"Wait here," Gretchen said to her. She stepped off the curb and rounded on the driver's side. "Please stay in your car," she said.
Matt paused halfway out of the car and gave her a dazzling, toothy smile. "You're telling me to remain in my vehicle?"
"Correct."
His eyes swung to Daisy, who had her hands on her hips and didn't look pleased to see him.
"She's never going to talk to me if you're part of the conversation," Gretchen explained.
"What are you two talking about?"
"This and that. Now please stay in your car."
"Okay," he said and climbed back in.
"What's
he
doing here?" Daisy wanted to know.
"You remember Matt Albright. His mother is the president of the doll club. He's a friend."
Daisy glared at his car. "A cop is a cop. I know you like him, but I wouldn't trust a cop as far as I could spit, and I can spit a long way. He'll be nice and friendly until he gets what he wants."
That wasn't news to Gretchen. That pertained to all men, not just cops.
"I need to find Ryan," Gretchen said. "Can you help me?"
Daisy tilted her head, considering the request. "I'm not sure," she said. "Try Twenty-fifth and Van Buren, pink stucco house. But be careful. Those druggies are dangerous." Daisy shook her head and clicked her tongue before adding, "This city ought to clean up its streets."
14
"Come with me," Gretchen said to Matt after Daisy had wandered out of range.
"Where are we going?" Matt said with a suggestive grin.
"Have you found Charlie's son yet?"
"Almost," Matt said.
"Almost doesn't count. If you want to talk to him, I'll take you there."
"I'll follow you over."
"Come with me. It will give me a chance to tell you about my first impression of him."
"My mother already told me. But I'd like to hear it from you."
He slid in beside her. Gretchen related the story of yesterday's chase down Scottsdale Road. Matt sat next to her, gripping the sides of the car's seat.
"You can trust me," Gretchen said, noting his clenched fists and braced posture.
"I've heard that before," he quipped.
Gretchen had never driven with a cop in her car. She drove as carefully as she could, obeying every traffic sign, coming to complete stops, using her directionals properly.
What a pain!
Twenty-five miles an hour was much slower than she thought.
Out of the corner of her eye, she had the feeling he was watching her every move. She was relieved when he answered a call on his cell phone. Business kept him occupied until they were close to their destination. Gretchen made a turn onto Van Buren and slowed to look for the house.
"This must be it," she said. "It's the only pink stucco."
She pulled to the curb.
"Wait in the car. I'll be right back," Matt said.
"Not in a million years. This is my gig. You're tagging along for the ride. I'm the one who found him."
"You're impossible. I knew driving over with you was a bad idea when you suggested it. We should have taken my car." Matt didn't look like he meant it. Or maybe he did, but his lips had that amused turn to them. "What next?" he said. "Should we surround the house and go in with guns drawn? You can cover me. Oh wait, you don't have a gun."
"Shush."
They both stared at the house. Chipped pink stucco. A broken window boarded up with plywood. Discolored blinds, all drawn.
"Stay here," Gretchen said.
"
What?
I'm the law enforcement official, in case you haven't noticed. You're stealing my line.
You
stay here."
"No way. I'm the one who found this address. If you weren't so busy following me, you would have found Ryan by now."
"I haven't been following you."
"I'm going in."
"I happen to be the detective in charge of this case. I don't wait in cars."
She gave his garb an appreciative glance and wondered if he'd look as good in a uniform. He wore one of his social causes T-shirts, a white one that proclaimed, Running Strong for American Indian Youth. She'd seen him wear several with different motifs. This one had teepees against a backdrop of soaring eagles and an orange setting sun.
"You look like a cop," she said.
"No, I don't. That's the whole point of working undercover. So I don't look like a cop."
"He won't even open the door if you go up to it."
"He isn't going to open it either way."
Gretchen was already making her way up a broken sidewalk. Wilted shrubs framed the house. It looked deserted. She knocked softly and listened for movement inside. Nothing. She banged loudly. Then banged again. Gretchen could smell Matt's Chrome cologne floating on the breeze behind her.
