“Alistair, how long have you and Trudy been married?”
“Forty-one years—” He stared into my eyes, and from what I could see, he got my point loud and clear. “Sneaky.”
I smiled. “A little information wouldn’t hurt, would it? I mean, if the tables were turned, you’d want to know, right?”
“I would,” he said. “But it begs the question: what will you do with the information?”
I shrugged, put on my game face. “It might spark some memory that could help the investigation. And I know it would be a good investigative exercise, pondering possibilities, coming up with theories. Then if I think of anything solid, I could pass that onto to you or Lipschitz.”
Alistair’s expression hardened. “Lipschitz a detective. How do you like them apples?”
He didn’t, by the look on his face, which surprised me. It was most unusual for one cop to malign another cop, even subtly. All in all, it was a brotherhood thing, one not taken lightly. Still, there was no denying it, Lipschitz wasn’t the favorite son in this department.
“Alistair, how did he get to be a detective so young? Granddad says it takes quite a while to be able to take the exam. He’s only been on the force three years.”
“You want the official response?” he asked.
I nodded.
“He did a good job on patrol.”
“And the unofficial response?”
“A cruel trick,” he said, shaking his head.
“Wonder who he knows,” I said.
When his eyes met mine, I realized he also wondered.
“Thad Talon,” he started and then added, “—the Scotsman—he seems like a straight up guy. Willing. Able. Doesn’t mind asking an old veteran for help. Between you and me and the fence post, I’d like to keep him and ship Lipschitz off to Scotland.”
“Poor Scotland,” Solo put in.
“Poor Scotland,” I repeated, and then I went on to tell Alistair about how Leland had been arrested, leaving out the part about our phone call and how Leland had temporarily blacked out. When I finished, he lifted the desk phone.
“He’s a stable member of the community,” he said, dialing. “Assuming no priors, he’ll be released without bail.” He spoke to someone on the other end and disconnected. “The good news is Leland has no priors.”
“And the bad news?”
“Lipschitz wants to question him before he’s released. Forensics found traces of blood on a plant near the kippah on Leland’s hillside. Blood type matches Otto’s.”
“Then he was pushed off the balcony above,” I said.
“That’s the preliminary belief.” He angled his head. “How did you figure that out?”
I liked his reaction. My plan was working. “A large rhododendron was crushed, like something heavy had fallen on it,” I said. “And the balcony is a floor beneath the street level garage and only accessible through Leland’s home office.”
“Things are looking bad for Leland,” Solo said.
“Now let’s not be hasty,” Alistair said. “So far the evidence is only circumstantial.”
“But he doesn’t have Bintliff on his side,” Solo said.
“Shoeless Joe Bintliff?” Alistair asked, his brows up.
“Who?” I asked.
“Not exactly who, more what,” he said. “It’s the alias for an Internet gambling site.”
“Is the person behind the Internet site named Bintliff?” I asked.
Alistair shrugged. “No one knows for sure. The operation moves around. They’ve become hard to pin down since Internet gambling became a Class C felony.”
“Uh-oh,” Solo mumbled.
I shot him a worried look, but he waved it off, so I filled Alistair in on the Bintliff note.
Alistair propped an elbow on his desk, rested his chin on a hand. “Can you think of any reason why a gambling operator would want to protect you?”
“Not a one. I don’t gamble, even at the casinos on the Indian Reservations.”
“What penalty does a Class C felony carry?” Solo asked, wringing his paw-ish hands.
“Five years in prison, a $10,000 fine. Or both for the site operators,” Alistair said. “Are you a gambler, son?”
“No, sir.” Solo said. “I’ve never gambled in my life.”
“Good thing. The Gambling Commission is after these offenders. Mostly operators, but they’ve brought in several site users.”
Solo swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
The desk phone rang. Alistair answered it, said a few, “uh-huhs,” and disconnected. “Leland’s with Lipschitz. It’s routine questioning for now. You two go see the mandala. After they’re done, I’ll give Leland a ride home if he doesn’t already have one.”
