Shoot the Breeze (Detective Kate Rosetti Mystery Book 1)

  Shoot the Breeze

  Kate Rosetti, Volume 1

  Gina LaManna

  Published by LaManna Books, 2020.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  SHOOT THE BREEZE

  First edition. March 27, 2020.

  Copyright © 2020 Gina LaManna.

  Written by Gina LaManna.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Shoot the Breeze (Kate Rosetti, #1)

  Blurb

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  EPILOGUE

  Author’s Note

  To everyone quarantined at the moment... hang in there! ;)

  Special Thanks:

  To Alex and Leo—for being the best quarantine buddies I could ask for! я тебя люблю!

  To my family—for being the best virtual quarantine buddies I could ask for! ;)

  To Stacia—for being the best friend a girl could ask for (and editor, of course!)

  To my family, friends, and LaManna’s Ladies, thank you for coming along on another ride with me!

  Blurb

  Welcome to St. Paul, Minnesota—home to strong coffee, deadly winters, and Detective Kate Rosetti—a rising star in the local homicide department. When a young woman turns up dead along the Mississippi River in her latest assignment, Detective Rosetti quickly realizes it’s the work of a notorious cross-country serial killer.

  To complicate matters, Kate’s troublemaking sister turns up out of the blue in need of a place to live. A strikingly handsome FBI Agent appears at the crime scene, convinced this case belongs to him. And a certain British billionaire is a little too interested in the murder... and in Kate.

  As she begins to close in on the killer, the investigation takes a turn for the personal. It’s one riddle after the next, and if Kate can’t sort out the murderer’s identity before his next kill, she’ll be up next on the autopsy table.

  Chapter 1

  “This is black coffee.” I frowned into the mug, then looked up at my mother. “I didn’t order this.”

  My mother peered into the cup she’d just poured. “Will you look at that,” she said. “I guess I made some adjustments to your usual order, seeing as otherwise, it would kill you. The amount of sugar and caffeine you consume is alarming.”

  “A caramel latte with extra whip is not a bad way to go out,” I said. “But I might agree to a compromise.”

  “Skinny latte, half-caff. Final offer.”

  “Make it full-caff, and you’ve got a deal.”

  My mother eyed me warily before she extended a hand to shake mine. I returned her handshake solemnly.

  “By the way,” I said, “Jimmy asked me to pick up his order too.”

  My mother, Annie Rosetti, wrinkled her nose and wiped her hands on her apron. “If Jimmy can’t walk over here himself, how can he be expected to protect you? I’m not trying to be judgmental, but the man hasn’t run in over twenty years.”

  I reached around the counter, grabbed my mom’s wrist, and dragged her into the back room of Seventh Street Café—a little coffee shop that had become her life’s passion and sole source of income after my parents divorced when I was a five.

  It was, as the name suggested, located on West Seventh Street in St. Paul, right next to the precinct where I was employed as a homicide detective. I inhaled the familiar scent of frosting, icing sugar, and freshly brewed coffee before cornering my mother. Then I crossed my arms and waited until she looked me in the eye.

  “We talked about this, ma,” I warned. “Please don’t interfere. You promised.”

  “I’m not interfering with anything. I just love you, is all. And speaking of love, have you heard from your sister?”

  “No, why? I thought she was staying with you.”

  “She was. Until two days ago.”

  “Where’d she go?”

  My mother just stared at me, her brown eyes the exact same shade as mine. People said we could be sisters. I didn’t see it, though the resemblance between us was there. We’d both inherited the Italian nose that was about three times too big, along with the dark hair, the big smile, and far too much sarcasm.

  I was taller than my mother by a good six inches, and where I’d grown taller and leaner throughout high school, my mother had gone shorter and wider as the years had slipped by. She wore a bright red apron with the name of her café embroidered on the front and just a hint of makeup that had several of the single, older cops from the station next door slipping their digits into the tip jar on the counter.

  Along with the nose and the sarcasm, I’d inherited a family that was too loud and too big, and just a little too Italian. My father, Angelo Rosetti, had been a cop until it’d been gently recommended that he retire. It just so happened he left the force under a cloud of suspicion that involved some mob-involved payoffs. Judging by the ensuing newspaper articles, along with my parents’ split, I took his early retirement for what it was: involuntary.

  “I haven’t known where your sister disappears to since she got her license,” my mother said. “You know that. And it’s not for lack of trying.”

  “Are we sure she’s not adopted?”

  “Can you look into it for me?”

  “You want me to abuse my job resources to check up on my sister?” I gave a wry smile at my mother. “Come on, don’t worry. She’s probably just shacked up with her latest boyfriend. Give it a few days.”

  “I thought you might say that.”

  “I say that every time she takes off for days on end. She missed work?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Ma—”

  My mother heaved a huge sigh, pulled out her phone and slid it across the counter toward me. “She’s at the station; she spent the night.”

