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Shoot the Breeze (Detective Kate Rosetti Mystery Book 1) Page 4


  “Look, Russo—I’ll cooperate because I have to, but don’t expect me to be happy about it. I’m still not convinced your case has anything to do with mine.”

  “It’s better to be safe than sorry, isn’t it? If nothing else, we can both agree that we don’t want this guy to strike again. Related or not. And if he is the same guy I’ve been after, he’ll be back. Sooner rather than later. Then he’ll bug out and move on to the next city. Selfishly, I don’t want to chase him to another city. The chances I’ll be working with people as charming as yourself are slim.”

  “What can I say? I’m one of a kind.”

  “In the interest of collaboration, I’ll start talking,” Jack said. “As soon as we get a coffee. But first, what’s this about your mom having the best coffee in the Twin Cities?”

  I sighed. “Long story.”

  “I’ve got nothing but time.”

  I gritted my lips, remembering the orders from the chief. “My mom divorced my dad when I was five. He was a cop. Long story short—she needed to figure out something to do with her life when she kicked him out. She’d always loved to bake. A café was a natural fit for her.”

  “She was a stay-at-home mom before that?”

  “Got married straight out of high school, pregnant at twenty, no college degree. She found herself approaching thirty with two little girls to raise on her own and an ex-husband serving jail time.”

  “Yikes.”

  “It wasn’t easy for her,” I said. “But she made it work. Now she’s making it work right next door to the precinct. She’s always had a soft spot for cops.”

  “Despite your father?”

  “He made bad choices because he was acting stupid. Not because he was a cop.”

  “Touché.” Russo glanced over at me. “Thanks for sharing.”

  I lapsed into silence, surprised I had shared as much as I had. For a first-class jerk, there was something about Russo that made him easy to talk to. My last boyfriend hadn’t known all those details about me.

  “Don’t get used to it,” I said finally. “You caught me by surprise.”

  “You got it, sweetheart.”

  “Say that again, and I’ll shoot you.”

  “That’s not very cooperative.” Russo hid a smile, flicked on the blinker. “Is this it?”

  I gestured for him to park near the café in one of the spaces my mother had reserved for officers on duty. We climbed out of the car. I didn’t wait for Russo before I stomped through the front doors and let them close behind me.

  I was still caught off guard by how Russo’s simple questions had gotten me to open up so quickly. It was no wonder Russo had climbed the ranks and made for a good agent. If he could get me—a frozen, experienced detective—to spill my guts for a cup of coffee, there was no saying what he could do to an unsuspecting criminal.

  I stomped up to the counter. “I’d like one latte, please.”

  My mother glanced up, frowning at my snippy tone. Before she could respond, the bell above the door tinkled. She caught sight of Russo, and her eyebrows crept all the way up to her hairline. “And what will he have?”

  “I don’t know,” I growled. “We’re on separate tabs. I’m sure he’s expensing his entire trip. I have to foot my own bill.”

  Russo joined me at the counter. His sheer presence would have been intimidating for anyone who didn’t have a gun at their hip. He stood a good six inches taller than me, and when he extended a hand toward my mother and brushed against me, I could feel the hard muscles beneath his coat. I shifted away, putting a more comfortable distance between us.

  He offered a charming smile that had my mother turning into a puddle of feminine goop behind the counter. “Jack Russo, FBI. You must be Mrs. Rosetti.”

  “It’s Miss,” she offered with a hiccup and a giggle. “I’m single.”

  My eyes twitched, wanting to roll again. “And you’re over fifty.”

  “Kate!” She snapped her gaze to me. “Where are your manners?”

  “They’re frozen,” I said. “How about that latte?”

  “I’ve heard wonderful things about your café, Ms. Rosetti.” Russo swooped in to save the day. “Please put your daughter’s order on my tab.”

  My mother giggled again. She raised a hand, fanned at her face despite the fresh burst of frigid air and gust of flurries that brushed in when the front door opened and closed behind me. “What can I get you? On the house for the FBI.”

