Murder in the Aisles (2 page)

Chapter Two

“Hey, Rizzo, Captain wants to see you.”

Mark Rizzo looked up from his notepad. He'd been staring at it for the past half hour, trying to make sense out of his personal shorthand. Between him and the gatepost he didn't have the slightest idea what he'd written.

“Shit,” he muttered. The last person he wanted on his ass this morning was the captain. Mark was sure he was going to chew him out about the kid he'd busted the other day. Come to find out it was some senator's son who swore he'd been beaten and never read his rights. All a bunch of bullshit, but a pain in the ass nonetheless.

Mark pushed back from his three-legged swivel chair, watched it wobble for a moment before settling down. He shook his head. After fifteen years on the force he figured he at least deserved a decent chair. He ran his hand through his thick hair and walked into the captain's office.

“Mornin' Captain.”

The captain didn't bother to look up. “Shut the door.”

This was bad
. Mark closed the door, stood opposite the captain's desk and worked really hard at keeping his expression neutral. He slung his hands in his pockets.

Captain Theo Burke was big, black and mean as all hell. He made the television captains look like pussies in comparison. But Mark Rizzo was just as big and just as mean when necessary. He didn't take any shit either, which caused him more grief than it was usually worth and one of the various reasons why he remained without a partner.

“I want you to go over to the library.”

Mark's face creased into a series of hard lines. “The library? Ya gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me. Can't one of the PA's go? I've got a ton of work—”

“Did I ask you what you got?” He pointed a thick finger in Mark's direction. “Get your ass over there and check out the dead body.”

“Dead body in the library?”

“Yeah, dead body in the library,” he said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “One of the employees called it in.” He looked at his notes, snatched the paper off the pad and tossed it across the desk. “Some broad named Swift. Check it out.”

Mark reached for the paper.
Library of Congress. See Felicia Swift
.

“And Rizzo, keep this low profile. We don't want the press to get in an uproar about dead bodies in the library for Christ's sake.”

“But Cap. I'm homicide. What makes this Swift woman think it was a murder?”

Captain Burke pursed his lips, then angled his head to the left. “Maybe the gash in the side of his head was a tip-off, Detective!”

Mark blew out a breath, folded the piece of paper and stuck it in the breast pocket of his jacket. “Thanks, Cap.”

“You're most certainly welcome,” he sing-songed. His dark eyes bored into Mark's. With a wave of his hand he dismissed him

“And don't fuck this up,” he warned, as Mark opened the door.

Mark started to toss back a smart remark but decided against it. The captain was already in a crappy mood and he didn't need to make it worse. Besides, he'd actually gotten off light. Captain hadn't said a word about the kid. He'd take care of this case, tie it up in a neat little bow and hand it to the captain on a silver platter, hopefully earning him a place in the captain's good graces. At least as good as they could get for the captain.

On the drive over he tried to remember the last time he'd been in a library. He couldn't remember. Probably college. And all the librarians were kinda old and weird. That much he did remember. This Swift broad was probably no different—old, dumpy, gray-haired with thick glasses. Yeah, he'd wrap this one up quickly.

Mark pulled up in front of the stately building and grimaced.
Libraries
. As he exited his late-model Ford Taurus he spotted a uniformed officer at the front door and a big sign posted in the window:
Closed for Customer Visits Today
.
Appointments Only
.

He jogged up the slushy steps and winced as his right knee squealed in protest. War wounds, he mused, slowing down to a barely noticeable limp. One of many. He still held the scars from the bullet that pierced his shoulder in a drug bust while he still worked in Vice; the surgically precise knife wound that ran six inches across his belly; various cuts and bruises and of course the knee that he'd hurt in an eight-block chase of a suspect. When he finally caught up with the guy, he was so pissed from having to run, he dived on the wily bastard in a football tackle, slamming the suspect and his knee into the pavement. Both of them howled, but Mark held on until his partner finally caught up. Six weeks in rehab and he was back on duty, but this time he'd gotten his transfer to homicide. His rationale was that dead bodies were highly unlikely to shoot, stab, fight back or send you on a chase through the streets of D.C.

He reached the top step.

“Whadda we got?” Rizzo flashed his badge at the officer.

“Old dead guy. Found about an hour ago by one of the employees. We've sealed off the area.” He stomped his feet, trying to keep warm.