  I stepped closer, glanced at the phone. “What did she do this time?”

  My mother shrugged. “I have no clue. She didn’t use her phone call on me. I told her last time that it was the real last time I’d bail her out.”

  “It’s been the last time since college.” I squinted at the app my mother had pulled up on her phone. “Are you tracking her location?”

  My mother’s face split into a huge grin. “Yes.”

  “Last time I checked, you had difficulty turning your phone on. How’d you get a tracking device installed on Jane’s phone?”

  “You know that mommy blog I love? Well, the woman who writes the tech column recommended it. It’s an app! Free! It tells me exactly where your sister is at all times. I just had to sneak it on there one night while she was sleeping, but the article had an idiot-proof, step-by-step guide that made it easy. It’s meant for husbands, but since I don’t have one of them, I thought I could use it for my daughter.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a bit invasive, seeing as Jane’s
thirty-two?”

  “My house, my rules. And she doesn’t know about the app, so don’t spoil it.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I said. “But—”

  My phone buzzed, interrupting our conversation. I pulled out my cell and saw a familiar number.

  “Rosetti,” I said into the receiver. After a few moments, I nodded and added, “I’ll be right there.”

  My mother looked on eagerly. “You caught a case?”

  “I’ll look into Jane later,” I said. “She’s not going anywhere. Can I get that mocha for Jimmy now? And my latte?”

  My mother returned to the front of the shop and punched in the order, dictating to Elizabeth Walker, the young college student who worked part-time at the shop. With a grin, Elizabeth slid my latte across to me.

  “Skinny latte,” she said with a wink. “And here’s Jimmy’s mocha.”

  I picked up the mocha and took a sip of the skinny latte which wasn’t skinny at all. It was a whole milk caramel latte with extra whipped cream. I slid an extra tip across the counter to Elizabeth.

  My mother watched the exchange. “Let me smell your cup.”

  “Ma—”

  “Kate.”

  “I was married to your father for over ten years,” she said. “I know a payoff when I see one.”

  “This is a coffee shop,” I said. “Not a drug bust.”

  “Could’ve fooled me,” she muttered.

  I found Jimmy waiting for me next door at the police station on West Seventh off 35E in St. Paul, hovering against his coat. Jimmy was a large, dark-skinned man who was counting down the days to retirement like a kid counts down to Christmas. And while we both joked about it often, I was already dreading the day he turned in his badge. Though I’d die before I told him so.

  I tucked my chin deeper into my jacket, fighting off the deep winter chill. A solid six inches of snow stuck on the ground from a storm a few days back, and my toes froze during the short walk between my mother’s bakery and the station’s parking lot.

  I’d only been based on West Seventh for a short time. At twenty-six years old, I’d been the youngest female to make detective this side of the Mississippi. That year, the TC Task Force had been created by the mayor, and Jimmy and I had been the first recruits to the team. Two years later, we were still going strong covering the grisly, high-profile murders across the Twin Cities.

  “My mom misses you,” I said as a greeting when I neared Jimmy. “She was asking about you.”

  Jimmy grunted. “Mayor’s already on us about this one—get in.”

  Jimmy was short and wide, his time on the force having added pounds along with wisdom. He had just under a year left until retirement. The paper-linked chain surrounding his desk that notated his remaining days of service had grown steadily shorter in our time as partners.

  “Why? High profile vic?”

  Jimmy gave one of his big shoulders a shrug as he climbed into the driver’s seat of his car. I climbed in the other door and deposited his Styrofoam cup into the holder.

  “I don’t think it’s high profile,” he said. “But when a young girl ends up dead in a college town, it freaks everyone out. Parents suddenly want to pull their kids out of school... it’s a mess.”

  “You’re such a softie.”

  Jimmy’s face cracked into a grin. He was quick-witted and good cop by all accounts. “By the way, how is your mom doing?”

  “She’s worried about my sister. Nothing new there; Jane took off again.”

  “Sorry to hear it.”

  I raised a shoulder, took a sip of my foamy latte and inhaled a few marshmallows straight down my throat. “You know how it goes.”

  “Did your mom ask you to hunt her down?”

  “No hunting necessary. A little birdie told me she might be sweating it out in a cell overnight.”

  “Sounds like some party.” Jimmy cackled, switching the lights on above the cruiser and shooting us through a stop sign. “I don’t know how the two of you came from the same parents.”

  “You and me both,” I said. “Let her sweat for a bit longer—she’ll still be there after we finish up here. It’s good for her.”

  “Tough bird.”

  “Jane brings out the best in me.”

  Jimmy screeched through the St. Paul streets, hopping up Montreal and squealing past the old, expensive homes in Highland Park, buzzing through the college zone and continuing another mile or so down to the expensive properties that lined the river’s edge. He threw the car into park outside of the crime scene tape.

