Malicious Mischief

by Marianne Harden

  Zach nodded.

  “What we will do at St. Mary’s without a priest, only heaven knows. There is a serious shortage. Young men these days don’t want to make the sacrifice. Sex, sex, sex, that is all they think about. I ask you, what about my mortal soul?” She glanced at the letter in her hand and thrust it toward me. “Here.”

  “Thanks,” I managed as Solo relayed the letter. I tucked it away unread. It hardly mattered. I knew how much we owed the taxman.

  “Five minutes it took me to walk down here, Rylie Tabitha Keyes. Five minutes of my life, I’ll never get back. All thanks to your grandfather’s negligence. Imagine a man of his age not able to manage his money.”

  Grrrr. “Thank you, Mrs. Bebitch. Don’t let me keep you from your post.” I nodded to her hillside home. “It’s a terrific thing you do, keeping your private street free of trespassers.”

  My sarcasm was not lost on her, a plump gray-haired woman with trifecta chins. “Afraid I’ll see what you’re up to, are you?”

  “Up to?” I said. “How interesting.”

  “What I saw from you last night wasn’t interesting, but—well, I suppose it isn’t my place to say, but a man’s apartment. Really, Rylie. And you.” She waved her trowel at Zach. “I expect you’re encouraging her. Don’t all men. Sex. Sex. Sex, that’s all you think about.”

  I made a wild guess since I knew she could see Zach’s street-side apartment from her house. “Do you mean when I knocked on Zach’s door?”

  She shot me a pitying look, sniffed, and strode off, her trusty towel swaying at her side.

  Explaining quickly, I gave Zach a brief account of how I had stopped by to ask him to the fundraiser, only to find his car parked outside but him not at home.

  He eased out a long breath. “I was…was sleeping. I picked up some extra hours last night, starting at nine. I got some shut-eye before.”

  It occurred to me that he looked oddly annoyed. “God, I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said.

  The edge to his voice proved my suspicion. “I did wake you. I’m sorry.”

  He turned to stare at me. “Rylie, I said it was okay. Just drop it, all right?”

  Solo’s gaze flicked over then quickly away.

  “Sure,” I said, realizing the root of his anger. He hadn’t been alone and wasn’t comfortable with me knowing.

  After a quick detour due to today’s Bellevue Marathon, we pulled into the police station with me feeling like a condemned woman. Not that I was dressed like one. I had done my best to look confident and professional by power dressing in an outfit I reserved for job interviews: off-the-rack suit, black and old school, everyday pumps, simple white blouse. And just in case I needed to flash a provocative ankle, I added back-seamed stockings.

  Oh yeah, avoiding jail was not a spectator sport.

  Zach parked and looked over the seatback. “Lipschitz is gonna give you a hard time just for kicks. Maybe you should get a lawyer.”

  “That makes me look guilty,” I said.

  “And you look so innocent now,” he said.

  “I resent that.”

  “I’m with ya, girlfriend.” Solo reached over to pound fists. “Stay tough.”

  A shallow victory, but I wasn’t greedy.

  “Look on the bright side,” Solo said. “You might’ve saved them old folks from a stroke or cancer. And don’t get me started on the horrors of Alzheimer’s.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “I dunno,” he said. “With those last two, you might have been a factor.”

  Solo said it with a laugh, which told me he had meant it as a joke. Problem is it was the truth, the sad truth, the unvarnished truth. I was partially responsible for two deaths. And for the first time—delayed by shock or disbelief, perhaps—I was flooded with what I suspected was the same gut-wrenching guilt Zach had been experiencing these past months. I almost fainted under the emotional onslaught. I closed my eyes.

  “Rylie?”

  Though Solo’s worried tone made my stomach tighten, I couldn’t lift my eyelids, couldn’t risk what it would do to me to see the blame on his face.

  “Rylie,” he said again. “I just meant—”

  Zach cut off his clarification. “Listen to me, Rylie.” His voice was low and tender, the voice he had used for over twenty years to soothe me. “You are not to blame. Three coincidental deaths? Something here isn’t right.”

  “Not to mention how they tried to kill you,” Solo put in.

  “Pure speculation,” Zach said.

