Rubout by Elaine Viets

Author:Elaine Viets [Viets, Elaine]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: mystery, cozy, women sleuths
ISBN: 9780307575098
Google: IJnExhnaM9QC
Amazon: B003IHC32K
Publisher: Dell
Published: 2010-01-20T00:00:00+00:00

Jack was dead. He’d died trying to make money off his lover’s murder. The man was a lowlife, but he wasn’t a liar. At least, he was telling the truth about those papers he wanted to sell. He really was meeting someone at midnight, someone he thought would give him twenty-five thousand dollars. Who killed Jack? What was in those papers? And what did the papers have to do with Sydney? I was sure these two deaths were connected. Jack’s killer had to be the same person who killed Sydney.

If Jack thought this person had twenty-five thousand dollars, then the buyer wasn’t any of Sonny’s biker friends. They weren’t Cell’s Angels—doctors, lawyers, and accountants riding their Harleys on weekends, with their cell phones on their belts. Sonny’s biker friends were people who’d have to work a long time to get twenty-five thousand dollars. Except maybe Gilly, and he was such a small-time crook, he’d never have that much money in his whole life. As far as I was concerned, that meant Sydney was killed by either her husband or her son, and I’d put my money on the husband, He was mean enough to kill for money, and the Vander Venters had plenty of it.

But how do you kill someone on a motorcycle? Run a trip wire across the road? Drive straight at them in a car until the cycle swerved and lost control? How did you know for sure the rider would die in the accident? Most riders, even experienced ones, wiped out from time to time. They might lose some skin or break some bones, but they survived. That’s why they wore protection: leather jackets, chaps, boots, and helmets. Especially helmets. But Jack hated helmets. And he died in Illinois, a state that didn’t require motorcyclists to wear them. Did the killer plan that, too?

I wasn’t getting anywhere with this speculation. I needed some facts. I needed to talk to Detective Mark Mayhew. I was sure he’d look into Jack’s death. He’d be very interested in the sudden, suspicious death of a suspect. I knew where to find him: Uncle Bob’s. He was usually there at eight every morning, if he wasn’t working on a murder.

I timed it just right. I arrived about eight-fifteen, when he’d finished his waffle and was working on a second cup of coffee.

“Hi, Mark,” I said. “Can I talk with you a minute?”

“Sure,” he said, smiling. “Pull up a booth.”

God, he looked good in the morning. Freshly shaved face. Tiny bit of shaving soap near one ear. Dark hair perfectly combed. I liked the way his pearly gray tie went with his crisp gray-blue shirt and his gray worsted wool jacket. Marlene interrupted these pleasant thoughts with one of her sarcastic comments.

“Should I change your order to over-easy?” she said. That was her cute way of reminding me that Mark was married.

“No, I’ll have my usual, while Mark and I talk business,” I said, heavy on that last word.

“Of course,” Marlene said, letting me know she wasn’t buying it.

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