to add Gem to the consultant roster just to ensure the use of his beloved vehicle.

  “Nobody,” I said quickly. “He’ll be waiting outside.”

  Gem didn’t seem bothered by the development. He was on his phone by the time Russo and I were buzzed through.

  “I see you made a friend?” I said dryly as we were led to an interview room. “Didn’t see that one coming.”

  “Gem’s great,” Russo said. “Honestly, I can’t believe you didn’t call him back.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I just assumed based on your prior behavior.” Russo looked over at me. “He really called you? And you ignored it?”

  “I’m ignoring you at the moment.”

  “No wonder he’s intrigued,” Russo said. “I’m as straight as an arrow, and I would’ve called the man back if he’d asked me on a date.”

  “You just want his cars.”

  “I don’t mind the food either, or the planes. Or pretty much anything he owns.”

  “Pathetic,” I said. “You just gave me a hard time for interacting with him at all.”

  “That was before I got to know him.”

  My next retort had to wait as a man was shown into the room. His wrists were shackled before his body. He wore a scruffy beard and traditional prisoner garb, along with a sardonic smile that chilled me to my bones. It was no wonder he’d befriended Wilkes—they both had the eyes of killers.

  I made quick introductions for Russo and myself. The prisoner’s name was Carl Young. He’d been in for ten years and had another thirty to serve.

  “What are you in for?” I asked.

  He smiled, exposing a few spaces where teeth belonged. “Killin’.”

  Russo’s moony-eyed smile had disappeared the second Carl had entered the room, all thoughts of cars long gone. “Talk to us about Ramone Wilkes.”

  “Why? You gonna get me a deal?”

  “You don’t deserve one,” I snapped. “But we’ll see. I don’t actually think you’ve got any information that’ll help us, so I’m not talking deals yet. Give us something good, and my friend Russo here will make it happen. He’s got connections you can only dream of.”

  “Mmhmm.” Carl didn’t seem convinced. “I’ve got nothing to say about him. Wilkes got out—good on him. If I knew how he’d did it, I’d do it myself.”

  I folded my hands, leaned forward onto the desk. “We flew down here to talk to you. I’m not going to waste a second more. Do you have something for me or not?”

  “Talk to me about a deal.”

  My eyes flicked toward Russo.

  “No.” Russo’s voice was swift and firm. “No deal until you get us something. What difference does it make to you anyway? You’ll be in here until you die. We’re your only hope.”

  Carl eased back in his seat, a smile turning up his lips as it twisted my stomach in knots. “This doesn’t sound like a very fun game. I ain’t saying another word.”

  My fists slammed against the table of their own accord. “Dammit! He’s already killed again.”

  Carl gave a soft laugh. “Pretty little detective needs help from Carl, huh?”

  I’d shown my cards and instantly regretted it. Anger coursed through my body, both at myself and at Carl—at myself for ruining any advantage we had and at Carl for wasting away without a care in the world.

  “A minute?” Russo’s hand was on my shoulder. He led me out of the room, spun me to face him once we were in the hallway. “What was that about?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Look, I know you’re personally invested in this case, but you can’t be losing your cool like that. We had him.”

  “We didn’t.” I ran a hand over my forehead. “It’s no wonder he was friends with Wilkes. Neither of them has any sort of conscience. Did you see the look in his eyes?”

  “I did. I also happen to be able to pull the right strings to get deals. But the more desperate we seem, the more difficult it’s going to be for us.”

  “We are desperate.”

  “And you think appealing to his emotional side is going to help us out?”

  I studied the floor. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why don’t I finish up in there? You can wait here, cool down. There’s one more interview. He’s got sixteen years left on a sentence. We might have more luck, but I’m going to need you to be in control of yourself.”

  Russo gave me one final look before he re-entered the interview room and finished up with Carl. I didn’t bother to listen in. I could see it on Carl’s face as they led him out. If he knew how Wilkes had gotten out, he’d be taking the secret to his grave. And it was all my fault.

  As if reading my mind, Russo stood behind the table and joined my side. “It’s not all your fault.”

  “Partially.”

  He didn’t disagree, which I appreciated. He ran a hand over his mouth, letting the clank of bars in the distance set the tone.

  “Are you ready for our next guest?”

  I peered up at him. “You’re going to let me in there after I blew up on Carl?”

  “Don’t be an idiot, Rosetti. You’re the best detective we’ve got on the case. Everyone loses their cool once in a while.”

  “Is that right? Have you ever lost your cool, Jack?”

  His gaze met mine, hard and unrelenting. “Much worse than you.”

  I released a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “What’s the plan for our second visitor of the day?”

  “This guy’s name is Elliot Niswager. He’s locked up for a laundry list of crimes—armed robbery, attempted murder, domestic violence—”

  “He likes variety.”

  Russo smacked his lips. “He’s been in here seven years, got sixteen to go, up for parole in ten. I’m thinking we tempt him with a de
al that can’t be refused. Parole in seven with good behavior.”

  “You can do that?”

  “I sure can’t. But if we catch Wilkes based on information Elliot gives us, I know someone who can.”

  “I’ll let you take the lead,” I muttered as we returned to the interview room.

  Moments later, guards led in a strikingly gaunt man. Elliot had tattoos on one hand and a half-shaved head. The other half of his head was covered in bleached blond hair so white it glinted off the harsh lighting.

  “Hey, gorgeous,” he said with an easy smile as he sat across from us.

  I looked to Russo because it wasn’t clear if he was talking to me or Jack. Russo raised his eyebrows. Elliot giggled creepily.

  “We’re here to talk about your buddy Wilkes.” Russo set his hands non-threateningly on the table. “And we’re prepared to compensate you for your cooperation.”

  “What sort of cooperation?” Again, Elliot released a high-pitched giggle. “Probably not the type I’m thinking.”

  “The type that could have you out of here in seven years.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Let’s just say we’ve got some people who want Wilkes, and they’re willing to pay.”

  “Even if I believed you, I’d want to see the paperwork before I give you anything. I want my lawyer.” Elliot flicked his thin wrist. “I know how this works. I want a signature dried before I open my pretty lips again.”

  “See, we don’t have time for that,” Russo said. “It’s now or never. And I mean never.”

  “Oh, I don’t buy that.” He ran a hand through his hair leaving it spiked in the wake of his fingers. “You can do whatever you want to do. I see that nice shiny badge you got.”

  “There are ranks, protocol—you and your lawyer both know all about it.” Russo shrugged. “It’s no skin off my nose if you don’t cooperate. We were just sent here to talk to you because we’re in the area. It’s not our case.”

  Elliot frowned. “You’re full of shit.”

  “Fine.” I smacked Russo on the shoulder. “I’m ready for dinner. I’m not getting paid OT for this, so I’m not sitting here longer. He doesn’t want to help.”