Bite My Fire: A Biting Love story.

by Mary Hughes

  “Just climbed out of the casket, huh? Wasn’t he embalmed?”

  “Oh. No, we, um, couldn’t afford it.”

  “I see. And you didn’t say anything at the time because…?”

  She hesitated. “Well, amnesia.”

  “Amnesia.”

  Steve set three cups on the table. He opened tea bags, dropped one in each. “Temporary amnesia.”

  “Yes, that was it.” Gretchen nodded. “He had temporary amnesia. We didn’t know where he was or even that he was alive. At first we thought someone had stolen the body. So nobody said anything.”

  Steve poured hot water into cups. “I regained my memory just a few days ago.”

  “I would have told you sooner, Elena,” Gretchen said. “But you’re busy with your case and all.”

  Steve went into excruciating detail about how sometimes you thought people were dead but they were really just low-respiration coma victims. That was what happened to him. With the temporary coma causing the temporary amnesia. All perfectly logical.

  And a lie. I was gut-sure they were both spilling enough toxic falsehoods to start their own global climate change. Couldn’t prove it with Steve, though. My internal truthometer was blank, just like with Drusilla.

  Just like with Bo.

  The mysteries were piling up. Lie meter on the blink. Steve returning from the dead. Dirt-floor basement rooms. People running around looking like refugees from Dark Shadows.

  There was no obvious connection with Schrimpf and his punctured prick. But I felt that if I could figure out even one of these damned mysteries, the whole thing would unravel. I think my gut knew what was wrong.

  But my head still denied it. I mean, come on. Miracles and magic might abound, but the only ones you heard about were the ones witnessed by loonies. And I couldn’t lose my sanity.

  At least, not before I got my permanent detective’s shield.

  I opened my mouth to grill them both, to wring the truth from him, from her. To tear them apart and finally get to the bottom of this.

  Then Steve smiled at Gretchen. And she smiled back.

  Oh, God. They looked so happy. I couldn’t do it.

  When Dad and Brita died, grief and desolation hit me hard because I went through it alone. That was when I moved back to the Corners, hungry for some sense of family, of security. I never wanted Gretch to have that experience. I ached for her when Steve died, and was there for her as much as I could be. Which was unfortunately never enough.

  So if Steve’s return made her feel safe and loved, I guess I had to suck it up and be happy for her.

  But if he hurt her, I’d shoot him.

  So I’d give their story…and Steve…a chance. Not exactly regulations, but it wasn’t up to me to be Gretchen’s conscience. Only her big sister.

  –—

  I looked up, saw the familiar doors of the cop shop. I might have mislaid my mind, but at least my feet weren’t lost. I mounted the steps. My hand hit the door. I stopped.

  Captain Titus. Great Donut, preserve me. He’d want a report. What could I tell him, that long-dead men had attacked me? That my brother-in-law had risen from the grave? Considering how Tight-ass reacted when I mentioned the lack of blood at the scene, he would be less than impressed.

  But I had to say something. Maybe, like the ME, I’d state only provable facts. Tight-ass might come to the same insane conclusions, but I couldn’t help that.

  Just the facts, ma’am. Unfortunately, that didn’t give me a whole lot to talk about. I was doomed.

  Hand on doorknob, I waited. For a miracle, maybe. Or lightning. Bolts of electricity would hurt less than Tight-ass’s screech. Maybe I was waiting for my cell phone, which always rang at the most absurd moments. For once I wanted to be interrupted. Where was it when I really needed it?

  Tweedle-tweedle. I pulled the phone out, stared at it. Since when did things go right? Had I fed a hungry stranger who was a leprechaun in disguise? Had giving Steve a chance before I shot him rebalanced my karma? If Lutherans even believed in karma. I snapped the phone open. “O’Rourke.”

  “Detective Ma’am! It’s Detective Dirk, calling to report still no blood, and to get my next assignment. Do you like that? The Detective Dirk, I mean, not the no blood. I thought it was more friendly for doing community outreach, at a school, say. Detective Ruffles is so stuffy, and if we’re trying to reach kids, we have to be hip and trendy. The name has a ring to it, doesn’t it? Detective Dirk. D.D. Same initials, like all the best old-time movie stars. Doris Day, Lily Langtry, Roy Rogers.”

