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

she was when I took the photo,” Dimitri said.

“And when was that?”

“About a year ago.”

“Where is she now?”

Dimitri leaned back casually on his stool. “I will tell you if you get me out of this prison.”

“No way, we can’t do that,” Mettle said.

“Then no more information.”

“It doesn’t work like that, buddy. It’s not up to us.”

Dimitri smiled and transferred the phone from one ear to the other. “Eeet is your loss then. Or maybe your sister’s loss.”

I covered the mouthpiece and leaned into Mettle and whispered, “What if he really knows where she is? What if we have a chance to save her?”

“He’s bluffing. He doesn’t know jack stroganoff,” Mettle said.

“But we can’t take that risk.”

Mettle took the phone from me. “Give us something solid. Show us you’re not lying, comrade.”

“Tell us about the photo,” I added.

“Yes, I remember taking that photo. I did not use a flash, yet you can see the details. Very hard with a painting to see that tattoo. You would need a camera with a large sensor and large photosites to take a peecture in such a dark place and still see those details. There was no blurring, correct?”

“Yes.”

“You would also need a very fast lens. That is professional equipment. Now you know I am not lying. It was shot by a professional. Is that enough for you?”

“What did the chair look like?”

“The feet were metal. Like hooves.”

I covered the mouthpiece again and leaned over to Mettle. “He’s right about the chair. This might be our only chance.”

“Can that Ken Doll work his magic to get him out?”

“I don’t know. Maybe,” I said. “It’s worth a shot. Do we have a choice?”

“I don’t think so,” Mettle said. He turned back to Dimitri and spoke into the phone. “Okay, Mr. Politburo, here’s the deal. We’re gonna put you in touch with a good lawyer, but we want the info about Rosie’s sister first.”

“I don’t talk until I’m out.”

“It could take months.”

“I may be Russian, but I am in no rush,” Dimitri said.

Mettle gritted his teeth. “Real cute.”

“Is my sister’s life in danger?” I demanded.

“Yes. It has always been in danger,” Dimitri said. “If she is still alive, she will not be for long. The man who has her does not play games.”

I leaned into the glass. “What man?”

Dimitri lifted his chains to make a motion like his lips were zipped—and then he burst into flames.

20

“Mary, Mother of God!” Mettle said as he fell backward off his stool.

The ball of fire blasted right against the glass, the heat enough to singe my eyebrows and sting my face. I fell backward too and landed right on top of Mettle, his body as solid as landing on a pile of bricks, the badge on his chest hot and pointy in my back.

Two guards rushed at us. Before they could grab us, Mettle broke away and pushed me off him. He crawled backward and pointed at me.

“What did you do? You are a witch! I saw it with my own two eyes!”

“I didn’t do anything!” I said. “You were sitting right beside me. Maybe you’re the witch! You ever think of that?”

“Boys can’t be witches!”

“That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard!”

The guards pulled us to our feet and wrestled our arms behind our backs. Mettle was strong enough that if he wanted to, he could have easily sent both guards flying back against the wall, but he was so distracted by the blast of fire and the confusion that he was easily led to the doorway.

As the second guard pushed me toward the door, I caught a last glimpse of Dimitri. One of the guards on the other side of the glass had sprayed him with a fire extinguisher. Like Phyllis Martin, Dimitri was trashing around and throwing off splashes of white foam, the entire room twinkling like a grim wonderland.

At the end of his agony, Dimitri collapsed. His charred lips quivered and then he was still.

“What did he say? What were his last words?”

“I’d be more worried about yours,” the guard said and pushed me out the room.

The room was decorated from floor to ceiling with an absurd number of degrees, all of them framed in cherry and behind glass. The Latin calligraphy was hard to read, but I could discern at least two Doctorates of Philosophy in theology from at least two different schools.

Mettle and I had been told to sit in front of a giant desk, the polished slab of cherry large enough to land fighter jets. The moment we sat, Mettle conspicuously slid his chair farther away from me and avoided eye contact.

“Why are you acting so weird? I don’t have cooties all of a sudden.”

Mettle grunted. “I saw what you did. You set that man on fire.”

“How could I possibly have done that? He was behind glass.”

“You’re a fire-starter aren’t you? Like a red hairy Carrie or something.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. There’s a perfectly logical explanation.”

“Like what? Did Dimitri have anything in his hands?”

“Not that I could see,” I said quietly.

“Was there anybody near him?”

“No.”

“Did someone throw a match at him? A lighter?”

I shook my head.

“The guards were in the corner and there were no other inmates present. Not only that, but we were sitting at a different station from the last time. The only common element in these murders is you.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“How about you explain what’s going on.”

“I can’t,” I said. “You know as much as I do.”

From the side of the room, a metal door opened. A man who looked like he was in his mid-sixties entered. He paused and studied the two of us and then he shut the door behind him.

Without a word, he went straight for the metal swivel chair on the other side of the desk, his back looking strong for a man of his age. He sat with absurdly rigid posture, as if a metal ruler had replaced his spine, and the rusty casters on the chair shrieked.