4. Kyle
CHAPTER 4
KYLE
I don’t know why I was surprised. In the very short time I’d been acquainted with Everett, I’d learned to just… not be surprised by much of anything.
And maybe I really wasn’t surprised that he’d picked this place. If anything, I was amazed it was still open. I don’t mean open at one-thirty in the morning—I mean still in business at all.
Waffles? was this bizarre little local establishment that had been here since at least the 1950s. The building, anyway; I was pretty sure it had changed identities a few times before becoming this place in 1974 (I only knew that because their logo, which included their established date, was etched, printed, or painted onto every imaginable surface). The name was actually Waffles! for some reason. Maybe the owners thought breakfast was the most exciting meal of the day? Either way, everyone called it Waffles? because the font on the sign was all scripty and weird, and the exclamation point looked more like a question mark. They used that font for everything, too, so their logo seemed to read, “Waffles? Established 1974?”
I thought the implied uncertainty was fitting. Did they even serve waffles? I’d wondered a few times if they served food at all, or if this was just where all the shift workers and Goth kids came to drink coffee in the middle of the night. When the cops weren’t here, anyway. “Here” as in, with their lights on. Which happened a lot. What the fuck happened in this place? I was skeptical that any waffles—never mind their consumption—really occurred in this building, but something was going on.
The place was situated in a sea of strip malls and big box stores like a little oasis of shittiness, its parking lot cracked and full of weeds while everything around it was smooth asphalt with crisp, freshly-painted stripes. All the other buildings had more modern designs, from their plain beige exteriors to their uniform archways and windows. Waffles?, on the other hand, still had that chrome-and-neon aesthetic from a bygone era. Not the shiniest chrome or the most functional neon, either, which gave it almost a post-apocalyptic vibe.
So of course Everett had picked it, and of course that was where we were now sitting twenty minutes after we’d left the trailer park. One of the not-so-functional neon lights buzzed erratically above us, casting an intermittent green glow on the cracked Formica table.
Outside, my truck was slotted neatly into one of the barely painted spaces. Everett’s car—well, after trying to keep up with him on the road and seeing how he drove, I was amazed he only had one tire perched on the sidewalk. For someone with such incredible attention to detail that he might’ve caught on to a murder where cops had read suicide, he seemed to be completely unaware of inconsequential things like painted lines or traffic lights. At one point, he’d left his turn signal on for like a mile and a half. A few blocks after that, he’d made a turn without signaling at all.
And this after he’d had a “kibble incident” at a crime scene, because he’d brought cat food, and…
Maybe I was imagining all of this. Everett. The racoons. That ridiculous camera. Voluntarily setting foot in Waffles? Had I just inhaled too many cleaning products? Was I currently lying on the bloody floor of that trailer, tripping balls while my last few brain cells succumbed to chemical fumes? That would be the most logical explanation for all of this.
Across from me, Everett put his laminated menu down with a slap and shoved it to the end of the table, as if to signal to our server that he was ready to order. Wait, he was actually eating here?
“So while you were inside,” he said, “I saw a shoeprint out by the flowerbeds. I was looking for the cat and putting the food dish down, and—anyway, it looks almost exactly like the print I saw on the body. An Air Force 1. I got a picture of it, because like, what are the odds?”
“You got a picture?” I asked.
“Yeah!” The Waffles? question mark must’ve been floating over my head, because Everett stared at me. “What? Did I leave something out? Sometimes I ramble and go too fast, and I leave out details like?—”
“No, no, no.” I shook my head slowly. “I don’t think you left—just, back up a second. Did you say you took a photo of the shoe impression?”
“Yeah! It was pretty clear, too.” He took out his phone. Unaware of my exasperated groan, he started tapping the screen. “I used the cat food dish for scale in case they need to measure it or whatever, but?—”
“You used your phone?” I squeaked.
“Well, yeah?” He shrugged and looked up at me with wide eyes. “You had the camera.”
“Yes. The camera that we were using so neither of our phones would be confiscated by the cops. As evidence.” I facepalmed. “Dude.”
