Riley Thorn and the Corpse in the Closet by Lucy Score

26

9:24 a.m., Monday, August 17

“Cold brew with cream?”

Riley accepted the to-go cup from the skinny, gawky Hudson. He was somewhere between hipster and nerd with oversized glasses, tight pants, and visible socks.

“Thanks,” she said.

“No problem. All part of the job,” he said chipperly before be-bopping out the door of the conference room.

Ahhhh, to be young and naive again, she thought.

“This is Chance Banks, one of Channel 50’s attorneys,” Chris said, introducing a middle-aged white guy with silver wings at his temples and a two-thousand dollar suit. “He’ll be sitting in on the interviews.”

Chance Banks smelled like money and too much expensive cologne. But Riley didn’t mind since it helped cover the musty mystery odor emanating from the carpet.

Her nose twitched, and she saw herself during psychic boot camp, Burt bounding through the tall grass, the sweet stench of rotting roadkill and garbage wafting through the air.

And then she was back in the conference room with frayed carpet and duct-taped chairs.

“First up is Valerie Edmonds, morning show anchor,” Chris said.

Valerie swept into the room in gym clothes. Her face now makeup-free, her dark hair pulled back in a low ponytail.

Valerie didn’t know either victim and never read online comments, which Riley felt was a healthy rule to have.

“Look, I’m a Black woman on the morning news who takes herself seriously and doesn’t dress like a sex doll. Of course I get threats,” she said.

“Most of them are misspelled and max out at around fifth grade grammar,” Chris added. “Any threats our team deems as serious, we pass on to the local authorities.”

“How many threats do you pass on?” Riley asked.

Chris squinted at the ceiling. “Not a ton. Maybe only eight or nine a week.”

“Has anything ever come out of the investigations into the threats?” Kellen asked.

“You tell me. From where I sit, it looks like the only thing that gets any action are statements that get passed on to the Secret Service. If you’re a regular person talking shit about another regular person, you can say just about anything you want online without repercussions until someone gets a lawyer involved.”

“It’s not hard to figure out who these people are and where they live,” Chance pointed out. “But most of the individuals misbehaving online don’t have anything worth suing over. It usually comes down to whether or not it’s worth pursuing legal action.”

Well, that was depressing.

Kellen ran through a few more standard questions before excusing Valerie.

“Next up is Armand Papadakis,” Chris said, consulting his clipboard.

Riley remembered Armand from her days at Channel 50. He was the mail room supervisor who always had a smile on his face and a pack of Twizzlers in his shirt pocket.

But the man who stomped into the room with a plunger in one hand was not smiling.

“This better be a surprise birthday party with cake,” he said.

“We don’t do staff birthday parties anymore because of budget cuts,” Chris reminded him. “Happy birthday.”

Armand slapped the plunger down on the table, making a gross slurping noise. “Then what the hell is more important than a blocked-up toilet?”

“Aren’t you the mail room supervisor?” Riley asked.

“Yes. And then I also became the head custodian and the person in charge of ordering garbage for the vending machines in the breakroom.” He sat down next to the plunger.

“There have been some budget cuts around here,” Chris explained. “We’ve all had to make adjustments.”

“That is a dirty lie. Weasel Face and that high-pressure system he’s marrying got big fat raises. The rest of us got screwed.”

Chris pulled a bottle of Pepto Bismol out of his cargo pants and guzzled it.

“Now I mop up dog piss after the adoption segments and watch people turn into Russian spy robots online,” Armand continued.

“He means bots,” Chris cut in.

Armand was on a roll now. “You know the guy at the front desk? He answers the phones, writes copy for the six o’clock news, and styles hair for Wake Up Harrisburg. He bartends on the weekends just to afford his rent.”

“What happened around here?” Riley asked.

“Griffin Gentry had his daddy negotiate a sweet contract extension that cost us ten full-time jobs and our entire maintenance budget,” Chris explained.

“Things are falling apart so quickly in this building that one of these days the entire place is going to collapse in on itself. And when it does, I’m going to set whatever’s left on fire,” Armand announced.

