Mari Beth also took care of rejections. Her dispassionate sadism would have been a good trait if she worked for the KGB. Of course, she was kind compared to Dennis. One rejected author had gone postal and tried to shoot him. If the poor sap had read their book on effective assassination…but he hadn’t. On the upside, he’d been able to sell his true story to television and would have some money when he got out of prison in a few years.
He should have gotten more time, but the prosecutor made the mistake of putting Dennis on the stand…
Capri sank into her anti-ergonomic desk chair and started up her computer, pulling her morning mail toward her with the other hand. Without looking, she reached for her letter opener, but it wasn’t in its usual spot—or even an unusual one.
She frowned. The last time she’d seen it…Dennis had been fiddling with it. He’d oozed into her office to rub it in about the League edit. And to ask for her help. She hadn’t punched him, but it had been a near thing. She’d also told him she wasn’t helping with the edit. They both knew she’d give in eventually, but that didn’t stop her from telling him to leave or using a word she hadn’t ever used before. The jerk had taken the letter opener to make her come see him. She hated going to his office. It was as creepy as he was. She sighed. At least moving would warm her up a bit. She couldn’t feel her toes. He had the corner office, and as she approached, Capri was surprised to see the door ajar.
“Dennis?”
When he didn’t respond, she eased the door open.
“Dennis?”
The room was dim, kind of like Dennis, and a mess, which was also like him. His chair was turned away from the door, but she could see the back of his head. So he was pouting. Jerk.
“Dennis? Did you take my letter opener?”
He still didn’t answer. With an impatient sigh, Capri walked around the desk but stopped abruptly when she saw him.
He did have her letter opener.
It was embedded in his throat.
Tony Voisel got all the “interesting” homicide cases. He had a gift—despite his redhead coloring—for absorbing all kinds of heat without getting too burned. Of course, even he wasn’t scorch-proof, but in the real world, no one was.
Homicide required good observations skills, insatiable curiosity, enormous skepticism, good instincts, and a boat load of patience. Tony had been born with some and learned the rest. Okay, so maybe he was still working on the patience.
He and his partner, Ray Ray “BT” Rambieu, stopped for a quick briefing from the first uniforms on the scene at Socrates Musings. He could feel BT shift restlessly behind him. BT hated the grunt work of crime scene investigation. They were almost total opposites personality-wise and an ill-matched pair, or the perfect match, depending on who you asked and if they were pissed off at the time. Tony was the slow and steady turtle to the finish line. BT was definitely the rabbit.
“Tell me about the players,” Tony asked. He ignored BT’s sigh. “Start at the top and work your way down.”
The junior of the two uniforms looked scared and excited—and green as grass. Tony figured he was part of the newest crop of graduates, since he didn’t know him. Tony did know the kid’s partner, a veteran cop, name of Hansen.
“Owner—” the kid began.
“Publisher,” Hansen corrected him.
“Publisher is Mose Milton Ducumb,” the kid finished. “He’s—”
“I know who he is,” Tony said. Or rather, he knew who his mama was. Tony had come to Houston from New Orleans. That explained why he’d been called in. Mama Ducumb packed a punch, even from a distance. Most of her business interests were in Louisiana, but Mose and his publishing house had relocated to Houston after Katrina. Unlike the ones with resources to return, he hadn’t.
If all he’d heard about mama was true, Tony didn’t blame him for keeping his distance. He’d also heard she didn’t care much for her only-born. Only her pride kept her from letting him rot in the gutter. Tony looked around. This place seemed to be only a few inches above the gutter. And it smelled like it was rotting. Maybe she wasn’t that proud.
“There’s a receptionist who is also his secretary,” Junior consulted his notes, “Merleen Tortorich.”
BT looked at Tony. “Didn’t see anyone in reception when we arrived?”
The uniform looked amused. “Apparently Miss Rutabaga has people issues.”
“Right. Just what you want in a receptionist,” Tony said. Miss Rutabaga?
“Looking at what they publish, can’t say I blame her.” Hansen grimaced.
“Right-wingers?” BT had assumed a casual slump against a gritty wall, but his eyes, sparking with excitement, gave him away.
“Every kind of wingers,” Hansen said dryly. “Right, left, North, South, and cross dimensional.”
“Oh.” BT smiled. “Crazy.”
Understatement plus. Tony turned back to Junior. There’d been something in his voice about the receptionist.
“Ms. Tortorich is interesting, is she?”
Junior flushed rapidly and with plenty of color. “She’s…well…” He made an hourglass in the air, the universal sign of a well-built woman.
“I see.” Tony arched a brow at Hansen.
Hansen shot Tony a look. “Not as dumb as she acts.”
If it were anyone but Mose Milton in the boss’s chair, he’d figure he knew why she was around, but Mose Milton was gay. It was the only thing standing between him and a marriage arranged by his mama.
“Okay.” He nodded for Junior to continue.
“Capri Hinkenlooper, the assistant editor, went looking for her letter opener and found it. In the victim’s neck.”
Tony straightened. “She owned the murder weapon?”
Both uniforms nodded.
“Any motive for using it on him?”
Hansen sighed. “As far as I can tell, only the rats don’t have a motive—and we’re not sure about them.” He looked at his notes. “There’s also an office manager, Mari Beth Newman.”
Tony frowned.