  “Katherine Hepburn.” I massaged my temples, one-handed. Which was worse, death by Tight-ass or drowning in a flood of Dirk? Although it was ridiculously reassuring that my karmic scales were still off-kilter.

  “Lois Lane, Fred Flint—”

  “Ruffles! Look, you did a great job with the blood.”

  “Thank you, Detective Ma’am. I’ve learned so much from you. Almost as much as I learn from Oprah. And my uncle said—”

  “—so I have another task for you. Top priority. This might make or break the case.”

  That shut him up. Almost. “Really?”

  “Josephine Schrimpf was out of town the night of the murder. Or she says she was. I need you to run that down for me.”

  “Run it down? Like road kill? And a car?”

  “Uh, no. I mean find proof. Evidence that Josephine went to that convention. Plane tickets, hotel reservations, phone calls.”

  “Something that shows she wasn’t in Meiers Corners the night her husband died?” Dirk caught on at last. “What if I can’t? Captain Titus thinks Mrs. Schrimpf did it, you know. Although I like her, because she knows how to mix a martini, I think, and—”

  “When were you talking to Titus?”

  “Huh? Oh. When he field-promoted me. And then when he assigned me as your partner. Oh, and he called me today and met me for lunch. I had tuna salad on rye. Ice tea to drink—with a twist of lemon. The lemon had seeds so I scooped them out with my spoon and some of the juice got on the tablecloth but lemon juice takes out stains so I didn’t worry—”

  “Er, yes. Good luck, Detective Dirk.” I flipped the phone shut.

  Only to have it ring again. Hooray, another delay. I snapped it open.

  “O’Rourke!”

  I sucked in a breath at the jet-engine voice. Buddha on a unicycle, karmic balance had gone dark side. “Captain Titus. What can I do for you?”

  “I’ve been delayed by an, um, meeting. But I’ll want your report first thing when I get to the station. Five thirty this morning, got that?”

  “Yes, sir.” I clapped the phone shut, amazed. Merry Christmas, Tiny Tim! No more shooting people first and asking questions later for me.

  Of course, my vivisection was only postponed. But I now had time to get every single solid fact I could. I trotted into the building, new resolving adding spring to my steps. And when I cozied up to my computer, Dirkson’s painted eyes watched over my shoulder with interest.

  I started with the prime suspect, Drusilla. The Happy Nappy Hooker had risen to number one on my chart when I discovered Schrimpf’s idea of foreplay was fang-play. And I was glad. Not because I was jealous or anything. Just because she shared a name with Strongwell, who was a good kisser…all right, great…and licker…I wasn’t jealous. Really.

  A few mouse clicks got me her DMV record. A feminine five six to my five nine, she was thirty pounds lighter than me and younger by seven hundred and thirty days.

  Handcuff me and shove a Taser up my ass. She was younger, prettier and had bigger coconut surprises than me. And she’d lived with Bo. I reminded myself forcefully that I wasn’t jealous. Not threatened in the least.

  Right.

  I moved on to her other records. Social security, tax returns were all in order. (Well, except she listed her profession as “wind musician”. I shuddered to think what kind of instrument she was actually blowing.) No rap sheet, which surprised me. Even some of our part-timers had b
een nailed for solicitation.

  Drusilla had gone to Our Savior’s Prep, the private school in Meiers Corners. Her school file noted she was an orphan from Chicago, guardian Bo Strongwell. I stifled a snort. Guardian. Like he’d been that much older.

  I caught sight of the tuition and whistled. He was that much richer. Apparently being a grunt paid well these days.

  While in school and for several years after, Dru lived at Bo’s. She moved out six months ago, consistent with Gretch’s story. Address unknown. Considering Drusilla’s occupation, that wasn’t as odd as it might have been.

  What was odd was her name. Driver’s license, social security number, tax returns—all the records were in the name of Drusilla Strongwell.

  She couldn’t have been born that way. I looked for a legal change of name. Nada. And without some idea of what her name had been, I couldn’t search for a birth certificate.