“Mandala?” I asked, then remembered the sand drawing. “Sounds good. One more thing, the Oleys, do you know anything about them? Their next of kin, maybe. I’d like to send my condolences,” I added quickly when he raised another quizzical brow.
“Condolences, huh?” he said wryly as he opened the file on his desk, read. “It seems they’re naturalized citizens since 1990. Semi-retired, living in a low-rent apartment in Seattle, near the wharf. One son, lives with them, works at Dragon.”
“Driving for Dragon Fresh?” I asked.
“Main office. Why?”
I thought it would be melodramatic to say, “Someone wants me dead.” Instead, I said, “It was a Dragon Fresh delivery truck that rear-ended me last night. The driver’s name was Bill Loney. I left his license and insurance info in FoY’s van.”
“Bill Loney?” Solo repeated. “As in baloney?”
Everyone laughed but me. How had I missed such an obviously fake name?
“I’ll get a copy of his ID from evidence,” Alistair said, still chuckling.
“That’ll be good,” I said. “Does their son know about his parents?”
“I haven’t reached him yet,” he said. “Funny thing about the senior Oleys, they’ve received eleven citations for digging in Dumpsters.”
“As in Dumpster diving?” Solo asked.
Alistair nodded. “It seems they’re fond of the ones behind Pike Place Fish Market.”
Cripes. Had Leland’s first-rate Peruvian fish oil actually come from the Dumpsters?
Not risking a chance run-in with Lipschitz, Solo and I rushed through the rear lobby to the outside. As we strode through the parking lot to the station’s street-side public entrance, I thought of the mounting evidence against Leland. The sweet guy I knew wouldn’t hurt a soul, but I could not let feelings influence my investigation. We had to—at least for now—consider him a suspect. Nonetheless, for my money Booth was a better candidate. After all, he had the most to lose if Otto had made good on his promise to press charges for the theft of the watch lost in the poker game. So essentially, Booth was our blast-off into the investigative world.
We paused at the curb as several marathon runners sprinted by. Hordes of spectators milled here, there, and everywhere, watching the race, consuming foodstuff from the many street-side tents, or perusing the countless booths advertising wares or local businesses.
“It’s sweltering.” Solo wiped his sweaty brow with a beefy hand.
“Definitely a heat wave,” I said.
“The sign at Shlomo’s Deli says seventy-five degrees.”
“That hot?” I said since in coldish Western Washington this was scorching for June. “And some say Global Warming is bogus. Hey, what was up with all those jitters back in Alistair’s office?”
“Man, I can’t hide anything. That’s why I like clown makeup. Look happy, be happy.”
I gave his rotund mug a sidelong look. A tsunami of emotion could hide there. “You don’t Internet gamble, do you?”
“Nope, but my uncle does. He lives with my mom. It would stink if he got arrested.”
“It seems like they’re more interested in operators than users.”
“Hope so,” he said. “Now the way I see it, we should check out th
e mandala, do our time at FoY’s booth, then launch into—”
“Operation: Booth Jackson,” I finished. “I think he’s where we should start. That watch business sounds fishy.”
“Agreed,” Solo said, nodding.
“Do you know anything about poker?” I asked.
“Not much. A straight. A flush. Basic stuff. I’m more a Solitaire dude.”
“Do you think you could ask your uncle a few gambling questions?”
“Sure.” He reached into his vest pocket and grimaced. “No cell.”
“Let’s use the station’s phone, but we’ll have to be careful if Zach is within earshot.”
“Roger,” Solo said.
As we pushed through the glass doors to the public information and complaint desk, something wrapped around my ankles. I stumbled, but kept upright with a grab to Solo’s arm.
“Zach didn’t see that, did he?”
Solo ran his eyes around the room. “You’re in luck. No one is here.”
I sighed in relief. Not that Zach was unaware of my clumsiness, but why drive home the point? It might be that one day we’ll discuss having kids; he’ll hark back to my lack of grace and worry over a rogue Keyes gene. Might be a deal breaker.
I looked down, saw that Walter the Indiana Jones wannabe had lost his red whip. By all appearances, the stupid thing had taken a shine to my seamed stockings.
