Bite My Fire: A Biting Love story.

by Mary Hughes

  His lip-curve became knowing. “You can cross me off your list. I was on the other side of town from sunset until about quarter after two.”

  Which, unless a dead body was lying smack in the middle Nieman’s parking lot for the entire evening and no one saw it, alibied Mr. Bo Strongwell for the time of the murder. Probably. “Anyone see you?”

  “Several people, Detective. A couple in Settler’s Square, and three or four at the Bed and Breakfast Smorgasbord, including Otto.”

  “I’ll check with them. In the meantime, I have some questions for you.”

  “Unfortunately, I still have to patrol. Perhaps another time. Here we are.” He gestured behind me.

  It was the oldest trick in the book. I’d stopped falling for misdirection about the same time I gave up my teething ring.

  But for some reason I was compelled to look. And in the instant I was distracted, Bo Strongwell disappeared into the night.

  Chapter Three

  I was typing up my notes when the desk phone rang. Our phones were the same black Bakelite they’d been for thirty years, so no caller ID. But they had those little light-up cubes, so I knew it was the direct line for my desk. Since I’d only been detective for three weeks, I doubted it was for me. “Detectives’ unit, O’Rourke speaking.”

  A harsh alto rapped out, “Hold for the mayor.”

  I shuddered. Even if she hadn’t said “mayor” I’d have recognized that bark. Mayor Meier’s secretary Heidi placed all calls for him (he was technically challenged, to put it kindly). Heidi looked exactly like the title character from the book with her blonde braids and blue eyes. Well, except for her spike-heeled hip boots. And her penchant for all things black leather. Oh yeah, and her heavy hand with the stud gun.

  A click was followed by a booming, jovial, “Elena, meine dear young Freundin, who I have since diapers known! So good to speak to you, ja?”

  Shoot me with a Mauser. “Mayor Meier, so good to, ah, listen to you. Ja. Um, aren’t you at work a little early?”

  “When I am hearing about the terrible death of our good citizen, Napoleon Schrimpf, I must immediately in be coming. This is just what we do not need.” He pronounced it “goot” and “yoost vat ve do not need”. Mayor Meier was the prototypical jolly German. Think Santa in lederhosen.

  Still, he was the mayor. Time to do my official cop thing. “Yes, Mayor. It’s terrible. But the department is more than up to the task of solving the crime and bringing the perpetrator to justice.”

  “Ja, ja, I am sure.” In the background, I heard a strange stinging sound. I couldn’t quite identify it under the mayor’s rolling tenor. “But I have heard this disturbing news just while at the Mayors of Urban Centers United Society conference I was.”

  Sometimes the mayor’s Deutscheglish was hard to follow. “You heard while you were at a conference at three in the morning?”

  “Ja, well, the meeting had moved to the Boom-Boom room at the hotel and a lovely young lady named Tawny was doing the dancing on the lap of the mayor of—”

  “Good! Um, so what is it you want from me, Mayor?”

  “This is a horrible crime.” The mayor paused and I heard a distinct crack. Like a snapped bungee, or a… “The other M.U.C.U.S. members gave for me a terrible ribbing. I can no longer my head hold up.”

  …Or a whip.

  “Now I am much disturbed, ja?”

  Heidi. Black leather. Whip. Much disturbed, ja-fuckin’-ja.

  “You must solve this crime right away, liebchen.” Hiss-snap! “Or our tourism will go kaput.”

  Oh, if only my hearing would go kaput. “I understand, Mayor Meier.”

  “Nein, I do not think you do. The pressure of the other mayors, it is beyond tolerance. Und—” he lowered his voice until I could barely hear him, “—meine good Heidi is not happy, you understand?”

  Oh yeah. That I understood way too well. “I’ll do my best, Mayor.”

  “Ja, I know. But just to sweeten the pot, I will a good word for you for the full detective with the Chief of Police in geputtin’.”

  I tried to untangle that. “A good word”, “Chief” and “full detective” I understood. But was “geputtin” a real word? “Well, thanks, Mayor…”

  “Ach, ja.” He chuckled. “Our own little Elena O’Rourke—who I have known since diapers you were wearing! I know you will not fail me.”

