Bite My Fire: A Biting Love story. Read online

  Actually, the lamp made the space triple-purpose. Different wattage for interrogation, conference, and lunch. We couldn’t afford three rooms. We could afford the three-way bulb.

  I sat under the lamp’s highest setting, feeling every line of fatigue on my face. So far it had been a difficult, disappointing night.

  My biggest disappointment? A hundred fifty watts didn’t reveal a single wrinkle on Drusilla’s perfect face, even after three hours of grilling. No fair that someone with bazooka boobs got sledgehammer-me-between-the-eyes features. At the very least she should have had split ends.

  Life, I recalled, is rarely fair. I compensated best I could, with my snarliest cop glare. “So you’re telling me Napoleon Schrimpf was fine when you left him?”

  “Righter than rain. Sprawled in the driver’s seat of his Audi, smoking one of those big cigars he likes. Nappy always did like a big smoke after the big slurp.”

  That was an image I could do without. “And you don’t know anything about the puncture marks we found?” A TV detective would have sprung that information on her. Lured her into a trap. “Ah-ha! I didn’t tell you he died of puncture wounds.” But a TV detective didn’t have Dolly Barton’s Gossip Network to contend with. Half the city already knew as much or more than I did.

  “Puncture marks?” Drusilla’s mile-long lashes swept upward. I really hoped they were fake. But when she blinked, the curving sweep told me they were not only real, but un-mascara-ed. So not fair. She blinked again. “I have no idea how he got puncture marks, Detective O’Rourke.”

  I put aside envy to concentrate. Lying, or not?

  For the life of me, I couldn’t tell. Not a ping on my internal meter. I squared my shoulders. Gonna have to do this the hard way. “You were the last to see Napoleon Schrimpf alive.”

  “Probably.” She shrugged, a graceful lifting of one semi-bare shoulder. “We finished at one forty-five. According to Dolly, he was dead by two a.m. Not even Nappy could find another blow in that time.”

  I jumped on that. The time, not the blow. “One forty-five? Not one forty-six or one forty-seven? Or even ten to two? How do you know so exactly?”

  Drusilla pulled a compact out of her purse, considered her reflection. “I am a professional, Detective O’Rourke. How can I make money if I don’t keep to schedule?” She patted powder on her nose.

  I considered it. If she was telling the truth, somewhere between one forty-five and two a.m. Schrimpf had left the parking lot, bled to death and then—what? Walked back?

  Not likely. But I couldn’t prove or disprove it. I needed to find the actual site of the murder. If her timetable was accurate, it was somewhere in a seven-minute radius. Otherwise, I’d have a new number-one suspect.

  “All right, Drusilla, you can go.” Turning to a fresh page in my notebook, I tossed it to the table in front of her. “But I’ll need your full name, address and phone number, in case I have further questions.”

  Her eyes slid away from the mirror, and her cheeks colored. “Certainly, Detective O’Rourke.” She looked everywhere but me or the notebook. “Bo had business cards made up for me. They’re in my coat. If you’ll just wait here…?”

  I blinked. WTF? Her uneasiness was telling. Her cards—especially who made them—were a shock. Their location was a lie. Who wore a coat in this heat?

  She was trying to pull something, and I wasn’t going to let her get away with it. I opened my mouth to stop her.

  In that blink, Drusilla was gone.

  I leaped to my feet. Angry that another suspect had gotten away, sure, that was it. I certainly wasn’t boiling mad that Bo had business cards made for her. Certainly didn’t care… Fuck. When? Why?

  I was going to find out. I dashed after her.

  And ran into a gangly, rumpled blue chest.

  “Detective Ma’am! What a surprise!” A blue cap with bright yellow bill peered at me. Duck in a uniform.

  “Yeah, uh, Officer…Ruffles, wasn’t it? I’m kind of in a hurry, so if you’ll just move…” I slid to the side.

  He slid with me. Or actually, sort of clumped. “Isn’t this amazing? I was just saying to myself, Detective O’Rourke is on third shift. I’m on third shift. I wonder if I’ll see her some day? Of course I just started third shift. I was on first shift, but I switched so I could watch Oprah. Now I’m on third shift and can watch Oprah and you’re on third shift and I wondered if I’d see you, and here you are.”