  “Credible theory,” Solo countered.

  “Maybe,” Zach said. “But you didn’t hear that from me, got it?”

  “Would it have killed you to say please?” Solo asked.

  “Say please for what? I didn’t say anything,” Zach said, his voice sheepish.

  “Oh right. Murder? What murder?” Solo asked, playing along.

  “Exactly,” Zach said.

  Some of my misery dissipated at their playful banter. I opened my eyes. “Really? I’m having a moment here. This is no time to make fun.”

  Zach sighed. “Just relax and tell Lipschitz the truth. And remember people do a lot to cover up murder, even risk their lives to throw off suspicion.” He stared at me and I stared at him, and I knew he was warning me about a line of attack from Lipschitz. “I’ll be at the other side of the station if you need me, at the complaint desk. Don’t let him put words in your mouth. Be brave.”

  I was bleeding bravery by the minute. “What’s to tell? I don’t know anything yet.”

  “Yet? Yet! Oh, no you don’t. No. No. No.” He narrowed his eyes. “And if that isn’t clear enough, no!”

  “Did you just tell me no?” I fell back against the seat.

  “I’ll do more than that. I’m ordering you not to get involved in this investigation. Look, it’s looking real bad for Leland. And who do we know that is desperate to keep her job? Listen, desperate people make good scapegoats. You’ll do as you’re told.”

  “Do as I’m told?” I repeated, bamboozled.

  Then I did one of those childish moves where I crossed my arms over my chest and stuck out my bottom lip. I had no idea what came over me. It only made me look more juvenile than usual, but I was insulted. And crushed.

  “That’s what I said,” Zach confirmed.

  “I’m not a kid,” I said.

  “Then stop acting like one.” He nodded to my crossed arms. “It’s time to grow up.”

  Be livid or even hysterical, anything but hurt.

  “I don’t need to tell you how serious this is,” he said. “Stop acting cute.”

  He thinks I’m cute was all I could think, which only proved his point. I did act immature and it was making him nuts. It didn’t take a genius to realize that to compete with Mackenzie for his affection I had to improve his poor opinion of me, which oddly enough would begin when I solved Otto’s murder.

  I folded my hands in my lap. “I’ll do what you say,” I said, my fingers crossed.

  Bright sunshine streamed in through the police station windows. Zach had left us to resume his duties at the information and complaint desk and Solo stretched out in a lavishly carved, upholstered chair. Good job, Bellevue. Few cities considered the posh taste of crooks and felons. I sat down beside him, spied a run in my seamed stockings, and sighed. So much for armed and dangerous.

  “These Buddhist guys are the bomb.” Solo tapped the cover of a local magazine. “They’re Tibetan monks. And that’s a mandala, or sand drawing. It symbolizes the fleeting nature of material life.”

  I knew zilch about Buddhism. “Pretty.”

  “Pretty!”

  I smiled at his look of indignation.

  “They’re wicked cool, mawn. And guess what? They’re making one right here, in the front lobby.”

  “Good to know,” I said, spying Officer Yancy Quirk scribbling on a notepad as he hung up the station desk phone. I waved when he looked my way. I kn
ew he was gay, a secret between us since high school, and I believe so far unknown to anyone on the force. Serious acne scarred his spray-on-tan face and his muscles bulged like rock-filled socks, all the results of years of steroid use in the hope of disguising his sexuality. I stood and went to say hello.

  “I hear your butt gave an old dude a heart attack,” Yancy said as I drew near.

  I made a noncommittal sound.

  He touched my arm. “Hey, don’t beat yourself up. It wasn’t your fault.”

  I gulped, but no words came out.

  “Don’t be an asshat, Yancy. Of course it was her fault,” a male voice said.

  I turned my head.

  Karl Lipschitz approached. He stopped barely a foot away. He was over six feet, nearer to six four, with slim shoulders and waist. Pale stubble as sporadic as caterpillar hair dotted his jaw. “Sweet Cheeks,” he said, his lips hard. “I’m gonna need a picture of your ass for evidence.”

  “Hilarious.” I moved around him. He moved with me and blocked my way.