  I climbed out of the car and took another sip of coffee, letting the extra hot latte slide down my throat in the early morning freeze. Christmas was a week away and Mother Nature had decided to hit us hard with snow this week to make up for a mild fall. Flurries were already swirling in the air, and the gray clouds above threatened to dump loads more as the day continued.

  “Three hundred and twenty-four more days of this mess,” Jimmy said with a shiver. “Three hundred and twenty-four.”

  I glanced over at my partner. “What are you going to do with your time after that?”

  “Not stand outside in a snowstorm.”

  “Touché.”

  We checked in with the officer and gloved up. I took in the scene, a crystalline winter wonderland marred only by the body sprawled on the ground. I exhaled, glanced across the river.

  This morning’s murder was on the St. Paul bank. A stone’s throw away, just across the Ford Parkway bridge, sat the trendier half of the Twin Cities—Minneapolis. The close proximity of the two cities was one of the reasons the TC Task Force had been created. Less jurisdictional red tape, more solving of actual murders. The mayor was happy, the cops were happy, the citizens were happy. Wins all around, except for our victims.

  “Aw, man,” Jimmy said. “She’s young and pretty. I hate that.”

  “They’re all too young.”

  “Where’s mine?” Melinda Brooks, the uber smart medical examiner stood up, nodded toward my coffee. “I’m freezing.”

  I extended my drink to her. “Flat white.”

  “You’re lying.”

  I shrugged, pulled it back toward me. “Fine, I’ll keep it. What’ve we got here?”

  Melinda smiled, her cheeks red against the wind. Her lipstick was perfect as usual, her blonde curls somehow shiny and picturesque and dotted with snow flurries beneath her pale pink hat. It even had a single pom pom on top. The hat alone probably cost more than my entire outfit.

  Melinda wasn’t only the smartest person I knew—she was also the richest. And most beautiful. And best dressed. It was amazing we maintained a friendship outside of work.

  Where she wore designer duds from head to toe, I had donned my customary dark jeans with heeled boots that I’d gotten from Nordstrom Rack with a gift card and a coupon. My mother had purchased a few blazers for me so that I could trade off colors over my standard black tank tops. That constituted my uniform.

  I’d swept my dark hair into a low ponytail and added an ear band to battle the cold. I completed the look with a swipe of mascara and medicated lip balm. Winter was hell on my lips. Not that any of it mattered—I didn’t have many people to impress, seeing as all my victims were already dead.

  “We’ve got a female,” Melinda said. “I found a passport on the body that puts her name as Alison Newton, twenty-three years old.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “I can’t be certain until I get her back to the table.”

  “Guess?” I asked.

  “I don’t guess,” she said briskly. “But we’ve got markings here and here.”

  I followed Melinda’s pointed finger to our victim’s neck. I studied her for a long moment noting, as Jimmy already had, that she was young and quite beautiful, her features marred only by the cruelty of her death.

  Bleached blonde curls spread from either side of her head, matted by snow and blood. Her eyes were closed, her lips blue from the cold. Her skin was a ghast
ly pale, visible beneath the short red party dress she wore beneath a faux fur black coat. Makeup and attire signaled that she’d likely been out for a night on the town, or maybe a date.

  “Strangled,” I said as Jimmy joined my side. Melinda frowned at my assessment, and I raised my eyebrows. “Don’t worry, you can confirm it for me at the autopsy.”

  “I plan on it,” she said. “Estimated time of death is a bit tricky—she’s been out here for a while but is preserved incredibly well thanks to the cold. My best guess is between eleven p.m. and two a.m. I’ll narrow it down tomorrow morning.”

  “Great,” I said. “What about robbery? Is this her purse?”

  Melinda nodded toward the purse that was scattered next to the dead woman’s hand. “Can’t rule out robbery. Her wallet was left but there was no cash in it. Passport, lip gloss, tampons. No keys, either. No driver’s license.”

  “That’s odd,” I said. “Who carries their passport but not a license?”

  Melinda shrugged. “That’s your job to find out.”

  I glanced at Jimmy. “Thoughts?”

  “I don’t think we’ve got an experienced killer,” Jimmy said. “Scene’s a bit messy for a professional—looks like she was hit over the head before she was strangled. I’m assuming she was dumped here, since we don’t have any blood spatter.”

  “Not to mention the fact it’s a bit hard to strangle someone in plain sight.” I crossed my arms over my chest, closed my eyes. “So, our girl Alison dolls herself up last night. She’s got someplace to be. Someone she wants to impress.”

  Melinda leaned back on her Jimmy Choos and waited.

  Jimmy cleared his throat. “What makes you say that?”

  “Because most women don’t look like they’re going to Cinderella’s ball on an otherwise average Wednesday night,” I said. “For me to put on that sort of makeup—”

  “You’ve never put on that much makeup,” Melinda said.

  “Bad example,” I agreed. “But if I’m squeezing into a dress, it’s for a man who’s buying me dinner.”