He blinked, then shifted his attention down to his phone, reality seeming to dawn as if he’d picked up the kittycat at the scene only to realize too late he’d grabbed a raccoon.
I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed.
Was this guy for real?
I dropped my hand onto the menu I was absolutely not going to order from and stared at Everett. “I hope you have all your shit backed up on the cloud.”
“Well.” He tapped the sides of the phone case with his fingertips. “The print is probably still there. One of us could go back and get a photo with the Pinkie Pie camera.”
Pursing my lips, I grunted. Okay, so he had a point. And I did have a ruler in the truck that I could use for scale; that might hold up in court a little better than “cat food dish for comparison.” Though credit where it was due—at least he’d thought to use something for scale.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll go back afterward. I’m authorized to be there, and if the neighbors or the landlord get spicy about it, I can just tell them I forgot something.”
“Smart!” Everett nodded. “And you still have the camera, too.”
“I do.” It was in my pocket because I’d been too paranoid to leave it in the truck. It would be just my luck someone would break in, probably searching for a chemical to steal or huff, and they’d swipe the camera to sell. It wasn’t much, but hey, the economy sucked. A few bucks was a few bucks.
So I had it on me, but I didn’t take it out. I wasn’t sure why. Because someone might look over my shoulder? Because somehow us sitting here at Waffles? and perusing the photos would compromise whatever evidence we might’ve found? I don’t know. Growing up around cops, I was paranoid about things like chain of custody and evidentiary integrity.
Or maybe I was just wound the fuck up because Everett and I both had the same gut feeling about a scene the cops had dismissed.
I drummed my fingers on top of the menu. “So, we’re in agreement, right? This had to be a murder.”
“Definitely.” Everett made a face. “I guess I can kind of see why they didn’t think that guy would kill himself. Looked like he had a pretty good thing going, you know? The trailer wasn’t that bad, and it looks like he’s got a kid, and?—”
“No, no.” I shook my head sharply. “A lot of people look like they’ve got it good from the outside looking in. Nice house, great marriage, kids, the works. The problems are all up here.” I tapped my temple. “We don’t really know what he had going on there, you know?”
To his credit, Everett looked chastened. “ Ooh . Yeah, I guess I don’t know much about that stuff. I took psychology at the community college, but I didn’t get a lot of it.” He quirked his lips. “But the scene. The scene was definitely a murder. It had to be!”
“Yeah, I agree.” I folded my arms on the edge of the table and leaned over them, careful not to press on Steve’s bite. I opened my mouth to speak, but a loud hiss followed by a shout and then a crash had me whipping around to see what was happening.
In the kitchen, there was a cloud of smoke and people flailing around. Someone shouted, “Goddammit Chet, you dumbass! Didn’t I tell you the last two times? You don’t throw water on a grease fire!”
“I know!” came a frantic voice from beyond the smoke. “I forgot!”
“Oh for fuck’s sake. Just… Tell me when I’m going to have my hashbrowns, will you?”
Then there was more clattering and bickering over the sounds of food sizzling and spatulas clanking and scraping.
Everett huffed a laugh. “Never a boring night at Waffles?, that’s for sure.”
I faced him again. “You come here a lot?” I jabbed my thumb over my shoulder. “And shit like that’s normal?”
“Oh, yeah.” He waved a hand and reached for his water glass. “Hell, I think I’ve been here twice when it was robbed.”
“Robbed? And twice? And what do you mean you think you were here for robberies? How do you not know that?”
“Well, the first time was definitely a robbery.” He took a quick sip of water. “I mean, I guess it was more of an attempted robbery because the guy was built like a twig and the fry cook whooped his ass. The second time…” Everett wobbled his hand in the air. “There was a lot of screaming and yelling, and I know I saw a skillet go flying across the room. But I don’t know if it was someone trying to rob the place or just the waitress having a fight with her ex-boyfriend. It’s hard to tell sometimes.”
I gaped at him. “Hard to… Are you serious?”
