A Killer in the Rye (5 page)
Read A Killer in the Rye Online
Authors: Delia Rosen
“Officer, I understand. You're all in mourning. And frankly, maybe you're not thinking clearly. So perhaps you'd better hang up, take a step back, and tend to your sister. Because from where I sit this is harrasâ”
“I don't think you
do
understand!” Officer McCoy shouted into the phone like a delayed-reaction firecracker. “What are you not telling us? Where were you Friday morning? Why were you alone with my brother-in-law?”
do
understand!” Officer McCoy shouted into the phone like a delayed-reaction firecracker. “What are you not telling us? Where were you Friday morning? Why were you alone with my brother-in-law?”
“I was alone with a corpse!” I screamed. “Are you insane?”
My office door cracked open slightly, and I looked over as a face appeared. Grant! I'd never been so happy to see him.
I put a shush finger to my lips and punched on the speaker.
“I'm sorry, Officer McCoy. Would you repeat the question?”
“I said, âWhy were you alone with my brother-in-law? ' I don't believe he was necessarily a corpse, like you say. Not until you made him one! Why?”
“Okay, Officer. I confess. Only not about being with your brother-in-law. I was with Detective Daniels, who happens to be with me. Would you like him to confirm it?”
It was a lie, but it was all I could think of to put this
shmendrick
in his place.
shmendrick
in his place.
“Why, you slimy New Yorkâ”
“Watch that,” I cautioned. I knew what was coming next.
Grant jumped in before things got worse. “Jason?” he barked. “What the hell are you doing, man?”
“Talking to your friend.”
“I hear that. On whose authority?”
“My own,” he said.
“Your own. Where in the regulations is âyour own authority' a reason to interrogate a suspect?”
I stared up at him like I was looking at Bernini's
David
in human form, all heroic and stern but with clothes on.
David
in human form, all heroic and stern but with clothes on.
“Detective, I was following up onâ”
“A family matter?”
“I thought she might have remembered somethingâ”
“First of all, this is not your case. Second, you can't just call someone and go fishing! She's a victim here, too. You know better, don't you?”
“Ordinarily, but I'm under emotional duress.”
That
line was a buzzword for internal affairs, in case I pressed charges.
line was a buzzword for internal affairs, in case I pressed charges.
“Then I suggest you stick to supporting your family at this time and stop
trying
to do police work. Clear?”
trying
to do police work. Clear?”
“Clear, sir.”
Grant punched off the speaker, then looked down at me.
“Gwennie, you okay?”
“Your slingshot saved me.”
“What?”
“Not important,” I said.
Grant's cologne smelled better than ever as I stood and let him hold me. Just for a second. I was on duty, too. No back-room shenanigans.
“Thank you, Grant. Good timing, as usual.” I frowned. “Wait, why are you here?”
“Just checking on you,” he said.
After the protective rant, that sounded ominously insincere.
“Grant, what is it? Hold on. You said . . . Am I a suspect?”
He hesitated. “No.”
“Just no? Not âNo way in hell, Gwennie. What ever,
ever
made you think that stupid, insane thought?'”
ever
made you think that stupid, insane thought?'”
“You saw how it is.” He dipped his forehead at the phone. “You're going to feel like one until we wrap this up.”
“What about the grieving widow? Maybe she had something to gain, like an insurance payout. I hear a lot of my suppliers aren't doing so good.”
“We'll get to her when the time is right,” he said. “She's being tranquilized.”
“I'll bet, to keep her from spilling her guts,” I said. “Maybe hubby dearest had a girlfriend. Maybe he had a boyfriend. Maybe his wife did. Maybe someone was trying to corner the bread market.”
“Gwenâ”
“Don't! Jesus, Grant, I am a suspect!”
“You're notâ”
“What happened to the Bill of Freakin' Rights?”
“Dani got a hold of it,” he quipped.
I grinned. It felt good. We needed that tension breaker. “You're still innocent until proven otherwise,” he went on, “but I had a feeling that something like this was going to happen. They're going to rally around Jason, try their best to make you buckle.”
“Grant, I didn't do it!”
“I know, but . . . they give everyone a course in the psychology of homicide, and part of it is to keep witnesses in the zone, so to speak. Keep them reliving the crime, the fear, the disorientation. That helps them remember details. Sometimes days later, sometimes weeks.”
“Weeks? You're going to let them ride me?”
“I can't be everywhere,” Grant said. “That's one of the three reasons I came here. I just got this vibe at the station house. I wanted to let you know that it isn't personal. Not even with Jason.”
“That's so not reassuring.” I made a face. “What are the other two reasons you came here? Do I even want to know?”
“Well, the second was to see how you areâ”
“Skip that one.”
“And the third was to tell you good news. The victim had his throat gouged, obviously, and there're traces of canine saliva near the wound.”
“Maybe he stopped to pet a dogâ”
“It was on the surface of the blood.”
“Ah. That explains my sudden urge to sneeze all over the corpse. I'm allergic to them.”
“I know. Since you don't have any dogs, we're having to look in different directions for motive and suspect.”
I stood upright, like I'd been kicked in the tush by a mule. “Different? You're saying I
was
a suspect!”
was
a suspect!”
“Noâ”
“Yes! Of course! A guy I've spoken to on the phone is late with my bread, so I'm gonna go all
Vampire Diaries
on his throat. Makes complete sense.”
Vampire Diaries
on his throat. Makes complete sense.”
“You're not being fair,” Grant said. “You knew all of that, but we didn't. We had to confirm it. That's why it's called an investigation.”
