Page 96 of Random in Death
“Okay, that’s a deal.” She held out a hand to shake on it. “Give me a little spread on the exact level of graciously.”
He took her hand, kissed it. “I’ll grade on the curve.”
“Did we just avoid a big, ugly fight?”
“I’d say we cut short a spat.”
“Spat’s a stupid word for actual adult people. We had a pissing match. Done now. Let’s eat.”
“Intrigued,” Roarke repeated as they walked out. “Constantly.”
She needed to do her updates, and had, by her mental schedule, fallen behind.
But he’d been right. The hour down had done its job.
The abbreviated pissing match hadn’t hurt, she realized. That cleared the air like the nap had cleared her head.
Now she’d let the spaghetti and meatballs, a little wine, do the rest before she tackled it all again.
Besides, she shared that food and wine with the most excellent sounding board she knew. Something else to be grateful for.
While they ate, she started off with the morgue, shifted to the lab, wound back to the follow-up with Jake that she hadn’t relayed to him.
“I know a lot of talented people don’t hit, but I think she would have. She had the talent, the focus, and a hell of a lot of determination. He took that from her, erased her, her potential.”
“Do you think that’s part of it?” Roarke asked. “Erasing her potential?”
“Not specifically. He didn’t know her. It wasn’t, for him, who she was, but what. Attractive teenage girl. Her parents gave me the green to give Jake a copy of the demo. I figured it’s going to make him feel worse, because he’ll hear that potential.”
She shrugged. “Anyway.”
“A very busy morning for you.”
“Oh, and not over. Consult with Mira, slice of babka.”
“That must have been brilliant babka.”
“Gotta say yeah. EDD hit—can’t really see him, but we ID’d the group he merged with, which took us to the deli and the babka. One of the wits got a glance at him. Caucasian male, teenage male. But that’s it unless something else shakes loose from the memory of that quick glance.”
“It’s more than you had.”
“A lot more.” She wound some pasta, had a moment to wonder what exactly went into noodles to make them close to the perfect food.
“Back to Mira,” she said, and ate. “I can sum up her profile and my own conclusions. We’re looking for a horny teenage boy who can’t get laid, so hates what he lusts for. Which is not only sex but attention, validation of his superiority. He has knowledge, skills, and certainly interest in chemistry and drugs, must have access to equipment. He’s a loner, the kind of kid nobody notices—except academically.”
She stabbed a meatball. “He’s going to shine there. Whoever’s in charge of him dresses him like a doofus.”
“Is that a brand name?”
She laughed, enjoyed the bite of meatball. “Clerk at L&W didn’t remember him enough to give us a description, but she remembered his clothes because you don’t see kids come in there wearing dress shirts and dress pants and tasseled loafers. Alan Stubens—she noticed the shoes when he took them off to try the Kick Its.”
“Small wonder.” Roarke handed her a slice of bread from the basket. “That’s as big a step down as I can imagine.”
“From the scuff marks we got the approximate size and the brand he wore at the club. From the clerk we’ve got his size—six and a half—and the brand he wore into the store. So far, we haven’t hit on where he got the pricey ones.”
“He could’ve sold the Stubens and bought at least three decent kicks or sneaks, add in the baggies, and he’d still have cab fare.”
“So he didn’t want to risk whoever’s in charge asking him ‘Where’s your loafers?’ Mostly? I think he didn’t know any better. He’s not in the club, the normie club, much less the chill club. He doesn’t know L&W is Losers and Wheezes.”