I freed my ankles and straightened. “Where is Zach? Where are the monks?”
“Spooky,” Solo said. “It’s like Rapture happened, and we’ve been left behind. The good news is Buddhists reincarnate. The monks should be popping back any time now.”
“Zach,” I called out. “Buddhist monks. Hello. Anyone.”
Nothing.
“Maybe they went to the little boys’ room,” Solo suggested.
“As one big, happy group?”
“Yeah, too metrosexual.”
I looked around again. The double doors to the rear police lobby were indeed under repair. Brown paper was over the glass with a sign that read: Caution broken glass. Use rear entrance. At the far end of the long main counter was a windowed door to what I vaguely remembered was a storage room. The door was closed. Inside looked dark. Hung all around the doorjamb were ceramic tiles, seemingly painted by children. The line above them read, Be kinder than necessary, for everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle.
“This sort of freaks me out,” Solo said.
“Me, too, but let’s use the phone before they get back.” I set aside the whip on the counter, swiveled the phone around, and handed the receiver to Solo. “Dial nine for an outside line.” I relayed several questions for him to ask his uncle. While they talked, I wandered to the closet door, tried it. Locked. I moved to the plate-glass window to see if they were outside. Nope.
Solo hung up. “By the sound of it, Booth Jackson is a smalltime gambler.”
“How come?” I asked, stepping back.
“My uncle said a pro would have asked for a signed statement that the watch was part of the bet and worth the agreed to value, or at least made sure someone else witnessed the wager.”
“There goes that theory,” I said.
“What made you think Booth was a professional gambler?” he asked.
“A twenty thousand dollar bet is a lot for a game in a small retirement home. Add to that the note to Lipschitz, which may or may not be from the gambler Shoeless Joe Bintliff, and professional gambler came to mind.”
“I guess we’ve reached our first dead end.”
I slung my arms across the counter and let it support me. “All right then, let’s throw out more ideas and see what sticks. What about Bintliff? Has your uncle ever heard of him?”
“Yep,” he said. “Bintliff is a real dude. Bad news owing him money, too. He has a gross way of dealing with folks who welch on bets.”
I didn’t like the pained look on his face. “Gross?”
“He chops off their feet, shoes and all, and keeps them as souvenirs. Then he dumps their dead bodies in Lake Union.”
I closed my eyes, trying not to panic. No way did I want anything to do with a shoe stealing, foot-chopping maniac. Talon had to be behind the Bintliff note. Had to be. Though the truth is, I found that almost as upsetting. Talon terrified me. He reeked of heartbreak, yet each time he looked at me, I got a little wet. But that was just hormones. And the fact that I could not actually remember the last time I had had sex. Still, Talon had the most beautiful eyes—Omigod, what was wrong with me? Not even in a crazy alternate universe, one where Zach didn’t exist, would I be interested in Thad Talon.
“Not interested,” I repeated aloud then grinned sheepishly when Solo raised a quizzical brow. “I mean, no worries, I think Talon is behind the Bintliff note.”
“Would you still feel that way if you knew both Bintliff Pier and Great Scott Café were owned by Shoeless Joe Bintliff?”
“I dunno—what’s wrong?” I asked as his expression went from pained to grim.
“You’ll never guess who lives in a houseboat on the next pier.”
I admit it took me a minute for the worse possible name to surface. “Not Lipschitz. Nooooo, not him!”
“Yep,” he said. “My uncle said Lipschitz is always coming into the café. He never makes any trouble, or even says he’s a cop, but everyone knows he is. They mind their P’s and Q’s while he is there, though no gambling goes on. Rylie, this connects Lipschitz to Shoeless Joe Bintliff.”
Crap, crap, crap. I was torn between hyperventilating and peeing my pants. Hyperventilating won. It would be horrible to ruin this lovely marble floor.
“Uh-oh.” Solo grabbed my arm. “You don’t look so good.”
“Yeah, protected by a shoe-stealing murderer never gets old.”
“A karma boost.” He pulled me across the room to the mandala. “That’s what you need.”
A stiff drink sounded better.
