Red Rum: A Rosie Casket Mystery by R.M. Wild (top 100 novels of all time .TXT) 📕

“Those quads better follow orders later today,” I said. “We don’t want Dimitri to think you’re quaking in your booties.”

At Thomaston, God seemed surprised to see me roll up to his booth in a police cruiser.

“I hope you left the matches at home, Miss Casket,” he said. He turned to Mettle. “Be careful with this one, man. She’s a real firebrand.”

Mettle giggled, the stripes on his uniform bouncing with his shifting muscles. “Careful, man, or the smoke’s on you.”

God laughed so hard he coughed up donut powder and had to brush it off his massive boobs. “What’s the plan today? A hex? A burst of lightning?”

“Very funny,” I said. “Can we go inside or not?”

God checked his computer and then said, “Yeah, yeah,” and waved us through.

We parked in the same lot.

Mettle left his Leatherman and phone in the cruiser and I left my handbag. As we headed for the entrance, I tried to walk casually by his side. We were just two friends about to pay another friend a visit. I had visited the prison enough times now to feel like an old pro, but I could see Mettle’s hand shaking as he pulled open the door for me.

“What’s the matter?” I whispered.

He made a fist. “Nothing. I worked the biceps a little too hard this morning, that’s all.”

“I thought it was a leg day.”

“Push and pull,” he said.

I bit my tongue. Out of respect, I didn’t push my suspicions. His shaky hand couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with the fact that we were visiting the same scumbag who had made out with his girlfriend and sponsored the trip that had gotten her killed, now could it?

At the first checkpoint, the corrections officer told us to empty our pockets and leave our keys in the locker.

“No keys,” Mettle said.

“No keys?”

“Nope. It’s one of those fancy, app-controlled ignitions,” Mettle lied.

“In a cruiser?”

“Yup,” Mettle said.

“And yet they couldn’t manage to give me a raise, could they?” the guard said.

“You and me both, brother,” Mettle said.

After passing security, we entered the visitation room, the same room I had visited before. The guards seemed a little spooked by my presence, for they had us sit in the station directly in the middle of the room instead of at the end.

I tried not to look toward the booth where I had sat before, worried I might see Phyllis’s ashy remains. There were no other visitors, nor inmates, and except for the two guards in the corner and the security cameras, we had the room completely to ourselves.

I closed my eyes before sitting on the metal stool and tried to push the image of Phyllis Martins’ flailing, flaming arms out of mind.

The guard brought another stool for Mettle.

“If these were urinals, I would not have chosen this booth,” Mettle whispered.

“Me neither,” I said.

He raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you know urinal etiquette?”

“Maybe I’ve been tucking.”

His head snapped to look at me. “You’ve what?”

“You heard me.”

“You better not be tucking,” he whispered harshly.

“Why not? Would that be a deal breaker for you?”

“Of course!”

“Don’t be so old fashioned, Mettle. If you really liked me, you’d love me no matter what I have between my legs.”

“I swear to God, you better be joking,” he said, fists forming.

I playfully touched his chin and said in a husky voice. “Or what, big boy?”

“This isn’t funny, Casket,” he said, his eyes going to my crotch.

I disagreed. I thought it was very funny, a good distraction, one I desperately needed.

Suddenly, behind the glass, the door opened. A guard entered, followed by a man in a dark orange jumpsuit.

“Take your eyes off my crotch,” I said. “He’s here.”

Dimitri entered. By the ease of his shuffle, he looked at peace in his cage, not very haggard. The only evidence of change was that his mustache had eaten the rest of his face and become a full, dark beard.

Mettle clenched his own knee.

Dimitri looked at me, then at Mettle, then back at me again. The guard said something behind the glass and Dimitri shuffled over to the stool and sat down.

I picked up the receiver. So did Dimitri.

“How nice of you to veesit,” Dimitri said in his thick Russian accent. “You are not going to set me on fire, are you?”

“I’ll try not to,” I said. “We’ll cut to the chase. We want to know about my sister.”

“I know nothing.”

“She’s not talking about your intelligence, Sergei,” Mettle said.

I shot Mettle a look that said, “sshhhh.”

“We know you were down in the cave. We saw the tape on Hardgrave’s liquor stash and we know your skills are too specialized to mean you’re working alone. We want to know who is behind all of this.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Dimitri said.

Mettle leaned into my receiver. “You’ve already been convicted, Boris. None of this is going to trial. We just want to find Chrissy.”

And my father, I thought. But I said nothing. Instead, I put my hand over the mouthpiece and hissed, “Matt seriously. Let me do the talking. You’re going to piss him off.”

“A lover’s spat,” Dimitri said and tented his fingers. “Very exciting. Fun to watch.”

“I’ll lover’s spit right on the glass,” Mettle said.

“Now, now, Trooper. No need to be revolting.”

“I’ll show you a revolt.”

I put a hand on Mettle’s shoulder to calm him down and then glared at Dimitri. “When I was at Peter Hardgrave’s trial, someone sent me a photo. The picture was of a woman bound and gagged. The message said it was from my ‘photographer’ friend. You’re the only photographer I know. Are you the one who took that photo?”

“Maybe,” Dimitri said.

“Yes or no, Gorbachev,” Mettle said. “It’s an easy question.”

“Yes.”

We were so shocked to hear a confirmation, we both leaned forward.

“You did?” I said.

“Yes.”

“The woman had a tattoo. Was it Chrissy?”

“Yes.”

My heart did a little pirouette, one as graceful as Chrissy on the balance beam. I grabbed Mettle’s knee in excitement.

“Is Chrissy still alive?”

“Yes.”

I could barely contain myself and covered my mouth.

“At least