He patted my hand. “Then grab the reigns, mawn. Do what you’re destined to do, investigate. No time like the present to start. Find the guilty driver and you’ll probably solve Otto’s murder. My gut says the two crimes are related.”
“Granddad is so against me having anything to do with detective work.”
“Aren’t you curious? Why did someone involve you? Why did they stash Otto’s body in your van? Looks to me like they wanted to frame you. I don’t mind saying, I’d be pissed.”
“I’m guessing you want to help me investigate,” I said, amused.
“Come on, you’re lips say no, but your eyes say pissed off.”
“That’s low blood sugar, so unless you’ve a cookie handy, you’ll need to ignore what you think is interest.”
“But—”
“Listen,” I said softer than the word implied. “I can’t take the chance—”
A sudden squealing drew my attention. I looked around. Passing by was a taxicab with FoY’s associate chef scowling out the back window.
Booth Jackson’s flashy attire always struck me as over-the-top for a cozy retirement home. Out of keeping with his smooth appearance, he ambled like an old Chevy with a bad wheel, or in Booth’s case a bad hip. He was a black man with an unshakable glower and twitchy eyebrows.
The taxi stopped a few feet ahead and its reverse lights snapped on. When the cab backed up alongside the squad car, I greeted Booth warily out the side window.
“I saw the wrecked van from the freeway. Couldn’t resist detouring to see what’s up,” he said above the engine squeal, his eyes wide, and his brows lively. “I don’t usually do sympathy, but I’ll give it a try. Oh darn, Rylie, looks like you screwed up another job.”
“You’re too kind,” I said, my arms crossed.
“And don’t think I’ll cover for you and drive around those blue hairs.” He smiled unpleasantly, the mega diamond studs in his ears glistening. “I don’t drive, remember? Bad hip.”
I nodded. He hardly talked of anything else.
“I’m guessing no one let you save their sorry life at Suicide Trestle last night. The weak always crack under pressure, see, you should just let them jump.”
“Nice,” I said.
“I don’t do nice, see,” he said in a voice as dark as his skin.
“How do you know I—we…” I glanced at Solo. “…patrol the trestle?”
“I got ears, don’t I? The boss likes to talk while she cooks,” he said in reference to Tita Iglesias, FoY’s head chef. “Tell me, what kind of losers help out depressed people?”
“Don’t let me keep you, Booth,” I said, wanting him gone.
“You aren’t helping anyone by getting arrested,” he said.
What an odd thing to say. “How would my arrest help anyone?”
He said a bland and overdue hello to Solo before he shifted back to me. “I’m not judging, see,” he said. “I guess being involved in Otto’s death blows your shot at keeping a job longer than—what is it now—four months you’ve been at FoY?”
Heavy moment of silence. I wondered how he knew Otto was dead. I opened my mouth to ask, closed it, deciding to try to make him slip up. “What makes you think I’m involved?”
“I know he wanted you fired, see. I know you would lose your home. Many homeless old people die from the elements. I figured duty called. No way could you let your grandfather die on the street.”
I had heard enough. “How do you know Otto is dead?”
He raised a hand—quite a feat in view of his countless gold bracelets—and waggled a cell phone. “It’s Leland’s. I read a text message from that cop friend of yours, Zach O’Neil.”
“You have Leland’s phone, why?” I asked, surprised.
“He left it at a mutual friend’s place.”
“What friend?” Solo asked, piping in.
Booth ignored him. “Death waits for no one.” He looked strange, pleased, relieved. Sparkling. “Absolutely no one.”
“You sound like you’re glad Otto is dead,” I said.
“I won’t dance on his grave if that’s what you mean. I got a bad hip.” He faced forward and signaled the East Indian driver to leave. The taxi took off.
“It floors me how he can afford all that bling,” Solo said.
“Tita says a jeweler friend sells to him at cost,” I said. “Well, one thing is for sure, Leland forgetting his cell explains why we haven’t heard from him. Though he had it last night. I heard him pleading with Nava to take him back.”
“That Nava is a piece of work. Bat crap crazy,” he said, doing finger circles around his ear. “Leland can do better. She’s so mean.”