The mandala was a striking five-foot circle of vibrant sand, roughly ten distinct shades. The outside circle, geometric inside lines, and assorted figures were around an inch high. As though positioning a toy soldier, Solo placed me alongside the outer edge. Once he settled in beside me, he dropped his chin to stare down at the drawing.
I mimicked him. “Okay, now what?” I said, shooting him a sidelong glance.
His only reaction was when his eyes grew wide like a cat about to pounce.
“Hello. Tap, tap, tap,” I said into a make-believe microphone. “Is this thing on?”
Still no response. Instead, he took my hand into his. We circled the drawing. When he let loose a big dopey grin, I suspected his karma was on the road to recovery. People like Solo believed in miracles. I wanted to believe in them, too.
Truth is, I wasn’t sure what to believe about the giant unknown. Maybe there is something out there, in the cosmos. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a total disbeliever. If I were one, I wouldn’t hope and pray to find my runaway parents someday. Then again, I feared I’d entered the dark side of disillusionment. Honestly, I didn’t go there willingly. However, I wasn’t screaming at the door to come back, either.
“I need to find Zach.” I started to step away.
He squeezed my hand. “Stay here.”
I opened my mouth to say no, but Solo had a firm grip on me, tugging me along the outer edge for another time, chanting something soft as we circled.
“Do you feel it?” he asked. “That’s the purifying power of wisdom.”
Hard to say nope to such a hopeful face. “Maybe,” I said, and then he asked me for details. “Is there going to be a test afterwards? I’m just curious.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Are you making fun?”
“Yeah,” I said, grinning. “I’m kind of an ass.”
“You need a more open mind.” He wheeled me around some more, only stopping to reverse directions.
I had to admit Solo was in his element. He looked calmer, had lost his furrowed brow. So I closed my eyes, trying to absorb this
energy.
“Help me help Leland,” I said under my breath. “Show me what to do, where to go. And should I ever bump into my parents, send up a flare or something. But, please, please, don’t let me walk on by.”
“Uh-oh,” Solo said. “Your shoe just took out that deity’s head.”
I frowned at the colorful smear at my feet. “Oh, crud.”
“This is bad.” Solo bellied down on the floor. “I gotta fix this.”
He had his index finger out and was doing a motion somewhere between a sweep and a push. The deity’s head did look better after a few minutes. Well, sort of, if you squinted a bit. But then each time Solo got one line back into place, his massive forearm would wipe out another. Then two thirds of the way through the circle, he sneezed and blew the big white central yang away from its big black yin.
“I give up.” He climbed to his feet. “Do you think the monks will notice?”
“Maybe only a little,” I said.
“You think?”
“I do. I do,” I said. “Man, I can’t help having a bad feeling about this empty lobby.”
“Think positive,” he said. “They’re probably across the street sucking down a Jamba Juice.”
Through a nearby plate glass window, I scanned the crowd again. No Zach. No Buddhist monks.
“Hey,” Solo said. “You do look better. Your hair is real shiny.”
“No way.”
“Way.”
We inspected my hair in the window’s reflection, paying little attention to anything behind us. The crack of a whip made us freeze. I realized right away that the sound had come from the wannabe’s toy. Snap, snap, snap. We both wheeled around.
I saw his wild eyes first. Walter was behind the counter, doing grand sweeping motions with the whip. A frenzied mind had a keyed-up look, and seeing exactly that on his face, I froze like a fish stick in the freezer. He snapped the whip a few more times.
Solo stepped forward, but pulled up at a sharp, “Stop right there,” from Walter.
“Okay, be cool. Be cool,” Solo said.
Like a sword of battle, Walter brandished the whip in one hand, while the high counter hid two thirds of his body. Nearby, the storage room door was now ajar. Somehow, in spite of myself, I didn’t shout out Zach’s name. My gut said he was inside, perhaps bound, or hurt, and because of this, there was no room for error as I pondered what to do. I took a second to skim a look over the surveillance cameras. Blacked out with spray paint.
Malicious Mischief (A Rylie Keyes Mystery) (Entangled Select) Page 10