  She whispered the last part as if his status as an agent was top secret.

  Jack leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I’ll take whatever the house specialty is. I trust you.”

  Another hiccup.

  “Just give him a latte,” I said. “Please, Ma. We’ve got to get back to work, and I’m sure Agent Russo wants to check into his hotel.”

  “On the house for Agent Russo,” my mother said pointedly, typing at some keys on the cash register. “That’ll be four dollars to you, Detective Rosetti.”

  “Ma!”

  She glowered at me. “What?”

  “Please, I insist.” Russo fished out a credit card and handed it over. “Kate was right—I am expensing it.”

  My mother’s eyes gleamed with hope at the gentlemanly gesture. Her eyes flicked upward at the mistletoe she’d hung over the door, and I could practically read her mind. She hadn’t given up on hopes for grandchildren, though her optimism had dwindled lately. Between Jane’s dedication to partying and my marriage to the job, she’d begun to doubt real romance would ever be a thing in either of our futures.

  “Any friend of Kate’s is a friend of the café’s,” my mother said.

  “I appreciate that, ma’am.”

  I put my hand on Jack’s arm and tensed, startled to feel the firmness there. I’d caught hints of muscle during our quick brushes of movement, but he was fitter than I anticipated. Everywhere.

  “She’ll bring it to our table.” I directed him to the corner of the café, ignoring the fact my mother was watching our every movement. “Sit down and tell me: What the hell was that?”

  “What?”

  “The Charming Jack show. Why are you trying to win over my mother? You’ll just get her hopes up.”

  “Hope for what?”

  My gaze was pulled like a magnet toward the mistletoe. Jack followed my line of sight, his lips curving into a smile.

  “Ah,” he said. “I see. You’re single?”

  “That’s irrelevant to the case, Agent Russo,” I said, easing into the chair opposite him. “Start talking. And if you try to suck up to my mother again—”

  “You’ll shoot me, I know.” Jack seemed entirely uninterested by the fact that I was more than willing to pull a loaded weapon on him. “I was just waiting for our drinks. Wasn’t sure if your mom planned to stare at us for a while longer, or...”

  He trailed off, and I glanced over my shoulder. My mother leaned against the counter, completely ignoring the other customers in line as she watched us like her favorite soap. I waved a hand, and she snapped to attention, shoving the milk under the frother as her cheeks turned pink.

  When our lattes arrived, I passed Jack’s to him, then noticed the note on the side. It said Come back soon! I quickly switched our cups. For this, I’d suffer through a regular latte instead of my typical order.

  Jack took a sip, flinched. “What is this? I haven’t had this much sugar since Halloween 1995.”

  “You’re welcome. Now, dish.”

  Jack’s eyes fixed on the note on my cup. He watched as I took a sip of the regular latte and tried not to wince. Reaching over, he pulled a pen from his pocket and scratched out the note on the cup so it was illegible. Then he switched our beverages.

  “Better?”

  I brushed his hand off my cup and switched our lids. “Can’t have FBI germs.”

  “Wouldn’t want that.” Jack smirked, took a sip of his latte, and answered his own question. “Much better. Now, where were we?”

  “The case. What makes you so certain this is your guy?”

  “I can’t say for sure, but my gut instinct tells me I’m on the right track. The timeline works out, the similarities are there, and I don’t believe in coincidences. I’d like to sit in on the autopsy tomorrow.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Tell me about your vics.”

  “Four women, three years,” he started. “First two were a year and a half apart in two different cities. The first one... we think the killer botched the job and had to take off, hence the long wait in between. He was relocating, practicing, planning.”

  “Where was that?”

  “Buffalo,” he said. “The second was in Tennessee. Nashville. He was a little cleaner there, but DNA from one scene linked him to the next. No hits in the database.”

  “DNA?”

  “There were defensive wounds on both vics. DNA, presumably from our killer, under their fingernails.”

  “Was there DNA found on the third and fourth victims?”