I calmed down. He was right. I was just Bathsheba having a very bad day.
“We good?” he asked.
“We're good,” I said. “So a dog killed him.”
“Well, no.”
I looked into his eyes, all strong and steady, while mine suddenly still itched. “What then? A werewolf?”
He smiled. “What I mean is, there are no traces of dog other than what was probably a short series of licks. He died from multiple stab wounds.”
“What? And Old Yeller just happened along, drawn by the smell of freshly baked bread and an open jugular?”
“We don't know,” Grant said. “We're going over the impounded truck and talking to Metro Animal Care and Control. Still putting it all together.”
“What about that rye bread up front?” I asked as the whole vignette came back in an ugly flash.
“Probably got knocked forward. They were on the bottom shelf.”
“So the killer came in through the back?”
“Or left that way. Or it was the dog. Or the truck was shaking hard from a struggle. We just don't know yet.”
“But you've ruled out it being a message.”
“What kind of message?”
“You know, like âJoe sleeps with the genetically engineered grains.'”
“We don't think so,” he replied.
I took a moment to digest it all. That was sure one hell of a roller-coaster five minutes. Thinking of digestion made me realize how hungry I was.
“I'm going to get something to eat,” I said. “Want something?”
“Sure,” he said.
“Wait here. I'll bring it back.”
I left the office to quickly throw together a simple spread, but I couldn't bring myself to eat anything more than some leftover matzo ball soup. I don't know if it was nerves or just the image of raw human meat branded in my brain.
Grant's cell went off midway through his pastrami on a sun-dried tomato wrap. It was the precinct. I stood to get him a to-go box.
“Anything?” I asked when I returned.
“A domestic squabble,” he said. “At Jason's house.”
Sweet Baby James
. “I'm sorry,” I said, and I meant it.
. “I'm sorry,” I said, and I meant it.
“How about some Chinese and a Blu-ray tonight?” he asked as I walked him to the door.
“Danny boy, I don't want to sound ungrateful, but I just kinda want to be alone.”
He shrugged off a little bit of hurt. “Whatever you need.”
“I appreciate it, Grant.”
“Including some Clairol. I'm not certain orange is your color.”
“Long story.”
“I'm just looking out for you,” he said. “Someone might mistake you for Rita Hayworth's daughter.”
If we hadn't been in the dining room, I'd've kissed him. He knew it. He winked. I smiled. He left.
I needed a quick break, a moment to get my feet under me again. I turned to Old Reliable, who was making change.
“Thom, I'll be back before the early dinner rush. We okay with the catering?”
“If we're not, butts will be torched.”
I went back to the office, got my bag, and set out, ignoring the eyes on me, the thought bubbles I could practically read above the heads of my customers. I
was
a suspect; I
wasn't
a suspect; Cujo was to blame. I'd had enough. It was definitely time to take my life back. I just needed to meet with someone head-on, face-to-face. To clear my account with them and restore my good name.
was
a suspect; I
wasn't
a suspect; Cujo was to blame. I'd had enough. It was definitely time to take my life back. I just needed to meet with someone head-on, face-to-face. To clear my account with them and restore my good name.
I started walking, suddenly aware that my calf muscles were sore. Of course they were. I hadn't really walked on pavement for a lot of blocks for nearly a year. As I picked my way through another sunshiny day, I called 411. I still hadn't learned how to work my phone's GPS. And though I didn't have the heart to tell Grant, my eyes couldn't tell the difference between a Blu-ray disc and a VHS tape. The heartbreak of being a Luddite.
“Four-one-one. City and state, please,” the female operator said.
“Nashville, Tennessee,” I responded.
“What listing?”
“McCoy's Bakery,” I answered, over-pronouncing the words. “I believe it's somewhere off of Demonbreun Street.”
That's what comes from online bill paying. No envelopes, no writing an address, no idea where you're going.
“One moment please.”
“Listen, I just want theâ”
Too late. The operator switched to the automated phone number provider before I had a chance to request just the address.
“The number you are looking for is, area code six-one-five-five-five-five-six-two-oh-three. To dial directly for an additional charge, press one, or just stay on the line.”
I could barely remember what day it wasâSaturday, I realized from the number of families on the street who were not churchgoers, which would have made it Sunday. I could barely remember
that,
let alone a phone number. I sucked it up and accepted the charge. I just needed to know where I was headed. After two rings, someone answered.
that,
let alone a phone number. I sucked it up and accepted the charge. I just needed to know where I was headed. After two rings, someone answered.
“McCoy's Bakery, where all your
kneads
are met. This is Eric.”
kneads
are met. This is Eric.”
“Hi ya, Eric.” I put on my best random customer voice. “I was just wondering where exactly you're located.”
“We're in downtown Nashville, ma'am.”
“Yes. Where exactly, though?”
“Between the dry cleaners and Enslin's Auto Parts.”
“Okay, Eric,” I said, my character starting to fade. “I'm looking for the street address.”
“We're at three-oh-four Sixth Avenue South.”
“Thank you very much,” I said and hung up. And realized that my name had probably appeared on their caller ID gadget thing. Hopefully, the little LED letters would evaporate before anyone with Brain One could see them and remember who I was.
I continued walking south the few additional blocks toward Sixth South. There was a slight breeze. It felt sweet. Few things had in the last thirty-six hours.
Except Heston and those miles of flesh-eating ants,
I thought. His tsuris seemed a little worse than mine.
I thought. His tsuris seemed a little worse than mine.
“Three-oh-four, three-oh-four,” I kept repeating as I neared Sixth.
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