“I’d advise you both not to discuss the station’s financial situation or any future arson plans with law enforcement,” the attorney said without looking up from his game of Candy Crush.

Armand suddenly looked guilty. “If this is about who took a poop in Mr. Gentry’s convertible, I want a lawyer,” he announced.

“It’s about murder, not poop. And there is a lawyer,” Chris pointed out.

“Mr. Papadakis,” Kellen began, trying to wrestle back control of the conversation. “Are you aware of any strange packages being delivered to the studio?”

“I took a pay cut to scrub urinals, sort mail, and monitor the Book Face and small blue bird accounts. Now you want me to guess what’s inside every package that gets delivered?” Armand was rightfully outraged.

“He means Twitter,” Chris added helpfully.

“Mr. Papadakis, if anyone at the station receives a prank package, we need to know about it,” Kellen said, sliding a business card across the table.

Armand glared at the card. “I’ll add it to my list of responsibilities. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have urinal cakes to replace.”

“Who’s next?” Kellen asked.

“Hi!” a breathy voice chirped.

“Kill me now,” Riley muttered under her breath as Bella minced into the room on five-inch stilettos that probably cost more than two months’ worth of Armand’s salary.

“Bella, have a seat. These nice people have a few questions for you,” Chris said as though he were addressing a preschooler.

Instead of sitting, Bella pranced around the table and hugged Kellen. “I remember you from the seance last night. You looked so broody!” She booped him on the nose, and Riley choked on her cold brew.

She turned to Riley and held out her arms. “Hi! I’m Bella.”

“Seriously?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Chris muttered, covering his eyes.

“Ms. Goodshine, I believe you’ve already met Riley Thorn,” Kellen said.

“A few times,” Riley muttered.

“Ms. Thorn, why don’t you go follow up on that thing,” Kellen said, nodding pointedly toward the door. “Away from here.”

Message received.“Yeah. Sure. I can do that.” She avoided Bella’s huggy arms and hurried from the room.

She made it all the way to the ladies’ restroom before she let out the screech of frustration that had been building in her throat. She landed a kick to the trash can under the sink. It was already dented, and it made her wonder how many employees came in here just to kick out their own frustrations.

Her phone rang. It was Jasmine.

“Tell me we’re day drinking today,” her best friend demanded with no preamble.

“I thought I was supposed to be the psychic, but you just read my mind,” Riley said.

“Look at you making psychic jokes.”

Riley eyed the abused trash can. “Yeah. Good for me. Why do you need pre-noon alcohol?”

“I just eviscerated a disgusting excuse for a grandson in court.”

Based on the way she shouted part of the sentence, Riley guessed her friend was leaving the courthouse at the same time as the opposing party.

“Nice. Maybe consider not smashing up his car, okay?” When Griffin had won his civil suit against Riley for breaking his nose with their wedding photo upon walking in on him and a naked Bella Goodshine, Jasmine had left the courthouse and driven right into Griffin’s car, which was parked in a handicap space.

“That’s why we’re day drinking. So you can prevent me from smashing up his stupid face! When can you get to my place? I’ll start the margaritas.”

“I’m at Channel 50 right now.”

There was a beat of ominous silence. “Why in the name of tequila are you there? Wait! Is Griffin dead?”

“No. At least, not yet. I’m here on official police business.”

“Well, wrap it up and get your ass over here. We’re having a Rasmine Day Drinking Extravaganza so we can forget about people being selfish, tiny-dicked assholes!”

Riley disconnected and decided she felt good enough to rejoin the interviews. At least until she made it into the hallway.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t my ex-wife.”

Riley turned slowly and found Griffin giving her a lecherous once-over.

“What do you want, Griffin?” she asked warily.

Did her boobs get bigger?

Gross. Her ex-husband was openly admiring her breasts. She suddenly wanted to get Armand a birthday cake for pooping in his car.

“Stop staring at my boobs.”

He held up his hands. “I’m a soon-to-be-married man.”