She thought she heard something inside. A scurry sound like a mouse. Or a rat. The place was probably crawling with rodents and insects. The door opened a crack, and an eyeball peered out.
"I'm looking for Ryan Maize," Gretchen said. "Is he here?"
"Who wants to know?"
"Gretchen Birch. I'm a friend of his mother's."
"No, you're not. You're a cop."
"I'm not a cop."
Gretchen heard a chuckle behind her.
"Do you have a search warrant?" the person inside asked.
"No. I'm trying to tell you, I'm not a cop."
The minuscule opening in the door began to close. Matt's arm shot out to stop it. He flashed identification with his other hand. "I'm the cop," he said. "Don't make a bad choice. Open the door and talk to us."
"Don't you need a warrant?"
"Not to ask questions about a death."
The door swung open, and Ryan stepped hesitantly out onto the porch wearing the black do-rag. He squinted and rubbed his eyes. His shoulders slumped with an air of defeat, like he expected life to keep disappointing him. Classic drug addict's philosophy, Gretchen thought. They blamed their circumstances on bad luck and the actions of others, instead of taking control and making different choices.
"I don't feel too good," Ryan said, leaving the door ajar.
"I think I'm sick."
Matt gave him a cold stare.
The porch was covered with cigarette butts and round burn holes. Gretchen tried to look past Ryan into the house, but the interior was dark. The sunlight blinded Ryan. He covered his eyes. "Make it quick," he said. "I gotta go. I'm gonna be sick."
Gretchen tried not to look at the silver ring piercing his lower lip.
Matt leaned against the stucco wall, outwardly relaxed and appearing casual. But he wasn't. "First, I have a complaint. You assaulted this woman."
Ryan glanced at Gretchen. "She chased me down the street and grabbed me. I was looking through the window, and she started yelling and coming after me."
Gretchen squirmed. He wasn't lying. When he said it like that. .
"You struck her and knocked her down."
"She started it." Ryan said, a kid's whine in his voice.
"Let it go," Gretchen said to Matt.
"But he assaulted you. Don't you want to press charges?"
"No."
"Why not?"
Gretchen didn't know why not. All she knew was that she felt sorry for him. She'd worked with the afflicted before, serving meals and donating money when she could spare it. Ryan, although not exactly destitute, had a certain helplessness about him. He brought out the maternal side of her, as weird as that sounded.
Go figure. She felt sorry for the guy who'd slugged her. She looked up at the crumbling pink stucco and wondered how many drug addicts lived inside. "I only wanted to talk to you about your mother," she said to Ryan. "You didn't have to hit me."
"I really think it's important that you press charges,"
Matt said.
"No."
"Can I go now? I'm really gonna be sick."
"Not yet," Matt said. "How did you learn that your mother died?" He didn't say
murdered.
Ryan was too messed up to wonder why he would be questioned if his mother had died from natural causes.
"One of her friends came by and told me."
"When?"
"Saturday. . um. . like afternoon."
"Who?"
"Britt somebody."
"What did she say?"
"That my mother had a heart attack."
"What kind of relationship did you have with your mother?"
Gretchen studied Matt. Cool, crisp, and professional but with the appearance of casualness. Even though he wasn't taking notes, she was sure he'd remember every word of the conversation.
"Not too good, but it was her fault. She didn't approve of my lifestyle. Wanted me to be more like her, like everybody else." Ryan's eyes were bloodshot, and his face was pale. Who would want to look and feel this bad every day?
After several more questions, Ryan hunkered down on the side of the porch and retched.
Gretchen and Matt looked at each other.
"We'll have more questions later," Matt said to him. Gretchen wasn't sure Ryan heard.
She stepped off the porch with Matt right behind her. "I don't understand you at all. I thought we were in agreement," he said in a low voice. "Wasn't the whole point to bring him in for questioning? The assault was a perfect opportunity. His mother was murdered and. . I don't know why I'm even trying to explain it to you."