“Yeah, but he’s desperate to reconcile. He loves his wife,” I said. “I wonder who this mutual friend is. Booth and Leland usually don’t hang out together.”
“It surprises me that Booth even has a friend,” Solo said.
Just then, a tatty red, white, and blue panel truck sped past and pulled into the laboratory’s parking lot. To all appearances, it matched the one that ran me off the road. I was already out of the squad car when it disappeared behind the concrete wall. I considered calling for Zach, but he had his hands full with the malfunctioning tow-truck.
I leaned back in. “That looks like the truck that ran me off the road. I’m checking it out.”
“Not without me.” Solo rocketed from his seat and rounded the hood. “I knew you wouldn’t roll over. Judging by the look on your face, you’re hot on the trail of a murderer.”
“Whoa.” I held up a splayed palm. “A confession to running me off the road, that’s all I want. If Leland gets that, maybe he won’t fire me.”
We hoofed down the street and circled the building. We found the truck nosed into an upward-sloped spot across from the delivery entrance. I signaled for Solo to follow me into the bushes. There, we flattened against the bricks. Well, as much as Solo could flatten—he was the direct opposite of flat. We peered around the corner.
Up close, the panel truck was more rundown than I first realized, a bit like a decaying American flag. The rear was medium blue with pale splotches, the front dirty white with horizontal rust streaks. Inside a light blinked on. The shotgun seat was empty, so I figured the unseen driver must be opening their door. The light blinked off. Still no sign of anyone.
Then a gray-haired woman rose in the passenger side and settled in the seat. I relaxed a bit. Granddad said I have a knack with seniors; he called me a senior whisperer. My plan was to confront them about the accident and try to reason out a confession. Here’s hoping the driver was also elderly.
“I’m going in,” I told Solo.
“Want back up?” he asked.
“Nope, this is a job for the senior whisperer.” I stepped from the bushes, adjusted Zach’s jacket on my hips, and climbed the steep incline to the panel truck. The woman now appeared to be rummaging through the center console. She was bent, her back to me. I knew it wasn’t wise to startle the elderly, so I paused a few feet away until she straightened again. When she did, I approached.
As I neared, she rolled down her window and beamed me a toothless grin. “Where’s the cheap bastard who usually meets us?” Her breathless voice held a rough English accent. “That Jew.”
I killed my smile; I found her tone insulting. “Leland Rosenberg?”
“That’s him, Duckie. You and Leland in cahoots? Looky here.” She punched the man at the wheel in the shoulder. “Leland’s business is booming. The tightwad has himself a helper.”
“And because of us he won’t get his nuts ripped off through his nose.” The man flicked an annoyed finger to a note taped to the dashboard.
“You got that wrong, love,” she said. “That comedian bloke said wallet, not nose.”
“What’s it matter? We should’ve demanded more money,” he said.
The woman looked back at me. “Where’s your cart?”
“Cart?”
She blew out a huge breath, her lips flapping.
“We haul this flippin’ shit, not unload it.”
Her skin was specter white; her grizzled hair pulled tight with a barrette atop her head. Both sides were teased out like elephant ears. The man was refugee thin and sunken, an air hose snaking from his nose to a nearby canister.
“I’m Doris. This here is Cokey Bill. He’s got black lung from the coalmines. We’re the Oleys. We do odd jobs. You need something done, odd or otherwise, you call us.”
Cokey Bill Oley barked a laugh. “Odd or otherwise. Good one, Doris.”
Contemplating the best way to bring up the accident, I nibbled my lower lip.
“Not so good at small talk, huh?” Cokey Bill opened his door, hocked up a loogie, and spit it out. “Well, don’t just stand there, then. Go get the cart, girlie. And don’t forget our extra cash. We did as we was told; we always do as we was told, week in, week out. We’re like trawlers or trollers, only we got no poles.”
Doris Oley beamed. “He’s saving to buy some of those new extra-long ciggys, the ones with the nic-out filters. My man is trying to quit.”
I eyed his air hose. “It’s never too late, I guess.”
“Blimey, you sound like my pecker-headed doctor.” Cokey Bill settled back in his seat and gave me an impatient gesture. “Now beat it. And don’t come back until you got our lolly and the cart. Come on, Doris, get back at it.” When I didn’t move, his head snapped around. “Go on, girlie. We’re busy.”