“Well, yeah.” He shrugged. “It isn’t like the movies where they come in and scream, ‘this is a robbery!’”
That last part came out way too loud, and my heart jumped into my throat. I looked around, expecting everyone to be watching us and ready to either call the cops or pummel Everett into the floor.
Nope.
The old guy at the counter was still complaining about his soup to a waitress who appeared to be a hundred percent done with humanity.
The cooks in the back were still arguing about why the one guy had thrown water on a grease fire.
And a half dozen Goth kids were still sullenly sipping coffee in a corner booth.
Either no one had heard Everett, or they didn’t care.
“Oh my God, this place is weird,” I muttered as I faced him again.
“I know—I love it.” He chuckled, then gestured at the menu. “You should really try the fried mac-and-cheese bites.”
I peered at him, then at the menu. “I think coffee is probably enough for me.”
That worked like an incantation, because the tired waitress appeared beside us, coffeepot in hand. “Can I get you boys started with anything?”
“Just coffee for me, thanks.” I slid my cup toward her.
Everett cheerfully said, “Same thing I always get.”
The waitress cracked a tired smile. “Mac-and-cheese bites with ranch, coffee, and a slice of apple pie with no ice cream?’
He nodded, and I had to admit… he was pretty cute when he smiled. I mean, he was cute anyway, but that smile did things to my head that I was too tired and distracted to dwell on.
When we were alone again, I said, “So, anyway—the scene.”
“Right!” He sat up. “What did you see that tipped you off?”
“Well, the pizza was weird.”
Everett furrowed his brow. “Why? I know people don’t like pineapple on pizza, but that doesn’t seem like a sign of a murder.”
I laughed, shaking my head. He was bizarrely observant and clueless at the same time, and I had to admit, it was kind of endearing. His earnestness made up for the rest of it. He reminded me a little of my brother’s black Lab—a bull-in-a-china-shop who was dumb as rocks most of the time but sweet as hell. And I didn’t think Everett was stupid—not when he’d also picked up the signs that the scene we’d been to was not a suicide.
“No, I don’t mean the toppings,” I said, and then I explained what I’d observed.
He nodded along, eyes unfocused as he listened. When I was done, he exhaled. “Wow. Good catch.” He met my gaze. “Do you think the smear of blood on the wall means anything? The cops tried to say it was from the EMTs.”
“That doesn’t make sense.” I played with the edge of my sleeve just to give my fingers something to do. “The only thing the EMTs would even have to do on a scene like that is declare the guy was dead. And they probably just had to walk in and go, ‘yep, that dude is dead,’ because I don’t think he needed anyone to check his pulse.”
“But they probably did anyway,” Everett countered. “In case they get grilled in court.”
“Hmm. Good point.” And it was—attorneys would tug on the most seemingly inconsequential thread if it might make the opposition’s case fall apart. “So let’s say they did walk in and take the guy’s pulse. They wouldn’t be all bloody like they would’ve if they’d been trying to save him.”
“Exactly!” He thumped the table with his finger. “So they couldn’t have left that smudge!” He sounded sure, and I agreed.
Though… “It’s still possible ,” I said. “But the pizza is weird, and there’s also that shoeprint on his chest.”
“Right? And the way he was lying back… I mean, it kind of looked to me like someone shoved him off his feet, you know? So maybe they kicked him?”
“Or pinned him down.”
“Ooh, yeah. That could be it!”
“But either way, it’s fucking weird. Then when you mix that with the abandoned pizza, the smudge of blood…” I shook my head. “Something’s hinky.”
“It is,” Everett agreed with an emphatic nod. “So what do we do?”
I chewed the inside of my cheek and tapped my thumbs against my coffee cup. “I can talk to my dad. It wasn’t his case, but he can get access to the report.”
“Do you think he’ll do anything?”
“I think so? I don’t see why he wouldn’t.”
“Good. Glad you’ve got an in with the cops.” He gave a quiet, self-deprecating laugh. “They just think I’m the dumb guy who collects bodies.”