Mark nodded. “Good deal.” He jerked his chin toward the glass doors. “Who we got inside?”

“One of the officers from the squad, library security guard and the lady who called it in—a Ms. Swift.”

Mark patted him on the shoulder as he crested the last step. “You come on inside. Cap wants to keep this under the radar. No need to start raising eyebrows with 5-0 standing on the steps.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, more than happy to get out of the biting weather.

Mark pushed through the glass doors and flashed his shield to the security guard, who looked older than the building. He turned around in a slow circle taking in his surroundings. He'd never seen a library this big before. To think he'd spent the better part of his adulthood in D.C. and hadn't set foot in there mildly amazed him.

“Lotta books in here, huh?” he murmured in awe.

“We're the largest repository of books in the world,” the guard said with pride.

“Is that right.” Mark unbuttoned his wool coat. “Here to see a Ms. Swift.”

The wizened old man, who stood no taller than the center of Mark's wide chest, looked him up and down as if he could actually stop Mark if he decided to breeze right by him. He stared at the badge through thick bifocals. “Mmm. Young to be a detective,” he said, his tone suspect.

Mark took a look at his nametag. Larry Purvis.

“Look, Mr. Purvis, I need to see Ms. Swift. Now. So you can either get her for me or I'll find her myself.”

“Keep your shirt on, young man. There's been a murder here you know. Can't be too careful.”

Mark slowly shook his head. “Right, which is why I'm here.”

“Of course.”

Mark blinked several times. Where was he, at the library or in the fuckin' Twilight Zone?

They both turned at the sound of sharp heels beating a steady rhythm against the cool marble floors.

His appraisal started at her feet and slowly traveled up legs that didn't seem to end, the dip in her waist, the full rise of round lush breasts, long sinewy neck and a face that could easily grace the cover of any magazine.

The angelic siren stuck out her hand.

“Dr. Felicia Swift. Senior Research Librarian. I'm the one who found the body,” she added with the lift of her chin.

Mark swallowed. Librarian! They sure don't make 'em like they used to
.
His hand enveloped hers. It was soft, smooth but strong. Her grip was as no nonsense as her demeanor.

“Detective Rizzo. You wanna show me?”

“Of course. Follow me.”

With pleasure… Nope, they sure don't make 'em like they used to
.

She started off and Mark had to force himself to focus on what lay ahead and not the soft sway of her hips and those endlessly long legs.

She made a sharp right turn into the cavernous room and headed down the aisle. She stopped halfway and pointed. “He's right there.”

Mark slowly walked past her and caught a whiff of her perfume. Felicia stepped to the side, pressing her back against the shelf of books, and folded her arms.

Mark leaned down to take a look, then walked around the body, observing from several angles. He made note of the small pool of blood near his head. He stood, glanced upward at the ladder that rose to the top of the shelves. He turned to Felicia.

“Looks like he took a fall off the ladder.” He jerked at his tie. He hated ties. “Accident,” he said in a dismissive tone. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, called the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner and relayed the details. When he finished with his call, he turned to Felicia and took out a notepad. “The medical investigator is on the way to document the scene.” He glanced at the prone body. “What's his name?”

“Dr. Dresden. Paul Dresden.”

“A doctor?” He frowned. “What was he doing here?”

Felicia pursed her lips in disgust. “Yes,a doctor. He worked here. He is…was the head of the linguistic department.”

“Linguist, huh?” He murmured something under his breath. “When's the last time you saw him?”

“Around three yesterday.”

“What time does this joint close?” He gazed upward at the cathedral ceiling and ornate moldings that looked to be finished in gold leaf. Musta cost a mint.

“Last night we closed at nine-thirty.”

He focused on Felicia. “Did you leave at closing?”

“Yesterday was my early day. I left at four.”

Mark took down all the information, not that it really mattered, he thought. This was a pretty open and shut case. Some old guy climbs up on a ladder, gets dizzy, falls, end of story.

“Well, the medical investigator should be here shortly. If you think of anything, you can always give me a call.”

“That's it. That's all you're going to do?”

He shrugged. “There's not much I can do until the ME does the full exam. Right now there is no clear indication of foul play. Looks like it was an unfortunate accident. At least right now,” he added to appease her. “I'll run what I have by the ME when they get here.”

