Malicious Mischief (A Rylie Keyes Mystery) (Entangled Select) (9 page)

“Who?”

“He didn’t say—wouldn’t say. Maybe there is a connection between Talon, the café, and the pier. And if so, who is Bintliff to Lipschitz, and why is he afraid of him?”

“Sounds like one of life’s little mysteries. And you know how we like mysteries.”

“Oh, yes we do,” I said, smiling, “But you realize we have only twenty-four hours to solve Otto’s murder. Granddad will be home by lunchtime tomorrow. And with Lipschitz threatening to charge me with obstruction—”

“Obstruction, really? That’s hardcore,” he said.

“More like two shots, close range. And it would be the end of everything: Granddad accepting me as a PI and paying our back taxes.”

“Not to mention possible jail time.”

“Solo, we can’t drag this out. We have to—no, we
will
solve this case in one day.”

“Well, look at you. Miss Confident. And I know just the thing to get us started.”

“What?” I asked.

“Buddhist Monks,” he said.

“And we’re talking about monks because?”

He blew out a breath. “Earlier, me, telling you a sand drawing was in the station’s public lobby to celebrate the marathon. Trust me it will bring us good Karma.”

“I dunno. We’re burning daylight as we speak.”

“Come on, it’s barely nine am. And let’s face it, to solve this murder fast we are going to need all the good karma we can get. Ten minutes, that’s all I ask.”

He grabbed my arm, and humoring him, I let him drag me toward the exit. We were about fifteen feet away when the doors opened and a young police officer hauled inside a handcuffed teeny-tiny Asian woman. She wore a black leather jumpsuit, spiked dog collar, and on her feet were silver pumps tall enough to lift Faye Ray into King Kong’s paw. A fierce look—one I could never hope to equal—twisted her Chihuahua-size face as she sputtered out a boatload of foreign words.

Solo nudged me. “Those are Korean swear words.”

“I didn’t know you knew Korean.”

“I don’t, but I watched a marathon of Korean movies on Netflix last month when I had the flu. Oooo, what’s that smell?”

I took a whiff.
Bleh.
“I dunno.”

“It’s really gamey.”

The officer dragged the woman to the counter, told the booking cop her name was Happy Hye, and that he’d picked her up for solicitation.

Two more police officers barreled in from outside. Because his head was wagging, the handcuffed man between them was hard to see. Though from what I could see, he looked like Woody Allen in leather and chains: sandy blond hair, enormous horn-rimmed glasses over a black mask. Dragging his feet, he forced the officers to lift him by the arms.

“I couldn’t even get the handcuffs to work,” the man said, head down, whimpering.

Solo and I exchanged a wide-eyed looked, sighed in unison. It was our boss, Leland Rosenberg.

“I never do this sort of thing,” Leland said to the officers. “It’s my birthday. I’m having a big party tonight. How about letting me off with just a warning?”

“Birthday party!” Happy Hye yelled from the booking desk where she stood ready for a mug shot. “So I’m good enough to have sex with, but not invite to your party?”

“Geez, I’m trying to save my marriage, not make new friends,” Leland said as he and the officers paused several feet away from the booking desk to wait their turn.

I inched up, angling closer. Solo mirrored me.

“How’s banging me gonna save your marriage?” Happy Hye screamed.

Leland craned his neck, the chain fixed from his collar to waist straining. “My wife says nothing screams sexy like a dominated man. I’m a perfectionist. I had to practice.”

“And you made me talk nerdy to you, too,” Happy Hye said, glaring at the camera as the officer snapped the shot. “Broke ass or not, I should have demanded more money. Enzymes, proteins, acid, or race. What dung.”

We inched even closer.

Leland looked at the ceiling, sighing. “Now I’ve heard everything. It’s base, not race.” Then his eyes fell on me. “Oh, hello, Rylie.” He did a good job of sounding normal. “She got that last part wrong. When you think of acid, don’t you naturally think of base? That’s the way my mind works anyway.”

I blinked, taking in the full impact of his clothing, recognizing them as part of Lilith’s domination collection. “Leland, what’s with the sunglasses?”

Solo leaned in. “You look at those threads and sunglasses are what you’re nosy about?”

“I thought it best to start at the top, and then work my way down,” I said.

“This is really rather embarrassing,” Leland said. “The sunglasses are camouflage, in case someone from my synagogue sees me. Shlomo’s Deli is next door. They make the best cheese blintz.”

Solo took in a big sniff. “Boss, is it my imagination or do you smell like venison?”

“Yeah, I reek of the stuff. She made me eat before we had—” Leland lifted his shoulders, then let them fall. “She said it would give me a robust—” He blushed crimson. “But I don’t think it was venison. Horse, maybe. You know how well they’re—”

“Gifted,” Solo suggested, grinning.