  As he hung up, I heard the whip cracking. For the mayor’s “goot verd”, I’d try to solve the case. But to avoid Heidi’s displeasure—I’d make sure of it.

  –—

  Six a.m. came. After I turned over my desk to Lieutenant Roet I punched my sister’s speed dial. Four rings clicked over into voice mail. I hung up and hit it again. And again.

  “H’lo?”

  “Gretchen, it’s Elena. Are you okay?”

  “Elena?” There was the rustle of movement, muted, like bedclothes. Then her voice came again, clearer. “Do you know what time it is?”

  “You’re the one who called me at four a.m. Aren’t you up yet?”

  “No. Or at least, I wasn’t.” She sounded a little peeved. “Can this wait?”

  “I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  There was a slight pause. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I don’t want to alarm you, but there’s a murder suspect living in your building.”

  “A what?”

  I winced. Smooth move, O’Rourke. “It’s probably nothing. But if you come across this guy you should be careful. Especially with Stella.”

  “I see. Who is this suspect?”

  “Big, blond, rugged good-looks. Says his name is Bo Strongwell.”

  “Bo Strongwell?” Her tone was utterly flabbergasted. “Bo Strongwell?”

  “You know him?” In either emphasis.

  “Know him?” she echoed.

  “Is there a reason you’re repeating everything I say?”

  “I’m repeating everything…?”

  “Gretchen!”

  “Yes. I mean, no.” That snapped her out of it. “I’m just surprised. I’ve seen him around, sure. He seems like such a nice guy.”

  “That’s what they say about all the killers. Look, it’s probably nothing. But be careful, okay? I’ll be there tonight and I’ll do some digging then. Six, right?”

  “Or a little earlier. We’re going dancing at the Alpine Retreat and Bar, and I want to be sure to have enough time before you go to work.”

  “Which reminds me. Why are you dating on your wedding anniversary?”

  “Me?” she squeaked. Another pause, long enough to be suspicious. “Well, because I could only—” dead spot, “—this time.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Because only—” dead spot, “—this time.”

  “Gretchen, I couldn’t hear you. Could you—”

  “Sorry, Elena, I have another call coming in. I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

  “But Gretch—” I was speaking to an empty line.

  The wonders of technology stank sometimes. Well. Gretchen was all right for now. And I’d warned her. I would see her tonight and grill her then.

  But I’d worry in the meantime.

  –—

  I was a little gritty-eyed from a difficult night but I decided to try interviewing a few suspects before going home. While I didn’t have a lot of information yet, a killer was usually someone the victim knew (according to Murder Investigation for Dummies). Someone at home or work.

  Napoleon Schrimpf’s home was on Eleventh and Walnut. I’d tried calling his wife from the office, and now I called again. No answer. Wanting to get notifying her over with, I headed south.

  The sun got hotter as it rose. Phew, I’d be glad when this heat wave broke. By the time I reached the Schrimpf home my tee was soaked.

  Knocking on Schrimpf’s carved wood door produced no results. I walked the perimeter, but the big house was closed up tighter than Strongwell’s ass…no, not going there. I trudged back through the rising thermals,
not thinking about Viking-strong bodies and blaming my wet jeans on the evil daystar.

  Napoleon’s Gym was next on my list. The sun beat on my dark hair the whole way. When I finally got to the gym I was pathetically grateful for the air conditioning. I think if I’d stayed outside any longer I’d have burst into flames.

  At the gym I interviewed five employees. But the sun must have fried my brain because I couldn’t pick out one liar. And that disturbed me.

  See, similar to my cop sense I had a truth radar. Before you point out that Schrimpf’s employees might have been telling the truth, let me say everyone lies. Yeah, as a cop I was born cynical. But this was from experience.

  The wonky truth radar might have been because I’d been on the job eleven hours straight. But I should have been stronger than that. Tougher.

  I wasn’t totally stupid however. I needed a clear head to solve this case. Obviously I needed sleep. I packed up my ego and went home.

  –—

  That evening I went to see my sister, who’d picked her wedding anniversary for her first date as a widow.

  I craned my neck to scope out the four-story cream-brick apartment. Housing on the northeast side was mostly old. What wasn’t small and homey was run down and tired.