  The boy had the lung capacity of a whale. He finally took a breath and I jumped in quick. “Brilliant deduction, Officer. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

  “How is the case going, Detective Ma’am? The murder of Napoleon Schrimpf?” He practically quacked in excitement.

  Ruffles had been first on the scene. I probably owed him something. It wouldn’t take long to fill him in. And in a three-mile-radius city, where could Drusilla really hide? Besides, Ruffles was blocking me like a Bulls guard. “I just talked with the last person to see Schrimpf alive. I have other suspects, but—”

  “How exciting! Your own murder case. Better almost than watching Oprah. I love Oprah. She’s so smart. And so are you. I bet you have lots of cases, don’t you Detective Ma’am? But this murder is the biggie. My uncle said that can make or break a career. By solving a murder case. Well, I suppose that would make a detective’s career. Not solving it would break it. But I know you’ll solve this one.”

  “Thanks for your confidence. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to be going.” I edged around him, toward the door.

  Dirk Ruffles followed, close enough to be a second skin, talking all the way. “I’d love to see how it’s done. A murder investigation, that is. I bet if we worked together, you could teach me a lot.”

  “Maybe. But really, Officer Ruffles. I’m going, er, someplace. Someplace I need to go by myself. Alone.”

  “Sure! I’ll come with you!” He grinned brightly at me.

  I grinned back. My grin floated in the air a full five seconds after I whirled and clipped as fast as humanly possible to the ladies’ john. Cowardly, I know. But I was desperate.

  Dirk Ruffles loped along behind me, jabbering the whole way. He kept talking even when I opened the restroom door.

  “Officer? Uh, I have to go…in here.”

  “Sure. Go right ahead. My uncle says I’ll be a detective some day and you’re really smart so I’m sure you could teach me…”

  I ducked into the ladies’ room.

  And shrieked when the door opened behind me.

  “…could teach me a lot. So where are we going first? Should I take my gun? It’s locked in my uncle’s safe right now but if I explain what it’s for—”

  “Ruffles!” I grabbed him and wrestled him bodily out the door. We were the same height and I probably had more muscle and more training, but it took every bit of it to get him out of that restroom. Not because of his strength. Think of trying to flick off a booger. You’ll get very close to the sensation of getting Dirkenstein out of the ladies’ bathroom.

  I muscled him out, drove the door shut, and held it. His muffled voice continued on the other side. “…I’ll have to get the bullets too. My uncle keeps those in the lockbox at his bank…”

  Frantically, I glanced around the room. I’d used the first-floor john a hundred times but had never really seen it. Three stalls, vanity, sink and mirror. Two papers taped to the mirror. One was a wanted poster, unsolved TP-ing of the mayor’s house. The other—hey, Blatzky still had those three Golden Retriever puppies for sale…dammit, focus. Single light fixture. A wooden doorstop in the corner.

  And a window. Thank heavens.

  I jammed the doorstop under the door. Fled to the window and jerked it open. The door creaked behind me. I threw a panicked look over my shoulder.

  The door cracked open. Dirk Ruffle’s voice floated through, clearer. His fingers wrapped around the edge. The door opened wider. He was coming. Like a horror movie. Like winter. Dirkenstein was coming. The doorstop slipped—a leg came thr
ough.

  Freaked, I wedged through the window. Scrambled out. My pants caught on the latch. I was caught. A frenzy of wriggling did nothing.

  “Detective Ma’am?” The muddy rasp followed me like a curse. “Where are you…?”

  My pocket finally ripped. It flapped in the wind as I ran away.

  As I fled, er, beat a strategic retreat, my cell phone rang. I swore, snapped it out. Unknown number.

  Pacing the sidewalk, I worked to get my breathing under control. When I wasn’t in danger of hurking all over the phone, I flipped it open. “O’Rourke.”

  There was a dead space. Then, “Elena O’Rourke.” The voice was hollow and faint, like an old guy with his head in a tin can.

  Pause, echoey, and asking for me by name even though I’d identified myself. Telemarketer. Should have put my cell on the National Do Not Call list. “Whatever you’re selling, buddy, I don’t want any.”

  “I am not selling anything, Elena O’Rourke. I am giving you information.”