I kind of felt bad about that; no, he didn’t seem to the most book smart person I’d ever encountered, but there was clearly more going on in his mind than met the eye. That, and I knew from experience that cops, at least in this city, weren’t known for being subtle about things like that.
“They’re cops,” I said with a shrug. “I’ve spent my whole life around them—trust me when I say some of them didn’t exactly turn down Ivy League scholarships to join the force.”
Everett snorted. “You said it, not me.”
I just chuckled.
Right then, the waitress appeared with our order. Or, well, Everett’s. The mac-and-cheese bites looked surprisingly perfect, given the venue, and that steaming slice of apple pie made my mouth water.
I gave our waitress a sheepish look. “Is it, um—is it too late to order a piece of apple pie?”
“Of course not. With or without ice cream?”
“Uh, with, please.”
“I’ll be right back.”
Then she was gone, and Everett grinned across the table as he dunked a triangle of fried mac-and-cheese into the ramekin of ranch dressing. “Their pie is awesome. You’ll love it.”
“I guess I’ll find out, won’t I?”
He laughed and ate the fried bite. Then he switched over to the pie and took a couple of bites of that before going for another mac-and-cheese bite. It occurred to me then that it was odd the waitress had brought both his entrée (well, app) and dessert at the same time. Apparently she knew him, and apparently he liked his sweet and savory together.
Not that I could judge—I ate my hashbrown casserole right alongside my fried apples at Cracker Barrel, and I wasn’t sorry about it.
The waitress returned with my order a moment later, and I had to admit that for all side-eye I’d given this place, Waffles? had some damn respectable apple pie.
“So what happens next?” Everett asked after I’d taken a couple of bites. “You talk to your dad, but… I feel like we should be doing, I don’t know. More? Like is there something I can do?”
I picked at my pie. “Well… There were pictures at the scene of a woman with a baby. Could be his sister and a niece or nephew. Or it could be his kid.” I shrugged. “Maybe see if you can track down any information on them?”
Everett blinked. “How would I do that?”
“Social media’s probably a good start.” I shrugged. “Guarantee there’s a memorial post for him somewhere, and if she’s close enough to him that he’s got a picture in his house, she’s probably commented or posted.” I paused. “Unless they’re really estranged or something.”
He chewed thoughtfully on some pie as he seemed to digest what I’d said. “Feels a little like stalking.”
“Yeah, it kinda does. But she might be able to help us figure out what happened to the guy.”
“True. All right.” He put his fork down and picked up one of the remaining triangles of fried mac-and-cheese. “I’ll start digging in the morning.”
“Okay. That’s probably all we can do tonight. Not much more we can do until we find her and get the cops involved.” I felt like I should be calling my dad right now, waking him up and demanding he get on this immediately. Murder cases didn’t—and shouldn’t—wait for anything. But I wanted a chance to get some sleep and put together a coherent, persuasive argument to get his attention. Otherwise he’d just blow me off, and I wouldn’t have a lot of luck getting any other cop’s attention if Detective Bowman had already decided this was a giant nothing burger.
Strategize. I had to strategize.
I absently scratched at the bandage on my arm, which was getting itchy. I needed to switch it out and put some more Neosporin on it.
Everett’s gaze tracked my hand, and then his eyes went huge. “What did you do to your arm? You didn’t hurt yourself at the scene, did you?”
“Oh, that? No, it wasn’t from the scene.” I glanced at the bandage, debating how to shrug off the question. But then I remembered who I was talking to, and I grinned. “Would you believe me if I said I was bitten by a piranha?”
He gave me that look that people gave when they were pretty sure someone was yanking their chain, but they were curious. “A… piranha? Like the fish?”
“Mmhmm.” I picked up my coffee. “I have seven of them. And this morning, I’d just finished cleaning their tank, and I was fixing one of their toys, and?—”
“Hold up.” He showed his palms. “Hold. The fuck. Up. You have seven piranhas? Like as pets?”
“Pets.” I shrugged. “I’d call them roommates but they don’t pay rent or buy groceries, so…”
“I didn’t even know you could have those things as pets. And you put your arm in their tank?” He flailed a hand at the bandage. “And that’s all they did to you?”