  Dead-end for now. I let it chug in my subconscious and did some digging on my other mysteries.

  First up—the meaning of the name “Bo”.

  Not because he was on my mind or anything. I punched in my search criteria, was directed to a baby name site. I was just looking because…because…aw, hell, I couldn’t even come up with a good excuse. I was thinking about him all the time. His sea-blue eyes. His battleship chest, his bronzed cannon arms. His riptide abs, his dragon-prow coc…there it was.

  Bo. Old Norse, meaning—a householder.

  Well, wasn’t that a disappointment?

  Wait, disappointment? Was I expecting something like Blood Drinker or the Fanged One? Good grief, I had to stop reading Anne Rice and watching horror flicks. Well, unless they brought back Buffy. Or if there was a Kindred: The Embraced marathon over Labor Day.

  I went on to the next question. Looking up John Smith in the death records.

  The name was so generic it would have been impossible to find. But Ignatek had the social security number. Using that, I got the state and county—Jefferson, Wisconsin. Doing the death certificate search, I found two John Smiths deceased during that time. Only one was thirty-six.

  I got lucky then. John Smith’s parents were named on the certificate, Quincy and Abigail. A Quincy and Abigail Smith lived in Maidstone, Jefferson County. Smith was common enough, but how many Quincy and Abigails were there? I picked up the phone. It was quarter to four in the morning, but I could leave a message.

  To my surprise, a querulous tenor answered. “What do you want? Make it snappy!”

  Or maybe it was a crabby alto. I couldn’t tell. Age roughened the voice until I wasn’t sure if it was male or female. But it was definitely peevish. “I’m sorry to be calling so early. But may I speak to Mr. or Mrs. Smith, please?”

  “Something wrong with your hearing? I’m Mrs. Smith. You’d better not be selling something, missy. Well? Speak up! What do you want?”

  I couldn’t get word one in until she took a breath. Annoying, but not in Dirk’s league. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Smith. I’m Detective Elena O’Rourke with the Meiers Corners police in Illinois. I’d like to ask you a few questions about your son John.”

  “Ungrateful boy. I wanted grandchildren. But no. John had to be gay. Can’t you even adopt, I asked? And John would have adopted—except for that partner of his. ‘We’re too young for children’,” she mimicked in a high voice. “The partner, not John. John was a dutiful son before he met Hubert. I wish John had stayed together with that nice Donald. Donald would have adopted.”

  “Uh, yes, Mrs. Smith. I understand John died of AIDS.”

  “No, young lady. He died of a trip to San Francisco.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Hubert went to San Francisco for a convention. John could have stayed home. But no. He went along. A honeymoon, that Hubert called it. Quincy and I would have paid for a honeymoon if it had been Donald. Donald would have wanted children, but not Hubert.”

  John died on the trip? But Ignatek said AIDS. “I don’t understand, Mrs. Smith. Was there a plane crash?”

  “There was a rally. ‘Take Back the Night’. A feminist rally, do you believe it? Not even a gay pride parade. Donald would have done Gay Pride. But not Hubert…”

  The more she talked, the more confused I became. Maybe Mrs. Smith could give Dirkenstein a run for his money. “John was trampled by the crowd?”

  “No, no, keep up! John was attacked by a gang. Knifed to death in a dark alley.” Her voice broke. “My poor boy.” Then she snarled, “At least that Hubert died too.”

  “John was knifed?” I wondered what that had to do with AIDS.

  “Stabbed. Viciously. John almost bled to death, detective. He was rushed to the hospital. But he was so weak…he got an infection.”

  And died. No immune system. She was making sense at last. I was so relieved that I nearly missed it.

  The attack. Stabbed. Nearly bled to death.

  Then died, yet showed up here a year later.

  No. Impossible. “Mrs. Smith. By any chance, did John have an identical twin?”

  “You been reading too many horror stories, missy. No.”

  I thanked her and called the San Francisco police.

  After identifying myself and explaining what I was looking for, I was put on hold. While I waited, I typed “Johnson, Steven” into my death records search engine.

  A deep, sexy voice came on. “Officer Mancuso.” He growled with almost the same erotic timbre as Bo.