  Not this building. It boasted beveled glass, gleaming yellow metal, beautifully varnished wood and a Steel Security system, very discreet and very pricey. Very un-north side. Cop sense twitching, I checked my gun (thumb safety on, chamber empty), then rang the buzzer. The door opened.

  I hit a time vortex.

  Standing in the doorway was a hundred forty haughty pounds of honest-to-goodness butler. Black coat, striped vest, silver hair, the whole enchilada.

  “Uh, I must have the wrong place.” I backed out of the entryway.

  The little guy made an elegant gesture toward the inside. I guessed it was Butlerish for “come in”. I reversed, inched toward the threshold. The sweet, cool air enticed me all the way.

  Jeeves closed the door behind me. “Whom do you seek, miss?”

  Whom. Butler Guy really said whom. He made it into a two-syllable word, who-um. Cue the Twilight Zone music—who didn’t use who?

  “I’m here to see my sister. Gretchen Johnson.” Speaking of Twilight Zone, if this was an apartment lobby, I was Rod Serling. No mailboxes, no buzzers, no discarded trash or cigarette butts. Just lots of polished wood that might have been mahogany. A floor of freaking marble. Ultra-efficient central air. Not a lobby, a foyer. A real, live foy-yay.

  Butler Guy raised one silver eyebrow. “Your sister, miss?”

  That, unfortunately, I was used to. Gretch and I didn’t look like sisters. Heck, we didn’t even look like the same species. Technically, Gretchen was my half-sister. Same father, way different mothers (one an international fashion model, the other a German nanny—guess who got the normal mom?) Gretch and I were as alike as peas in a pod, if one were a fairy princess pea and the other a big brunette basketball. Albeit a model-slim basketball with good bones, good skin and an awesome rifle-range score.

  “Yeah. I’m Elena O’Rourke. But…” But this couldn’t be where my sister lived. We weren’t poor, but working certainly wasn’t optional. I stared at the floor. Marble? Nah. It had to be vinyl. Just looked like marble—shit. Was that a crystal chandelier?

  Jeeves’s face cleared. “Oh, yes, Ms. O’Rourke. Mrs. Johnson is expecting you. This way.”

  It was the right place after all. I should have been relieved, but wasn’t. I followed Butler Guy up a sweeping staircase with a thick Oriental runner (did they even stock runners at Walmart?) wondering if Rod and I did share some DNA. Because what would my sister be doing in such a place? Unless…and if you’re thinking what I was thinking, you get ten bucks. Which is about the cost of a Meiers Corners blowjob.

  But my own sister, a hooker? With a five-year-old daughter? No way. No way Gretchen would… Damn, was that a Ming vase on the landing?

  “Elena!” Arms out, my petite blonde sister trotted toward me across carpeting that couldn’t be silk. Gretchen was pretty, loving and blessed with tons of energy. Think captain of the high school cheerleading squad, only sweet. “Thank you for coming! Stella is so excited.”

  My concerns melted at Gretchen’s sunny face. I love my sister. I’d do anything for her, brave anything to keep her safe. “Your first date in forever, Gretch. How could I not come?”

  I enveloped her in a hug, careful not to crack a rib. Besides our difference of forty-some pounds, I’m a black belt. Even most men don’t have my muscle.

  Or my cop instincts. My Spidey-sense kicked in. Danger. Behind me.

  My gun was out and pressed into Bo Strongwell’s rippling abs before recognition made me groan.

  As if Strongwell could care less that I’d almost shot him (again), his fiercely beautiful lips curved slightly. For just a second our eyes met, and some primitive recognition lanced between us, immobilizing me.

  Either that or the heat flash-fried my brain. While I stood, eyes eating up the chocolaty goodness of Mr. Mounds (-o’-Muscle) Bar, Gretchen slipped between him and the gun. “Elena, wait.” Her breastbone hit the barrel.

  I jerked the XD sideways. “Don’t do that!” I said, the same instant Strongwell barked, “Gretchen, no!”

  Instantly my sister was behind him and he was glaring at me with eyes gone the color of the frozen Arctic Ocean. Like it was my fault.

  My sister squeaked. “Mas…sir. Please don’t hurt her. This is my sister, sir. Elena.” She peeped from behind the guy’s bulk. “Elena, this is Bo Strongwell. He’s the, ah, building supervisor.”