Gretchen frowned at him. Men! Talk about miscommunication. Or more like no communication. Other than a few Neanderthal grunts, none of them had the ability to express themselves. "I wish you had told me you were going to threaten him," she said, looking back. Ryan had disappeared inside.
"I wish you had told me what you wanted."
"You need to drop it," Gretchen said, wanting the last word. "I'm not pressing charges."
This time Matt scowled at her.
"What's going to happen to him?" She meant it philosophically, but Matt took her literally.
"If you aren't interested in pursuing charges? Nothing. I really want to know why he's been hiding. And why he struck you." Matt stopped by her car. "Why did he think you were a cop when he opened the door?"
Geez. Did she really have to go into this? She stopped and dug through her purse.
Matt leaned forward and peered inside. "Where's the little fluff ball?"
"He's with Nina. We're meeting at the shop. Here it is." She held up the Best in the West badge. "April gave me this and had pinned it on right before Ryan looked through the window. He saw it and automatically assumed-"
"So yesterday he thought he was punching a cop?" Matt shook his head.
The situation seemed to be getting worse.
Without waiting for a reply, Matt turned and started out down the street, whistling a tune.
"Where are you going?" Gretchen called after him.
"Back to my car."
"I'll give you a ride."
"I'm a terrible passenger."
"My driving was that bad?"
"I'm really just a bad passenger."
"We're miles away from your car."
"One point four miles, to be exact. Don't worry about me. If I need help, I'll call for a squad."
Look who's the impossible one now?
"Wait up." She trotted to catch up.
"I'd love company," Matt said. "But the logistics are complicated. For example, who'll drive your car?"
"You can give me a ride back."
"This gets sillier by the second."
"You started it." Using the same tactic Ryan had. Blame it on the other guy.
Matt raised his arms in a gesture of surrender. "Okay, let's go."
Gretchen looked around at the boarded-up houses and litter in the yards. "This isn't the best neighborhood to leave my car. Or to be walking."
"Anyone bothers us, I'll shoot them." He flashed that great smile, swung his head to check for cars, and jaywalked across Van Buren. Gretchen trailed him across, then quickly fell in next to him.
They silently cut around a slow pedestrian, and Matt's arm brushed against hers. She sucked in her breath, feeling young and foolish. Not a bad feeling. Not at all.
Matt glanced at her. "Are you finished at Mini Maize?"
"Probably today." Should she tell him about the miniature bloody weapons and the tiny, painted stains on some of the furnishings? Wouldn't he know about them from the crime scene analysis? "We found interesting things in the display cases. Weapons, fake blood on some of the furniture."
He nodded. "We assumed that was part of some crazy doll collector's scene." Another grin. "Charlie's prints were the only ones on them. They have nothing to do with her murder."
"I disagree," Gretchen said. What else was new? They disagreed on so much. Matt might send jolts of electricity through her entire nervous system, but his wattage wasn't entirely compatible with hers. Kind of like putting cables on the wrong battery terminals.
"Let's have your take on it then," Matt said. "As if I'm not going to hear it anyway."
"I think she realized that she'd been poisoned and tried to make it to the door. She took the time to knock the display over as a clue, in case she didn't survive. There's something strange about the display. I can't put my finger on it though. Oh, I know-" Gretchen stopped, snapped her fingers as though she just thought of it. She waited for him to stop walking, too. "Maybe it's because of the miniature peanut butter jar. You know the one? It was under her body."
His jaw dropped open. "Where did you get that information?"
"I know who I
didn't
get it from."
They approached Matt's unmarked car. Daisy was nowhere in sight. She must be at the audition, if the audition was real. It was hard to tell what was reality and what was fantasy when it came to the homeless woman. Gretchen looked at Matt. She had thrown out a hasty theory, but it made sense. "I'm sure you're right," she said.