  “The third but not the fourth,” he said. “Both were in DC. That was when I came on the case—last year after the third victim. At that time, he only waited six months between killings. He’s getting better and opted to stayed in the same city.”

  “A sign of confidence. He’s getting more daring,” I said. “He’s sticking around longer and picking off local women.”

  “Exactly. By the time he got to victim number four, there was no DNA under the fingernails. There was a head wound and evidence the woman’s wrists had been restrained. She was strangled by a thin, smooth material—likely a tie or something similar. I am expecting the results will be much the same from the autopsy tomorrow.”

  “So, I shouldn’t get my hopes up for DNA?”

  “I wouldn’t. A
nd if I’m correct, he’ll have been even more practiced than his last attack in DC. I’ll bet he sticks around for a while.”

  “If he’s into sticking around places, then why’d he leave DC? You obviously didn’t catch him while he was there.”

  “We were close.”

  “What do you have on him?”

  “Him in particular? Not much. But we linked both women to a nightclub and started sniffing around there.”

  “Do you think the killer worked at the club? Seems like it shouldn’t be too hard to check if they have any employees turning over around the time of murders.”

  “Have you ever worked in a club?”

  My blank stare probably told him that I’d barely stepped foot in a club, let alone worked in one.

  “They’ve got under the table shenanigans up the wazoo, and that’s not to mention legal turnover. He might have worked there, but there’s no record of anyone quitting or getting fired that works within our timeline. He could have been a regular patron. One of the security guards copped to seeing our second vic leave with a male.”

  “Description?”

  “Too dark. Couldn’t see. He drove a black car.”

  I could hear the chagrin in Russo’s voice. “Ah. Not very cooperative?”

  “He offered us the bare minimum to keep from getting charged with possession.”

  “I see. So, we’ve got a potential serial killer.”

  “The markings around the neck are consistent from case to case. I think there’s a very good possibility we’re looking at one murderer.”

  “He’s using the same tie, or whatever, to kill these girls.”

  “I’d put money on it.”

  “Are there any similarities between the girls aside from the fact they went to the same club?”

  “All of them had fake passports left on the scene with them, and we haven’t found any real identities.”

  “That’s strange in and of itself. How do four girls go missing and nobody knows who they are?”

  “We’re thinking trafficking of some sort because we see that sort of thing there, but...”

  “It’s not quite adding up.”

  He spared me a small smile. “Glad we agree on something. Other than that, we’ve got a fairly common set of characteristics that we find in many serial killer cases. Young women in high risk situations. Young, attractive. All of them were dressed for a ‘night on the town’ if you will. Each had some alcohol in their systems, though none of them were over the limit, suggesting they were out for a date, or an evening with friends, dancing, whatever it is young women do these days.”

  “Don’t look at me,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “I’ve no clue. Though you could ask my sister.”

  “I thought she was older than you.”

  “She is.”

  “Ah.” Russo glanced at my face and took the hint that the subject was closed. “You know, touching base with your sister might not be a bad idea if she’s as tuned in to the party scene as you say. The club in DC was a local place, brand new and flashy. Big money, best women and cocktails.”

  “You would know?”

  “I heard rumors.”

  “Aha,” I said, then I gave a huge sigh. “Well, I’ll ask. If anyone will know the hot place to be these days, it’s Jane.”

  “Look, I’m sorry if I brought up something sensitive.” Russo gave me a surprisingly curious look that was filled with more understanding than I’d expected to see from an FBI suit. “I understand families are complicated. Leave your sister out of this—we’ll figure it out without involving her.”

  I gave him a thin smile. “Speaking of family, I’ve got some obligations and have to finish up my day before I head out. Can I walk you over to the office?”

  “How about I drive you?”

  “It’s next door.”

  “I enjoy your company.”

  I grabbed both of our cups and tossed them in the trash. One look outside told me the flurries had turned into a full-on snowstorm. Walking a single block in this weather would have my eyeballs freezing.

  “About that ride,” I said as Russo joined my side. “I think it’s the least you can do for me.”

  Russo stifled a smile. “I can’t agree more.”