She dropped her hands to her sides and took several steps forward. She glanced in the direction of the body, then straight into Mark's dark eyes. “This was not an accident, Detective.”

He flashed her a patronizing grin. “And why would you say that, Miss…Dr. Swift?” He slid his hands into the pockets of his wool coat.

“Detective,” she said as if speaking to a slow child. “Someone killed him and put him here. Dr. Dresden wouldn't be caught dead in the aisles of astronomy and astrophysics.” She gave him a hard look. “No pun intended.”

Two tight lines formed between his brows. “What are you talking about?”

She huffed. “Dr. Dresden specialized in languages, ancient languages to be precise.” She lifted her chin. “He strongly believed that staring at the stars was pure rubbish and a waste of valuable time.”

What she was saying still didn't register with Mark.

“Don't you see?” She stretched her arms expansively to the left then right indicating the shelves in the gallery. “Astronomy and astrophysics. ” She stared at him with wide honey-brown eyes.

Mark wanted to laugh but he could see by the stern expression on her exquisite face that she was quite serious. “I'll, uh, make a note of that.”

“You could at least have the decency to pretend to take me seriously.”

“Dr. Swift. I do this for a living. Ugly as it may be. I don't tell you how to find books, so you don't tell me about dead bodies. How 'bout that?” He grinned.

Felicia drew in a sharp breath and Mark's eyes fell on her rising breasts.

He didn't miss the glare she threw in his direction and wondered what was going on in that pretty head of hers. He could only imagine.

The standoff came to an end with the arrival of the medical investigator.

Chapter Three

Mark talked in hushed tones with the investigator, intermittently tossing a look in Felicia's direction. The ME nodded, opened up his medical kit and put on plastic gloves to begin his preliminary examination.

Mark seemed to pay little attention to the morbid scene. Felicia on the other hand, couldn't tear her eyes away.

“Maybe you should go back to your office until he's done here,” Mark suggested. “Stuff like this isn't for the faint of heart.”

Felicia didn't bother to look at him. “I have a graduate degree in forensic anthropology, Detective. The study of dead anything was part of my training,” she said calmly, as if she was discussing a shopping list. “I'd rather stay if you don't mind.” She angled her head to the side for a better look.

“Forensic anthropology? Hmm. So, uh, how many books are in a place like this?”

She gave him the benefit of her attention. “We have more than 130 million titles on the shelves covering every subject area in more than 400 languages. We are the repository for the House of Congress, the nation's copyright office—in a word, the largest storehouse of books in the world.” She shot him a tight smile.

The right corner of his mouth quirked. “Lotta books.” He chuckled.

Felicia ignored the inane comment. It was apparent that Detective Rizzo was an asshole. Handsome and sexy in that Miami Vice, after-five look, but still an asshole.

“All done here,” the investigator announced, snapping off his plastic gloves.

“Whaddya got?”

“Hmm. Looks like a fall, cracked his head on the marble floor. I estimate the TOD at least twelve hours ago based on body temp and the slight rigor of the extremities.” He shoved the plastic gloves into his coat pocket. “I'll know better when I get him to the lab and open him up. I'd like a better look at that gash under the scope to make sure it wasn't caused by something else.”

“Sure thing. Thanks.” He waved over one of the officers that were standing out of the way. “Tell the boys they can come in now.”

Felicia watched in pained silence as the investigator walked off and the two assistants took pictures of the scene, then zipped the doctor up like a sandwich in a Hefty bag.

“If we have any questions, we'll give you a call, Dr. Swift. One of the officers will stay behind to take statements, ask a few routine questions.” He started to walk off.

“Detective.” Felicia reached out and touched his arm. He turned and their gazes banged against each other. His nostrils flared for a split second before he ran his tongue across his lips.

“Yes, Dr. Swift?”

“What if I need to call you? I mean the precinct. In case I remember something?”

Mark fumbled around on the inside of his coat and pulled out a tattered brown leather wallet, then an equally tattered business card. He handed it to her with an apologetic look simmering in his eyes.

She took it from him. “Thanks.”

“Call anytime…if you think of something.”

He turned to leave before he said something dumb, like asking her to meet him for drinks after work. But librarians didn't drink. Did they?

“It wasn't an accident,” she said softly. “I'm sure of it.”

He stopped, started to comment but changed his mind. He kept walking until he found himself outside, relieved to be cooled by the icy January wind.