  In fact, despite the lick-fest in Bo’s bedroom I shivered and my pussy clenched. Ouch. Shift couldn’t end fast enough. I obviously desperately needed to get laid.

  Carefully controlling my voice, I identified myself. “I have a question about an attack there a year ago, Officer Mancuso. One of the victims was John Smith from Wisconsin. You were the officer on patrol?”

  “Smith…Smith…” I heard some key clicks. “Ah, yes. My partner and I interrupted the…attack.”

  Maybe I was primed for it, but the hesitation was strange. “Was there something unusual about the…attack, officer?” I mimicked his hesitation.

  Another pause. “Not really, detective.”

  My lie meter didn’t work well over the phone. I had only my basic intuition, but that was pinging off the charts. Why was a fellow cop lying to me? “I understand John Smith and his partner were stabbed. Can you tell me what kind of weapon was used?”

  The pause this time was definitely darker. “Where did you say you were from, Detective O’Rourke?”

  I shivered, and it wasn’t excitement. If there hadn’t been half a continent between us I would have had my gun out. “Meiers Corners, Officer Mancuso. Please answer the question. What kind of weapon was used?”

  “Stiletto. Excuse me, detective, I have another call coming in.” He hung up.

  I slammed the phone down. Dammit! Just when I was getting somewhere…the death certificate search had a hit. I stared.

  Steve was alive, but his death certificate had not been annulled.

  Why? Why was a living man still legally dead? And I didn’t believe that “we’ve only known for a few days” crap.

  I tapped a few more keys, trying to find something that would give me a clue. There were no amendments. It didn’t make sense. Unless Steve and Gretchen were trying to scam the insurance company?

  It didn’t sound like my sister, but I checked. Steve had a single policy, for two thousand dollars. That wouldn’t have even covered the funeral. They wouldn’t have risked jail for a couple grand. Especially not with Stella.

  Could it be that he really was still…? No, it couldn’t. Though I loved to read about it, I refused to believe in a world where dead men walked and turned to ash with the help of a well-placed stake.

  Not without hard proof, at any rate.

  The phone rang, my direct line. “O’Rourke.”

  “Detective O’Rourke. I have information for you pertaining to the murder.”

  The voice was a light baritone with an Eastern European flavor. Slavic, or Romania
n. I wished, not for the first time, that the cop shop had caller ID.

  “Your name, sir?”

  “My name does not matter. The new body does. It has been drained of blood.”

  Bloodless body? I was very interested. But… “It’s against police department rules to accept anonymous tips. Your name, please.”

  “The body is in Nieman’s parking lot. I know you’ll do the right thing, Detective O’Rourke.”

  He hung up.

  I immediately contacted Alice, but she couldn’t get a trace. So. Either follow department rules and forget about it, or…hell. Dead body? Killed just like Napoleon Schrimpf? Yeah, good luck putting that out of my head.

  It was probably a fake report, piggybacked on a lurid murder. But I couldn’t let it lay. Besides, walking might clear my mind about Mancuso and John Smith. I checked my gun and backup piece, prepping to go.

  My spine tingled. My head snapped up.

  Bo sauntered into the room, twinkling his dimple at me. “Hello, Detective.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  My spine was joined by a tingly trio chorus. We were happy to see him, my breasts and pussy and I.

  Still…“I’m working.”

  “Coffee break?” The erotic note in his voice reminded me of the last break I’d taken with him.

  “Yes…no. I can’t. I have legwork to do.” I rose and brushed by him.

  “Legwork is my specialty,” he purred as I strode by.

  My stride hitched. “Shit, Bo. Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?” He flicked eyes along my legs and licked his lips.

  My stride hitched again. I tugged my jeans, adjusting the crotch. The man gave me a permanent squishy.

  With cop determination and rigid self-discipline, I made it…outside, Bo following. I hit Adams Street headed west. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “After you left I went out on patrol. My patrol took me here.” He sauntered easily next to me, his hands in his pockets. It tightened his jeans across the front. He was bulging against his zipper.

  “Doesn’t he ever rest?” Blushing, I pointed at Mr. Not-So-Little Viking.