A Beeline to Murder

“Me, too,” Kat replied. “Dunno about this one.”


The young woman slammed the van door and introduced herself in a loud voice. “Dr. Greta Figelson, assistant investigator with the coroner’s office.” She flipped her hand in a backward motion over her shoulder to a young black man with an Afro, who seemed hesitant to exit the van. “My driver, Virgil . . .” She couldn’t seem to recall the rest of the man’s name.

“Smith,” the driver called out through his open window to finish her sentence.

Abby looked down and suppressed a smile. Yeah, Smith’s so darn hard to remember. Kat jotted their names in her notebook.

Dr. Figelson marched over. Abby wondered why the coroner’s assistant had even bothered to come with such an attitude. Two workers were needed to handle the gurney, although Abby recalled that the newer gurneys had electric controls and could be operated by one person. Maybe one of the workers had called in sick and the doc had to fill in, doing grunt work along with her regular duties today.

“So, where’s the body?” Dr. Figelson asked, pulling a yellow mask with white ties from her khaki pants pocket. “I’m just here to pronounce him. Don’t have all day.”

Kat jerked her thumb in the direction of the kitchen. “In there.” She stepped aside to allow Dr. Figelson to pass.

Dr. Figelson disappeared inside the pastry shop.

Finally, Kat’s backup arrived. The second cruiser, red light flashing and siren screaming, wheeled into the empty parking space next to Kat’s police car.

Kat called out, “Really, Otto? You needed lights and siren? Seriously?”

Otto Nowicki, a hefty, balding man with skin the color of an unbaked pie crust, hoisted himself out of the seat. Once upright, he spent two minutes adjusting and readjusting his gear, guns, and nightstick on his duty belt. Abby knew Otto was always talking about becoming police chief one day. He had a thing about looking and acting official. Both she and Kat believed it was unlikely, since Chief Bob Allen had no plans to leave and would never be pushed out, but Otto kept on acting like he was in charge.

“Ya thinkin’ pastry shop . . . doughnuts?” Kat winked at Abby.

“Uh, no,” Otto replied, running his hand across his spare tire of a belly. “I’m on a diet. Wife says I gotta eat more like a caveman and stay away from sugar.”

“That right?” Kat quipped. “Does your wife know about the four teaspoons in your coffee at roll call every morning?”

Otto grinned sheepishly. “Jeez, the station’s coffee is like drinking turpentine. I’ve got to put something in it, or it doesn’t go down.” He hooked his thumbs into his duty belt, sucked in his belly, and stood a little straighter.

Abby noticed Otto had lost a little more hair and had gained a few more pounds from when they had last worked together. His pate was bald except for a few sprigs of gray-brown hair standing up like beleaguered dried grass on the California hills during the dog days of summer.

Kat lifted the yellow crime-scene tape, allowing Otto to enter.

He trained his eyes on Abby. With a deadpan expression and a slow drawl, he greeted her. “Hello, Abby. Seen ya around. You don’t drop by the station anymore. Don’t you miss us?”

Abby inhaled deeply before answering. “You know, Otto, I kind of do miss the work, but then again, there are some things I don’t miss.”

“Yeah? Like what?” Otto asked.

“Well . . . for starters, being micromanaged by Chief Bob Allen. In my new life, I’m the boss. I like it that way.”

Otto nodded. “Know whatcha mean. So how’s the hand?”

Abby winced. Otto never shrank away from asking the direct questions. He was good in the interrogation room. He was the one who made the bad guys squirm.