  “Fair warning.” He licked his lips. “When I’m finished, you’re gonna beg for mercy. I’m hard just thinking about it,” he whispered.

  I ignored the hunger in his eyes. “So much for professionalism.”

  “What I have in mind is anything but professional,” he said.

  Yancy cleared his throat. “Lipschitz, a message for you.”

  Lipschitz grabbed the note. Color drained from his face. I craned my neck for a look-see: “Life’s short. Don’t be a dick. Lay off the girl. Bintliff.”

  I read it again, after which I wondered—feared—I was the girl it referred to. And if so, it had to be a ploy to make me appear even guiltier of Otto’s murder. “That’s a lot of drama,” I said with feigned airiness. “What does it mean?”

  “Acting the innocent?” He raised his head, met my gaze. “You’re gonna have to work harder than that.”

  I drew in a determined breath. “I asked you a question.” It was not that I wanted to make him angrier, but I refused to show fear. “Well?”

  “Good try.” He’d seen through me. “After your statement, you’ll be free to go.” He tucked a hand at my back, nudged me forward. “This way.”

  I refused to move. “Who’s Bintliff?”

  He crumpled the note and tossed it in a nearby wastebasket. “Like you don’t know.”

  I looked across the desk toward Yancy.

  He shrugged. “Sounded like Marlon Brando in The Godfather to me.”

  “Run that by me again,” I said. “The Godfather?”

  “Yeah,” he said, and then he treated us to a rather spiffy Marlon Brando rendition. “Make him an offer he can’t refuse.”

  “Would you say the voice on the phone was natural, or was it disguised?” I asked.

  Yancy looked up, thinking.

  “Enough of this.” Lipschitz grabbed my arm. “Nice to see you rub elbows with the common man.”

  “Nice tone,” I said. “You feeling hostile?”

  “I don’t like being muscled.”

  “That makes two of us.” I yanked my arm free. “That note is a mystery to me—” I had a sudden thought. “Bintliff has something on you, doesn’t he?”

  His eyes were frigid cold. “I knew it was a mistake to drag your ass down here.”

  “Why did you, then? It was easy enough to take my statement at the scene.”

  “Looking at you now, I have no freaking idea,” he said.

  Just then, a man wearing a scruffy bomber jacket walked in, dragging his feet, mumbling nonsense. He fell silent, seeming uncertain of what to do now. He gave Yancy a long glance, then shifted to me and scowled. Mumbling again, he hauled out a small spray bottle from beneath his copycat Indiana Jones hat and sprayed a mist around his head and neck. The sterilizing smell of bleach reached me.

  Lipschitz shot the man a pitying look. “Walter! You know the drill, no complaints here. Go to the front desk. Go,” he insisted when Walter did not move. “Or I’ll lock you up for vagrancy.”

  Walter ignored him again and fished out a red toy whip from his over-the-shoulder satchel, and watched it snake to the floor. “Officer Lipschitz, see my new sidekick. Cool, huh?”

  “Yeah, cool. Now get going.” Lipschitz stepped away to use his cell phone.

  Walter assumed a sulky posture, shoulders low and bent as he crept to the doors. When he inched around for one final look, his eyes were jumpy and roving. Snapping the whip against his thigh, he whirled to leave. He was smiling.

  I shot Yancy a wide-eyed look. “You realize there’s something off about that guy?”

  Yancy nodded.

  I turned at the sound of footsteps.

  Detective Talon strode into the lobby, making a beeline for Solo. A faint moan echoed behind me. I shifted. Yancy’s mouth was open, his eyes moony.

  “Fine place, Scotland,” he said.

  “Not so loud,” I whispered, boosting my words with a nod toward Lipschitz.

  Yancy nodded, but never took his eyes off Talon.

  Talon and Solo fell into conversation, with Talon’s Scottish brogue resonating throughout the room. Mellow. Smooth. Dreamy.

  Yancy moaned again.

  I leaned over. “Cover your ears,” I told him.

  “But that accent,” he said, breathless.

  “I know,” I said. “It makes me all tingly.”

  “Talon,” Lipschitz called out. “Take a quick statement from Island Boy, then drive to the Rosenberg residence. I’ll meet you there.” His cell phone rang, so he answered it.