  “Right. What’s this information going to cost me?”

  “This is free advice, Elena O’Rourke. Watch Strongwell.”

  Speak of the devil. “That’s the third time you’ve used my name, pal, but you haven’t spilled yours.”

  “Watch him closely, Elena O’Rourke. If you wish to solve your murder case.”

  “Look, who is this?”

  “Who I am does not matter. Only that you keep careful watch on Strongwell, Elena O’Rourke. Or else.”

  “I don’t take anonymous threats too kindly, buddy.”

  There was a sound like a growl. “I am—” and I didn’t quite catch the first name but it sounded like Lorne, “—Ruthven. Watch Strongwell, Elena O’Rourke. You will discover your killer.”

  “Listen, Ruthven. Are you saying Bo is the mur—damn.” The call had ended.

  But there it was, of course. A lead. A hot steer that said Bo was the murderer.

  And in my gut…I didn’t buy it.

  Dammit all. My strength as a cop was following the rules. The rules said smoke meant fire. Ruthven had practically accused Strongwell of the murder. I myself had found Strongwell nearby, just after the murder.

  So why did my cop sense say no?

  I kicked a street post. Left leg, this time, so I banged a different set of toes. The pain helped me concentrate.

  Of course I didn’t believe Ruthven. Why should I? I didn’t know squat about him. He could be a cheat or a thief. He could be the murderer himself, for all I knew.

  So I hit speed-dial for dispatch. “Alice. I need a trace. A phone call to my cell, just now.”

  “On it.” Keys clicked rapidly. “While I’ve got you on the line. Do you have plans for your day off? Not work. Fun plans?”

  Fun. I’d met Alice my second day on the job, when she invited me over for tea. We’d had a nice conversation about police procedure. The next time I came she served the tea with a couple jiggers of brandy and by the time I left we were the bestest of best friends. Since then it was like she’d made me her special loosen-up-Elena project. She was always after me to go bowling, or out for drinks, or to join her at the nude beach (since Alice looks like the old Night Court bailiff, that’s an image). “Probably watch some tube. Have you got the number yet?”

  “Almost. CSI?”

  “Naturally.” And Angel, although I kept that secret. “The number?”

  “Yes. I’ve got it. I’m looking up the name.” More key clacking. “Why don’t we go see a movie instead? You need to loosen up more.” (See what I mean?) “You’re so like your father. He was always working too.”

  “You knew my father?”

  “Sure. The law enforcement community here’s pretty small. I knew both Patrick and Brita. I could tell you stories…damn.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve got the name.”

  I shoved the phone under my chin, yanked out notebook and pencil. “Shoot.”

  “CIC Mutual. An insurance company in the Loop. They do my homeowner’s.”

  I nearly dropped the phone. “Downtown Chicago?”

  “That’s right. What’s going on, Elena?”

  “I’m not sure. Thanks, Alice.” I shut the phone and slid it into my pocket.

  Ruthven was legit. But why would an insurance guy from Chicago be interested in a murder in small-town Meiers Corners? Not just interested, but curious enough to get the cell phone number of the lead detective on the case? Did CIC carry Schrimpf’s life insurance? Or maybe they covered his gym?

  Maybe I should consider Ruthven’s tip seriously. It wasn’t like I had a lot of other hard leads. But my instinct, honed by experience, guided by intelligence said Bo wasn’t the killer.

  It did say Ruthven was an ass.

  Of course, my cop sense also said Bo was dangerous. But I was sure he didn’t do the murder…almost.

  Business cards, though. That was another story.

  Chapter Seven

  “Open up!” I pounded on the door of Bo’s apartment building. It smelled like cedar, its handle and hinges gleamed like gold. The rising sun sparkled and refracted through the glass like it was crystal. That door practically screamed money.

  I didn’t care. He’d made her cards. “Strongwell! I want to talk to you!”

  The door swung open. A shocked face capped by silver hair greeted me. I’d forgotten about the butler. “Ms. O’Rourke?”

  I didn’t like scaring him. But I muscled past anyway. “Where’s Strongwell?”

  “The master is downstairs.” Butler Guy sounded scandalized that I would even ask.

  “The master, huh? You’ve been watching too much BBC, Jeeves.”