I laughed. “Oh, yeah. All that stuff you hear about them chowing down on anything that goes in the water—it’s kind of a myth. They only do it if they’re starving.”
“They…” He stared at me, and I could almost hear his brain shorting out. “But one of them did bite you.”
“Mmhmm.” I put my forearms on the table. “It’s happened a few times, actually.” I pointed out a few scars of varying ages, including one on my thumb that had hurt like a motherfucker and taken forever to heal.
Everett sat back and stared at me. “Holy shit, dude. So you have a tank full of piranhas, and they bite you on a regular basis. That’s fucking metal.”
I snorted. “No, it’s fucking Steve. ”
His eyebrow flicked up. “‘Steve’?”
“Yep.” I gave huff of annoyance as I brought up my coffee for a sip. “The other six are completely chill and docile. One of them bit me once because I startled him. All the rest of these?” I gestured at some of the scars. “Those came from Steve. Because Steve’s a dick.”
Everett once again assumed that expression of someone who was absolutely certain he was being fucked with.
I took out my phone and flipped to an album. “That’s my tank.” I showed him the screen, on which there was a photo of the two-hundred gallon aquarium taking up most of my living room wall. Then I swiped, showing him some photos of the various occupants. Most were them hiding in amongst the plants and toys, though I had managed to get a good shot of Bill eating a piece of fish.
“And that”—I swiped to another photo—“is Steve.”
Everett looked closer. “How can you tell them apart?”
“Eh, when you see them in person, their markings are a little different. Plus Gladys has a wonky tooth and Bill’s missing a piece of one fin.”
His eyebrow rose. “What sets Steve apart?”
“The fact that he’s an aggressive douchebag.” I pointed at the screen. “He was having a stare down with my cat in that photo.”
“You have a cat?” Everett’s head snapped up and he shoved my phone back at me. “Do you have pictures?”
I laughed. Of course he’d be interested in the cats. “Yeah. The orange one is Jeff and the calico is Patches.” I paused. “She came with the name.”
“Yeah, I figured.” He laughed. “All your other animals have human names.”
That caught me by surprise. But again, it probably shouldn’t have—Everett was damn observant.
“They’re cute,” he said as he handed back the phone. “And they don’t try to drink out of their tank or anything?” He grimaced. “I’d be afraid they’d fall in.”
I shook my head as I put the phone facedown on the table. “Nah, the top of the tank is really secure, and I pen the cats up whenever I’m doing anything that requires opening it.”
“Smart,” he said solemnly. “I’d be worried as hell. With, you know, piranhas.”
“Especially since my cats are so stupid,” I muttered.
“Are they?” He paused. “Well, the orange one makes sense…”
“I know, right?” I chuckled. “I love him dearly, but he’s not very smart. And he’s so fucking weird about delivery drivers.”
“Yeah?” Everett tilted his head. “How so?”
Just like that, I was off and running, tell him how my himbo of a cat was in love with the FedEx driver, terrified of the UPS guy, and was plotting—stupidly—to murder the Amazon driver. Which segued into how much Everett wanted to get a cat, but his dad had forbidden it due to the fact that they technically lived in a morgue, but eventually, he would get a cat. Or several.
And before I knew it, it was almost four in the morning. I’d had another slice of pie. Everett was working on another order of mac-and-cheese bites. The coffee I’d drunk wasn’t going to keep me awake much longer, and I had another job site to clean tomorrow. And I still needed to swing by the double wide again to document the shoe impression on the Pinkie Pie camera.
“Shit.” I wiped a hand over my face. “I should get home.”
“Yeah, me too.” Everett took on that earnest expression that was becoming charmingly familiar. “So, you’re going to talk to your dad tomorrow, right? About the case?”
I nodded. “First thing in the morning. And you’ll track down the maybe-girlfriend and kid?”
“Yep.” He popped his last mac-and-cheese bite in his mouth. “Who knew all that time I’ve wasted on social media would come in handy?”