Doris massaged her wrist. “Busy, my ass. There ain’t nothin’ busy around here but my hand. I’m done wankin’ that thing.”
“The hell you are!” Cokey Bill snapped.
“The hell I am!” She grabbed a half-eaten muffin from the dash, pitched it, thumping Cokey Bill on the shoulder, gobs of poppy seeds scattering.
My eyebrows went up, froze there.
“Well, you better get to it,” he howled at her. “That little blue pill don’t last forever.”
“It don’t last at all,” she said. “You need one of them penile implants, you limp dick.”
“I’ll show you limp.” Cokey Bill wormed an arm behind her seat, pushed aside several orange and black boxes, and pulled out a fat fish. Rearing back, he pitched it at her.
Doris cried out, ducking. The fish sailed through the open window and plopped at my feet. Two seconds passed while I stood there, staring at it, its cloudy eye and shiny skin. I turned to look at Solo for help, but he was nowhere in sight.
“So you wanna play rough?” Doris scrambled into the back of the truck and started pummeling Cokey Bill with a slew of fish and fish guts.
I rushed forward, hands out. “Stop it. You’ll hurt him.”
“Shut your cakehole,” she said, lobbing fish my way, breathing hard, arms robotic.
I leaped clear of the muck, ducking down at the front bumper. The quantity of fish hitting the pavement dropped off, so I peeked up over the hood to see if Doris was running out of steam. She was indeed. In fact, she was stock-still. Then she teetered. Swayed back. After several seconds of whirly eye rolls, she wilted forward like a stream of hot summer taffy.
I yanked open the door and jumped inside. “Doris?”
No sound. No movement. Nothing.
Cokey Bill tossed a fish tail at her head. “Now there’s a decent stiffy. Must be the aneurism the docs warned about.”
I lifted her wrist. No pulse. “Do you know CPR?”
He tapped his canister. “I got no air.”
“How about a cell phone?” I grabbed his arm, shook it a little. “Call 911.”
He stared at his wife. “How about that, my Doris is a fine specimen of a dead gal.”
Crimony. I scrambled into the back to give CPR a shot. Way out of my league, but I had to try. Blind to everything, I flipped Doris onto her back.
Cokey Bill wheezed. “Holy cow, look how much color has come to her cheeks. She don’t look like a ghost no more.”
I couldn’t stop myself from looking. Her face was indeed colorful. And bloody. My eyes popped wide at the sight of all that red. Gulping breaths, I told myself not to faint.
“Hey, girlie, you think I should tell Maybelline about fish blood? Might be a little lolly in it for me—” Cokey Bill broke off with a gasp. “Blimey, look at that, your arse is bare.”
I managed to look down. Froze. Zach’s jacket had somehow twisted to the front, leaving my butt out in the open. I started to tug it back into place, spied a huge pool of blood nearby, and keeled over. Splat.
“Isn’t that somethin’, you’re wearing a pink thong.” Cokey Bill’s voice sounded distant. “Doris won’t wear one, on account of her incontinence.”
Dizzily, I struggled to my knees, staggered a little, then righted with a hand to one of the orange boxes for support. “Mr. Oley—we need to get—help. Doris needs—help.”
“Ah, that’s the sweetest thing, you moving over like that. I got a nice view now.”
I lapsed into a moment of stillness, hand to my heart. I had a strong feeling nothing could be done for Doris, so I wanted to give Cokey Bill a moment with his wife.
“Rare and beautiful thing, a nice ass,” he said.
Omigod! “Are you kidding me? You pervert. You’re looking at my butt!”
“I’m a simple man,” he said.
“You should be ashamed—” I broke off when his eyes went glassy. “Mr. Oley, are you all right?”
He sunk lower in his seat, grinned, and sagged against the steering wheel, making the horn blare with his pointy nose.
I couldn’t move, couldn’t blink. This wasn’t happening.
Solo popped his head inside the open passenger door. “Holy crap!”
“Where have you been?” I managed.
“Watching some bunnies in the bushes.” He looked from Cokey Bill to Doris and back to me. “What did you do, whisper them to death?”