“You were a married man when you did a lot more than stare at Bella’s ta-tas.”

“Riley, I explained it all. I’m a man. Men are visual creatures. We see an attractive female, and there’s no point in fighting centuries of DNA. You just need to accept it.”

“Not all men are like that, you unevolved amoeba.”

He scoffed. “Of course we are. Anyone who says different just hasn’t been caught yet.”

“You’re an ass.”

“Speaking of asses, yours looks great in those pants. Have you been doing squats?”

“My boobs and my ass and everything in between are no longer a concern of yours. Unless you want my boyfriend to punch you in the face on camera again.”

Griffin pouted. “I’m giving you a compliment. Why can’t women accept a heart-felt compliment anymore? In this day and age, I’d like to see someone more oppressed than a—”

“Finish that sentence, and I’ll make sure you regret it.”

“Look. There’s no reason we have to be at war. You’re happy. I’m happy. We don’t have to be enemies.”

“You want to be friends?” Riley nearly choked on the word.

He threw back his head and laughed. “Ah, silly girl. No. Unless you’re talking about friends with benefits.”

She crossed her arms to keep herself from slapping him across his stupid face. “Friends with benefits?” she repeated.

“Just because our marriage didn’t work out doesn’t mean we can’t have an arrangement.” He danced his dainty fingers up her arm to her shoulder.

The thoughts of simpletons always came through loud and clear.

Griffin was imagining her naked.

Riley took his hand in hers and flashed a fake smile. He took it as a good sign and stepped closer, wetting his lips.

“Griffin?” Riley said sweetly.

“Yes?”

“If you ever touch me again, I’ll rip your fingers off and stuff them so far up your nose, you’ll need a surgeon to remove them.”

He recoiled. “There’s no need for threats. Not when I was making a generous offer.”

“My ex-husband who cheated on me with a mutual coworker, then got me fired and sued me for justifiably breaking his nose, offered to have an affair with me,” Riley said loudly enough that several heads in the cubicle farm turned in their direction. “That’s not a generous offer.”

Griffin was so used to attention and getting away with things that he didn’t bother trying to shush her.

“Oh, come on, Riley. We were good together. Don’t you remember? I remember. I miss it. I miss us. Well, not being married to you. That was terrible. You really had some unreasonable expectations.” He laughed. “But I miss that thing you used to do with your tongue—”

She didn’t slap him. But she did grab him by the neck tie and dragged him closer.

“I find your aggression attractive,” he croaked. “Pull harder.”

“Listen closely, you no-talent, couldn’t-deliver-an-orgasm-if-your-life-depended-on-it turdwaffle. If you ever talk to me that way again, I will scamper on over to your bubbly bride-to-be and tell her everything. Then I’ll help her hire a lawyer to ruin your life.”

“Hi, sweetie!”

“Bella, baby!” Griffin rasped, extricating himself from Riley’s grip. His face was bright red. “How long have you been standing there?”

Bella’s foot-long lashes batted hard enough to stir up a breeze in the hallway. “I have no idea,” she giggled. “How long have you been standing here?”

Riley suddenly needed to be literally anywhere else in the world. She physically could not survive sharing the same space with these two.

“Mr. Gentry,” Kellen said, appearing in the door. “We’d like a few minutes of your time.” He glanced in Riley’s direction, then shook his head. Go away, Thorn. I don’t have time for another murder.

“I’ll wait in the lobby,” she said and stormed off.

She entered the lobby under a full head of steam and stopped in her tracks.

“Mrs. Penny?”

The newspaper flapped back up to cover her neighbor’s face.

“I can see you behind the sports section,” she said dryly.

Reluctantly, Mrs. Penny dropped the paper. “How’d you know it was me?”

“Because I saw your purple hair. And your face. What are you doing here?”

“Who? Me?” The woman pointed at herself.

“Yes, you. And why are you dressed in a suit?”

Mrs. Penny was wearing a pinstripe pantsuit with thick shoulder pads and brass buttons on the double-breasted jacket. Her orthopedic shoes were patent leather.