  Sweet cream-filled Berettas. A glorified janitor. Dangerous, right. I holstered my gun. “Didn’t I tell you not to sneak up on people like that, Strongwell?”

  Gretchen’s face went white, but it wasn’t like I’d thrown up on the Japanese Prime Minister, or anything. I’d just reamed out a grunt who, no matter how gorgeous, richly deserved it. You don’t sneak up on a cop.

  Strongwell didn’t get upset, though. His eyes thawed to a rich sapphire. Those sexy lips started curving again. “I will heed your advice in the future, Detective.”

  It was all I could do not to nibble that warm, ruby curl. Fuck. The wind, and now a suspect housing flunky. I had to get laid. “See that you do. Gretchen? Stella’s waiting.”

  “Yes. All right.” Gretchen slunk past the Viking, stopped. Gave an odd little jerk of her head. Like a signal or salute of some kind. Her eyes darted to me and she blushed.

  Sudden date and now this. She was so getting grilled. Hey, solving mysteries was my job—with my sister, it was my duty. In my defense, I waited until we got to her apartment before confronting her. “Why are you dating on your wedding anniversary, Gretch? And what’s that guy to you? And why didn’t you mention Strongwell was your building super when I talked to you this morning?”

  “It didn’t seem important.” Gretchen wouldn’t look at me, busy opening the door. “I appreciate you babysitting. Stella’s got a new Bratz. You’ll probably be playing dolls until her bedtime.”

  My dear younger sister was avoiding the subject. I hadn’t stood for it when she was sixteen and sneaking nooky in the back seat of our dad’s old Escort wagon (with Steve, who she later married, but still) and I didn’t intend to stand for it now. I opened my mouth to press her for answers.

  And was ambushed by forty pounds of PJs and baby shampoo.

  Luckily, I had good reflexes. I caught my niece and swung her in a full circle, her legs kicking behind her with glee. “Hey there, Starshine.”

  “Aunt Lena! Aunt Lena!” Stella’s bright blonde curls bounced as I set her on her feet. “I got a new doll, wanna come see?”

  Aunting came before grilling. I put my questions on hold. “Kiss your mom first, Starshine, and wish her luck on her date.”

  The five-year-old gave her mother a big smack. “Mommy and Daddy have a date,” she sang.

  I eyeballed Gretchen over Stella’s head. You can’t explain e
verything to a child, but Date Number One as her new daddy?

  Gretch sent me an eye-shrug. “Be good for Auntie Lena, now.” She gave Stella a quick kiss and let herself out.

  I stared at the shut door, trying to settle my worries. Realizing they weren’t going to settle (she was my kid sister, after all), I turned to Stella. “All right, Starshine. We’ve got some serious playing to do.”

  The hour until Stella’s bedtime passed quickly. Stella liked playing with me. My dolls had car chases and investigated crimes. Don’t tell Gretchen.

  But it cranked Stella up a little. It took a snack and three stories to get her to bed. And she wasn’t down long.

  I was watching a rerun of Buffy and leafing through an article titled “Not With the Sexy Guy You Love? Love the One You’re With” when a door slammed. The toilet flushed, and flushed again. The door opened. Little feet ran along the hallway, and another door slammed.

  I dropped the article (which sexy guy was moot when I didn’t have any) and hoisted myself up. An unnerving running-water sound led me into the bathroom.

  The toilet had overflowed. Water pooled on the floor, soaking my sister’s braided rug. The bowl looked clear, and the water had gone down some, so I tried an experimental flush. It only proved there was more water to slop over.

  Grumbling, I dug into the cabinet under the sink, found the plunger and plunged. It worked—if what I wanted to do was rinse the already soaking-wet rug.

  A little blonde head popped around the door. “Is it broken, Aunt Lena?”

  “Looks that way, Starshine.”

  “Does that mean Pookie is drowned dead, Aunt Lena?”

  “Pookie?” I had a sudden, horrific clue as to what might be stopping up the toilet. A hamster or gerbil. Poor Pookie. Now just another shoebox in the O’Rourke family pet cemetery.

  “Pookie’s my teddy,” Stella said.

  I breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Don’t worry, Starshine. Teddies have built-in scuba. Pookie will be okay once we get him out.”