“No!” I said, gulping air. “Check his pulse.” Then I closed my eyes to the blood and straddled Doris to do my best with CPR. It didn’t matter that I thought it was useless, I couldn’t give up on her or Cokey Bill. A minute later, I eyed Solo. “How’s he doing?”
He shook his head, shoulders slumped. “Dead.”
The blood left my face, I felt it go, drip by bloody drip. “You sure?”
He nodded. “Pretty darn.”
I dragged my eyes off Cokey Bill and went back to work on Doris. The shock and effort made me woozier. My panting and the footsteps outside sounded as one. When the truck’s rear doors flew open, my heart skipped a beat.
“Holy Mother Mary!” Zach said.
Fish and guts streamed out in a silver wave. Zach leaped back. I grabbed for something, anything, but my hands were slimy. The truck’s sharp angle made it worse. I missed a hand strap, but fisted some of Doris’s shirt. She wasn’t moving, probably caught on something. I heard a ripping noise. Ack! She was on the loose.
A jaunty slippery-slide over the rear bumper whipped me higher than a bucking horse. We bounced onto the pavement, bounced again. It turned out Doris was kind of springy. Even so, we went splat, a bouncy splat that whipped me onto my back, my knees heavenward, and my arms above my head. I opened one eye, peered up at Zach; his eyes were steely.
“I can explain.”
~The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off~
Listening to me explain away the best part of a half hour had worsened Zach’s mood. He scowled as the ME wagon departed with Doris and Cokey Bill’s bodies in the back.
The ME observed no outward signs of foul play (as if), but an official verdict would come after an autopsy. Upon hearing what happened in the panel truck, the ME had grinned as though wanting a peek of my butt. Pathetic as it sounded, I smiled a little.
Nearby in an unmarked car, Detective Alistair Barclay was on the phone with his wife. His teeth were clamped on a licorice stick and he talked around it. “You should’ve seen it, Trudy. A truck load of mackerel and smack-dab in the middle was Rylie Keyes. You know, Hawthorne’s granddaughter. Yes, yes,
that’s her, the one who can’t hold down a job—” Our eyes met through the passenger window. He looked at me apologetically for a long moment in silence before going on to discuss dinner plans with his wife.
I admit to hear others talk of my flakiness shook me. I was now convinced that I had to investigate Otto’s murder to prove myself, but I had to do it without Granddad knowing until after I’d solved it.
“Look, Trudy, I’ve gotta run.” He disconnected. “Rylie, I’ll have your statement ready when you get to the station. Stop by and sign it.” Another moment of serious quiet ensued. “And don’t let Lipschitz rattle you. He’s a punk.”
I forced a smile at his sweet attempt to cheer me up. He had once saved Granddad’s life during a bust gone wrong. I had never come close to thanking him enough.
“Lipschitz a punk. Tell us something we don’t know.” Zach slapped a farewell hand to the car as Alistair drove off.
I adjusted Zach’s jacket at my waist and glanced at my watch. I wanted to change clothes. I wanted to get away from this place. I wanted to forget that three seniors died here, or in Otto’s case was found dead here. And I wanted to be alone with Zach. Maybe it was being this close to death that made me feel the click of time, but I was ready to tell him how I really felt.
“Zach,” I said. “Can we leave?”
Brief pause. “Leave?” he repeated. “Leave for where?”
“My house. Changing clothes. The police station.”
His eyes went to my waist. Then he laughed. “Oh, yeah, sorry. But we can’t leave just yet. I have to help with some last minute evidence. I won’t be long, promise.”
I looked at my watch again. “Go ahead, take your time. The longer it takes the more pissed off Lipschitz will get. And, of course, a girl wants the detective investigating her pissed off. It adds to the thrill.”
“I know this isn’t the best time to mention this, but you’re a nut,” he said and left.
After helping a second tow-truck driver hoist the panel truck onto the flatbed, Solo strode over. “That sure was a load of mackerel. It’s weird, but I could have sworn Leland’s vitamins say Peruvian fish oil? It’s the best but expensive.”
Malicious Mischief (A Rylie Keyes Mystery) (Entangled Select) Page 4