  From behind us came the clearing of a throat. I glanced back at the same time as Russo and turned right into his chest. We stumbled together, his arms reaching out to steady me as I collapsed against him.

  My mother’s eyes traveled upward.

  The mistletoe above us beckoned.

  “You give that even a second of thought,” I said to Russo, “and I’ll—”

  “You’ll shoot me,” he finished with a grin. “I know.”

  Chapter 5

  I finished up at the precinct by six. I’d gotten Agent Russo introduced around the office and settled him at a spare desk in the TC Task Force room. When I said my rounds of goodbyes for the day, I grudgingly stopped before his desk.

  “Need anything?” I asked gruffly. I’d mostly refused to speak to him all day, leaving Jimmy to field the agent’s questions on the case.

  “Got any recommendations for a dinner place?” Russo glanced up at me. “I’m assuming you’ve got plans, or else I’d invite you out with me.”

  “What gave you the impression that Rosetti has plans?” Jimmy called across the room. “Surely, it’s not her packed social calendar. Kate hasn’t gone on a date in over a year.”

  I ignored the quirk in Russo’s eyebrow. “Jimmy’s full of it. I do have plans tonight, actually.”

  “By plans,” Russo said, “I assume you mean anything, so long as it’s not dinner with me?”

  “Believe it or not,” I said, “I have plans with real people tonight.”

  “The delivery man doesn’t count,” Russo said. “Neither does the fast food order window at LeeAnn Chin’s.”

  Jimmy laughed from behind his desk.

  I gave Russo a smirk. “You think you’re funny.”

  He sat back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, and glanced at Jimmy with raised eyebrows. “Maybe she does have a hot date. Little Ben and Jerry action?”

  Jimmy cackled. “A ménage is a bit exotic for our girl Kate. Even in a pint of ice cream.”

  “Maybe,” I said, raising my eyebrow. “Maybe not. You’ve no idea if I’m exotic or not, Jimmy.”

  “I’m intrigued,” Russo said. “Have dinner with me? I’ll put it on the FBI’s tab. You can join if you like, Jimmy.”

  “The wife cooked,” Jimmy said. “I’ve got plans at home. Kate, though...”

  “I have plans,” I insisted. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

  Silence fell in the room.

  “Goodnight,” I said and stomped out.

  I didn’t have time to change before my dinner date at Bellini’s. It wasn’t important that the only date I’d had in over a year was my standing get together with Asha, Melinda, and Lassie. I wasn’t interested in romance. I’d tried it before, hadn’t found success, thought it was overrated.

  My body, however, was telling me different. I was feeling fired up on all cylinders as I drove across town at a snail’s pace, struggling to see through the windshield as the snow pelted down with fury. Somehow, I suspected it wasn’t the pair of lattes I’d had. My body was accustomed to caffeine. My body wasn’t accustomed to Jack Russo, and the man had an effect on me that I preferred not to think about.

  He was handsome, obviously intelligent, and ultimately infuriating. My brain wandered into restricted territory as I came to a dead stop in the middle of a traffic jam. It’d take me forever to get to Bellini’s, but I didn’t care. I had nowhere else to be, and I needed a margarita.

  I found Lassie waiting for me at the bar. She had a glass of red wine sitting before her and a phone out, her glitterized nails clicking away on the screen as I sat down next to her and ordered a pitcher of margaritas.

  She didn’t say a word, but her eyebrows pinched together at the sound of my voice. “Rough day?”

  “A bit. But then again, you probably already know that.”

  “I heard from Asha,” Lassie admitted, finally looking up from her phone. “I figured I’d badger you about your day after you’d had a drink. You’re much more likely to talk about a case with tequila swirling through that pretty head of yours.”

  I snorted a laugh and clasped an arm around Erin Lassiter—a long-time friend and short-time reporter. Erin Lassiter was a big girl with bigger dreams. Her hair stood out in a bob that belonged on a sixties housewife. You didn’t want to sit behind Erin Lassiter in a movie theater.