“Maybe I’m applying for a job,” the woman sniffed.

Riley’s nose twitched. “Or maybe you’re following me.”

“No fair using your Jedi mind tricks on me!”

“Do you two mind taking this outside?” the guy at the front desk hissed, covering the mouthpiece of the desk phone. Riley could hear someone on the other end yelling.

“Sure. Sorry. Let’s go, Stabby McGee.”

Mrs. Penny hefted herself out of the chair and hobbled out the door behind Riley.

“How long have you been following me, and why?”

Mrs. Penny nudged the soggy remains of a sandwich with her cane and pouted. “I want credit for all the times I’ve followed you and didn’t get busted. It’s not fair surveilling a psychic.”

It hit Riley then. “Nick hired you to follow me.”

“Don’t get your granny panties in a twist. The guy’s just being a little overprotective since the whole shooting thing.” Her neighbor hooked the bread crust with her cane and tossed it into the street. A pair of fat pigeons descended on the sandwich.

“You’ve been following me since Mayor Flemming?” Riley shrieked.

The startled pigeons flew away in a cloud of feathers and poop.

“Maybe,” the old woman said stubbornly. “It’s not the only thing I’ve been doing. Nick’s no dummy. No one looks at the old lady feeding the birds. He used me on a couple of surveillance gigs. I only follow you around when Santiago’s not with you.”

A few brave pigeons returned to the sandwich.

Riley rubbed her temples. “Is this how he knew I was in the middle of a mob scene at the coffee shop?”

“Well, that and he’s been tracking your phone.”

“He’s been what?” This time the pigeons didn’t bother flying away.

“What? Lots of people do it. My grandson’s parents track his to make sure he’s not skipping school and smoking doobies behind the Hot Topic anymore.”

“Yeah, because he’s a minor and they’re his parents,” Riley shouted. “I’m a grown woman, and my boyfriend is stalking me.”

“He prefers to think of it as protecting you. Stalking carries some hefty fines and possible jail time,” Mrs. Penny explained.

“So you do what? Follow me around and report back to him?”

She shrugged, watching a pigeon fight break out over a piece of old cheese. “Pretty much. Gotta say, for a young gal who looks the way you do and has the whole psychic thing going for her, your life is pretty boring.”

Riley was offended. “Excuse me! I got shot and caught several bad guys this summer. That’s not boring.”

Mrs. Penny held up her hands. “I’m only saying. You land yourself a guy like Nicky Santiago, and you eat early bird dinner with a bunch of senior citizens every night. You two are acting like the old people in the house.”

Riley grabbed her neighbor by the synthetic lapels. “Is he bored? Has he said he’s bored? Does he want more excitement?”

Mrs. Penny pushed her hands away. “Relax, cray-cray. I’m saying you both act like old fogies. Hell, if I were five years younger, had the joint mobility of my thirties, and a guy like Santiago? I’d be installing a sex swing in the living room. If you catch my drift.”

Mrs. Penny’s drift was not subtle.

“Ew.”

“Youth is wasted on the stupid. So, where we going next?”

“We are going nowhere. You are going home.”

Mrs. Penny looked at her watch. “No can do. The boss man paid me for four hours today. And now that you know about me, I can ride with you.”

“I am not happy about this.”

“I’ll be sure to note that in my report.”

“Wait here,” Riley told Mrs. Penny when they returned to the uneven air conditioning of the lobby.

She headed back into the bowels of the building and stepped into the first empty office she found. She dialed the front desk.

“Excuse me,” Riley said. “The older woman in the lobby seems a little…off. I’m worried that she might be diabetic or maybe confused. She said she’s interviewing for a job, but she’s in her eighties and keeps muttering to herself.”

“Thanks for the information. She probably just wandered away from Golden Years Daycare down the block,” the receptionist said. “I’ll call the authorities.”

“Great! Thanks,” Riley said and hung up.

“What was that about?” Kellen asked when she stepped back into the hallway.

“Oh, just taking care of some old business,” Riley said.