  “The name is Butler, miss.”

  “And what do you do for a living? Buttle?” Tim Curry was such a hoot in the old movie Clue. A sexy hoot, if there is such a thing. “Well, Butler, I want to talk to Strongwell. Don’t bother seeing me down. I’ll find my way.” I started toward the stairs.

  “Miss! You can’t!”

  “Yeah? Give me one good reason.” I searched around the staircase I’d used to visit my sister. It went up. There was no obvious way down.

  “Miss, please don’t.” Jeeves was close to panicking.

  “Where’s the damn stairs?”

  “Right in front of you, Detective.” Bo Strongwell glided down the front staircase with the muscular grace of a wild animal. His dark satin voice slid over my angry nerve endings like fingers tweaking an engorged nipple.

  I glared. Shit! What was it about this guy that sent me into vibrator land? “Jeeves said you were downstairs.”

  “I was. I had to check on a problem.” He left me hanging as to whether he’d gone down to check the problem, lived down and had gone up to check the problem, or was downstairs and had come up here because…hey, I was the problem.

  My cheeks heated. “I have some questions for you, buster.” The “buster” got a gasp out of Jeeves.

  “I’m sure you do.” Bo didn’t lose an ounce of smooth. “But I’m rather busy at the moment.” He rested his hand gracefully on the round end of the banister. “I don’t suppose…”

  “No. Don’t suppose. Talk. Drusilla—”

  “Detective, much as I’d like to—”

  I raised my voice to override him. “She told me a very interesting fact. That you and she—”

  “Detective O’Rourke, please. It would be better if you’d come back later.” Bo’s hand clenched on the newel post.

  “It would be better if you answer now.” I stalked toward him, jaw set, mega cop face on. “And it’s either talk here—alone—or I’ll pull you down to the station. Your choice.”

  Another gasp came from Jeeves. A glance showed him fluttering behind me like a striped-vested butterfly. “Detective O’Rourke, please! Master Bo is not to be threatened like that.”

  Bo’s hand came off the post, waved a resigned stop. “Don’t upset yourself, Mr. Butler. The detective is most determined. We’ll use the parlor.”

&n
bsp; “But sir…”

  “Thank you, Mr. Butler. That will be all.”

  The silver head bowed stiffly and Butler left. What was it with these people? Calling a building super “master” and kowtowing like he was some sort of royalty?

  “This way, Detective.” With a sigh, Bo glided around the corner, opened a door. “So. How goes the investigation?”

  “I’m asking the questions.” I followed him into a room—and dropped my molars on the floor. One by one, plink-plink, like “Endearing Young Charms” onto a Bugs Bunny xylophone.

  I had imagined the building jammed with small units like my sister’s. Residential cubicles. Bo led me into something that was definitely not a cubicle, too striking even to be merely a “room”. It was—a chamber. A frilly blue-and-ivory chamber loaded with stuffed sofas, plush chairs, glossy end tables and crowned by a redbrick fireplace with marble mantle.

  A parlor.

  “This is just creepy.” I gaped from the doorway. Nobody had rooms like this any more. They died in the eighteen hundreds. Archeologists dug up their bones.

  “It’s meant to be inviting,” Bo said dryly. “For company.”

  “If you were born in the Renaissance.”

  “Not my time.” He led me to what was too small for a sofa, too big for a chair.

  Following, I got a lungful of hot, exotic male. Reminded myself of cards. “Right.” I sat. “Drusilla.”

  “Can I get you some refreshment first? Wine, perhaps? I have a nice Pinot Noir.” Bo moved restlessly to a walnut cabinet in the far corner. Opened a small carved door to display a small wine rack full of bottles.

  “At six thirty in the morning?”

  He glanced at me. “For you, it’s the end of the evening. Your shift’s over.”

  “I’m still working. So thanks, but no.”

  “Coffee, then.” Shutting the cabinet, he pushed a button next to a speaker on the wall. “Coffee, please, Mr. Butler.”

  “Right away, sir,” came through the grill. I rolled my eyes.

  Moments later Butler bustled in with a silver tray. He set it on the polished little end table next to me and clicked paper-thin china cups onto gold-trimmed saucers, then poured rich, steaming coffee from a slender silver pot.