Leland nodded, looking wistful. “Must be nice to be a horse.”

“Oh, pleeeezzze,” Happy Hye wailed from the booking desk. “It was dog meat, dork!”

“What?” Leland said, his eyes wide open. “Dog meat is forbidden under Jewish law. Oh, God! What will my mother say?”

“Time to see a man about a mug shot,” the officer said, grabbing Leland by the arm.

“Oh, why not?” he said. “I’m broke. How bad can jail be?”

“For real, broke?” I asked, my eyes bulging now.

“Yeah, but I want to keep it a secret,” he whispered. “The FDA suspended trial of my anti-frailty drug, something about liver damage. Go figure. Kidneys, we got two, but my drug puts holes in a solitary organ. I can fix it, though,” he said, “but not from jail. Rylie, without this approval, I’ll be forced to sell FoY.”

No FoY, no job, no money for back taxes, no affordable housing for the seniors.
Uh-oh
. “Not to worry, Leland,” I said. “Just post bail and you’ll be out of jail in an hour.”

Solo nudged me. “Tell him about Otto being murdered.”

“Huh?” Leland said. “Otto Weiner was murdered?”

I quickly related the details of how the body was found.

“Holy cow,” he said. “How did he die?”

Happy Hye being led away from the booking desk interrupted my answer.

“All right, lover boy,” one of the officers said to Leland. “Mug shot time.”

Happy Hye dug in her heels as they passed each other.

“Hey, dork,” she said to Leland. “Maybe you not so broke ass. Maybe you buy my client list real cheap, ten grand maybe. It full of big business honchos, real estate moguls, and even billionaire Dilbert Bates’s bodyguard.”

“The one who let a pie hit Bates in the face?” Solo asked.

“That’s the one,” she said testily and turned back to Leland. “Some might pay a little something to keep their names a secret. What do ya think, huh? We got a deal, dork?”

“Oh, that’s a good idea, boss,” Solo said with enthusiasm. “The extra money will come in handy, especially since they think you killed Otto. You’re gonna need a high priced attorney.”

“What?” Leland stared at me in what appeared to be a shocked stupor as the officers dragged him to the desk. Once there, he snapped out of it enough to mouth my way, “Help.”

I pointed to the phone on Yancy’s desk and mouthed back, “Call me.”

He looked confused, so I rushed over and lifted the receiver.

After he hesitated for a beat, he nodded. “Officer,” he said to the booking cop, “I get one phone call, right?”

“Yep.”

“Can I call any phone?”

“Yep.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what’s the number for the phone on the desk over there?”

If there was one thing I hated more than waiting around, it was waiting around a police lobby in fear of running into Lipschitz again. Some might say I’m chicken. They would be right. It wasn’t that booking Leland was taking longer than usual. Nope, he was cooperative and uncomplaining to the officers, but his restrictive get-up made removing his belongings from his pockets difficult. Add to that how his black leather mask got stuck on his head. It was tight and almost tore off an ear when the officers tried to help him take it off.

Solo and I were sitting on the floor, eating licorice, two cowering figures huddled in the corner behind Yancy’s desk, our backs to the wall, and our legs out straight.

“Is he almost done?” Solo said, turning to me as I had a better view. “I have a wedgie beyond belief, or at least I think I do. My ass is numb.”

“That can be a mixed blessing. The numb ass,” I said, “not the wedgie.”

“Ssshh,” Yancy hissed down from his desk chair. “Here comes trouble. Lipschitz just left the men’s room.”

We fell silent. Yancy was great to hide us. There was something awesome about him fudging the rules to let two suspects talk. Done, I suspected, out of our long-lasting respect and appreciation for each other.

“Thank all that is good and holy, Lipschitz is gone,” Yancy said after a moment, “but it’s a safe bet he’ll be back.”

Some minutes later, the desk phone rang. Yancy answered it then covered the receiver as he held it out for me. “I’m on marathon duty in ten minutes, so hurry.”

I nodded, took the phone. “Leland, we gotta make this quick. Can you talk freely?”

“God, no, but I’ll do my best,” he said. “What’s this all about? Who killed Otto?”

“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out. And I’ve got only one day to do it, so tell me everything you know.”

“Rylie, I have two doctorates. That could take some time.”

I rolled my eyes. “Listen, did you tell Booth last night that you hoped Otto would get what was coming to him?”

“Sheesh, I wasn’t referring to murder,” he said.

“What then?”

“Otto lost his watch to Booth in a late night poker game last week, only Otto threatened to file a complaint accusing Booth of stealing it.”

“Did he? Steal it, I mean,” I said.

“It was a fair game. Otto threw the watch into the pot once he ran out of money.”

“What’s the watch worth?” I asked.

“Twenty grand.”

I whistled. “That’s a lot of scratch. How come I never saw Otto wearing such an expensive watch?”