  When Talon shifted his eyes to mine, and his lips curved into a killer smile, Yancy blubbered out, “Omigod.”

  Lipschitz came back and cupped my elbow. “Let’s go.”

  “What?” I said, brows quirked. “No Miranda rights, thumb screws?”

  “Next time, Rylie. Bank on it.”

  I ignored his fingers digging into my skin as I walked down the hall in what I hoped was dignified grace. I was thinking about this Bintliff character. Who was he, and what was I to him? That’s assuming I was the referenced girl. My little voice told me I was, especially since Lipschitz had cleaned up his act a split second after reading the note.

  I sat at a spectacular black walnut inlaid table. Good to see our tax dollars at work. Knowing we were being taped and possibly watched through the two-way mirror, I forced myself to relax. Inhale through the nose, exhaled through the mouth. Scrub. Rinse. Repeat.

  Lipschitz sat across the table from me, folded his hands. Several moments passed before he spoke. “You’ve been up all night?” he asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “Is it yes, or no?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean,” I said.

  “Where were you?”

  “Suicide Trestle,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “I’m hoping to help someone considering suicide.”

  “Fascinating,” he said blandly. “When did you last see Otto Weiner alive?”

  “Yesterday”

  “Care to elaborate?”

  “FoY’s dining room. Dinner, around four pm,” I said. “Or supper as people called the evening meal for centuries.”

  His brows rose, dropped. “Did you kill Otto Weiner?”

  “No.”

  “Did you have anything to do with his death?”

  “No.”

  Deadpan stare. “Do you have information shedding light on his murder?”

  Where to start? “I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but Otto was cranky.”

  “Cranky,” he repeated. “Have you ever had a disagreement with Mr. Weiner?” He leaned in. “Perhaps one involving the little finger?”

  “Pinky wrestling over piddle and killing a man are two different things.”

  He leaned back in his chair, grinning, but his eyes still challenged. “Let me guess, you got nothing but sunshine hanging over your head.”

  I decide
d to use my gift horse. “Back off, Lipschitz, or I’ll tell Bintliff.”

  He clenched his hands on the desk, knuckles whitening. “I’m guessing you also know nothing about the letter found in Otto Weiner’s pocket.”

  “That would be a good guess. What’d it say?”

  “Apparently the way you drive pissed him off. Seems you cannot keep off the center reflectors. Driving by Braille, it’s called.”

  I laughed. “Sounds like Otto. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “I take my kicks where I can get ’em. How about s’mores—do they do it for you?”

  “So liking s’mores is illegal now?”

  “I’m sure we can find some law against eating them while killing an old man.”

  The wheels of intrigue spun faster. “S’mores are connected, how?”

  “One was plastered to the back of Mr. Weiner’s head.”

  All the air left my lungs. The killer had been someone at the fundraiser. “Damn,” I said.

  “Easy on the swearwords. I might fall in love.”

  “You did that once already,” I said absently.

  His features hardened. “Don’t worry. I have better taste now.”

  His nasty response defused some of my shame for bringing up our painful past, but only some, yet still I could not bring myself to apologize. “Is that why you’re doing this, out of revenge?”

  He ignored me. “Did Leland Rosenberg have reason to kill Otto?”

  “Not to my knowledge— No, he didn’t.”

  “Then you are unaware of a threatened lawsuit by Mr. Weiner? Something about a fountain, citing negligence against FoY.”

  “Pleeeezzze, there are at least a dozen witnesses who saw Otto splash the water from the fountain, set off in a jog, and slide on the puddle. Otto wanted the fountain gone.”

  “Why?”

  “It was a painful reminder of the Holocaust. He was imprisoned at Auschwitz.”

  He grunted. “Leland Rosenberg lost family at Auschwitz?”

  “He erected the fountain as a memorial to his great grandmother. She died there.”

  Another grunt. “Have you a connection to Doris and Cokey Bill Oley before today?”

  “No, never.”

  “In your statement to Detective Barclay, you said Doris Oley asked whether you were in cahoots with Leland Rosenberg. In cahoots is an odd term to use in reference to a legitimate acquisition of fish, is it not?”