“He never wore it. Said it irritated his psoriasis,” Leland said, sounding unconvinced.

“And you didn’t believe him?”

Silence. “More important is that Booth is worried because it’s his word against Otto’s.”

“Weren’t there other players?” I asked.

“Two, but Wally dozed off and the Colonel had to leave for a swig of Pepto-Bismol.”

I paused when Solo whispered a question in my ear. “Leland,” I said finally, “why does Booth have your cell phone?”

“That’s a story that isn’t mine to tell. Ask him.”

I thought about Booth’s mutual friend comment. “Are you saying he has a history with Happy Hye?”

“It’s complicated, but don’t worry. It has nothing to do with Otto or his murder.”

I looked down at the questions I’d scribbled on a scratchpad while waiting for Leland to call. “Did you meet Doris and Cokey Bill Oley at the laboratory on a regular basis?”

“Every Sunday morning, six thirty sharp. I’d have been there this morning if the cops hadn’t arrested us at Crossroads Park.”

“It’s only ten. What took you so long to get here?” I asked

“It was totally weird, they cordoned off the area, no traffic in, none out.”

“Why?”

“Dogs were everywhere. Seems they escaped from Crossroads Animal Shelter. I was handcuffed in the back of the cruiser, but Happy Hye was outside stomping her foot in a blind furry at a little dachshund. It was awful. The poor thing had only three legs.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “Did she hurt it?”

“Don’t think so. It ran off.”

I refocused on my list. “Did you schedule two fish deliveries for this morning, one at daybreak, and one later?”

“Nope, only the one. Why? What’s happened?”

Long silence. Then. “I met the Oleys this morning. At the laboratory, in the back parking lot. We talked a little. Tossed around some fish. Leland, I swear to God, they were both living one moment then
bam
they were dead the next.”

Even longer silence.

“And you wanna know what’s funny?” I chuckled, but it came out as a squeak. “The police think you convinced me to get rid of Otto’s body in the laboratory incinerator. Only they think you wanted to frame me by hiring the Oleys to kill me so I couldn’t talk.”

Long drawn-out silence.

“But don’t worry. I don’t believe it for a minute. Leland?” I said, peering around the desk. “You still there? I can’t see you. Leland? Leland?”

I heard a thud, followed by the booking officer shouting, “Man down!”

~Come to the dark side. We have cookies~

Alistair was slouched across the desk from Granddad when Solo and I entered his office after a quick knock. Both men were cackling. Granddad’s eyes were bright. It was great to see.

“I know what’s going on here,” I said, my cheeks burning. “You told Granddad about what happened in the panel truck, about Cokey Bill Oley seeing my bare behind.”

Alistair fell into a deeper fit of laughter.

“Rylie.” Granddad lifted his bifocals, wiped his eyes. “Life with you is an adventure.”

Is that a good thing?
“What a horrible morning. Nice sunrise, though,” I said, checking my watch. “Shouldn’t you be leaving for Portland? It’s after ten.”

Granddad bolted up to his feet. I immediately regretted asking, as sudden movement was not good on a damaged heart. “Goodness,” he said, appearing all right. “I forgot the time. The fair is in three hours.”

“Wish you didn’t have to rush off,” Alistair said. “We could have breakfast.”

“I’m back tomorrow,” Granddad said. “How about lunch?”

“That works,” Alistair said.

Granddad looked at me. “You’ll need a ride home. I can drop you both off.”

“We’re good. Solo wants to check out the sand drawing in the lobby.”

“You’ll need to go outside, around the building,” Alistair said. “The cleaning crew broke the glass door that connects the two lobbies.”

I remembered something. “I also have to put in an hour at FoY’s booth at the marathon.”

“Yeah, Tita will chap our asses—sorry,” Solo said, two dots of red rising on his chubby cheeks. “I mean, her blood will boil if we don’t make it.”

“We’ll catch the bus after,” I said, and he started to leave but I called, “Granddad,” and he looked back. “I love you.”

He flashed a small uncomfortable smile. “Me, too. Be careful.”

I planned to be and told him so. “See you tomorrow,” I said, as he closed the door behind him. I turned back to Alistair. I didn’t know the wisdom of my next action, but it was all I could think of. “Granddad is worried about me.”

“That his gut is twisting would be a fair statement,” he said.

“For the sake of argument, let’s assume he’s asked you to keep an eye on me.”

“For the sake of argument,” he confirmed.

I thought it a good time for barefaced honesty. “You know how I’ve always wanted to be a private detective, and how Granddad is against the idea?”

I received a nod in return.

“And your opinion on this is what?”

“Mixed,” he confessed. “Healthy birds leave the nest. Who’s to say, you might soar.”

So sweet, this one.

“But it can be dangerous, Rylie. No man wants his loved ones in danger.”

“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 the 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.”