Blue Investigations was his evening moonlight: after-hours surveillance jobs, mostly nailing insurance scammers. Mostly he hated it. Lately he’d been turning down referrals.
“If it’s reimbursement you’re after, maybe you should bill it as gynecology,” I said.
He cracked up. “Uh-huh,” he said, into the phone. “Yeah, yeah—where? Okay, got it. Thanks.”
Backing out onto Civic Center, he drove west. “Cindy Vespucci—the girl Kenny Storm threw out of the car—just returned my message. She’ll be lunching at the Ready Burger in Westwood in a quarter hour. Willing to talk if we show up before her next class.”
The restaurant was on Broxton, on the west edge of the Village, where the streets knot up and walking can be faster than driving. Plastic yellow sign, sweating glass window, two rickety tables on the sidewalk, one occupied by two girls drinking Cokes with straws. Neither acknowledged us and we went inside. Three more tables, yellow tile walls also sweating. Lettuce shreds and straw wrappers flecked the red-brick floor; the smell of frying meat was everywhere. A quartet of Asian countermen with Ferrari hands chopped, flipped, wrapped, and played cash-register arpeggios. A numb-looking queue, mostly students, curved from the door to the counter.
Milo studied the interior tables. The lunchers who noticed him didn’t do so for long. Same for the kids in line.
We went back outside and he checked his watch. One of the girls put her drink down and said, “Officer Sturgis?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m Cindy.”
She was a college freshman but looked like a high-school sophomore. Barely five feet tall, maybe ninety-five pounds, borderline beautiful in an elfin way, with long, straight blond hair, the expected wide sky-blue eyes, an upturned nose, and a cupid’s bow mouth. I felt immediately protective and wondered if I’d ever have a daughter.
She wore a gray University sweatshirt over tight black leggings and white running shoes. Book bag by her chair. The nails at the end of her fingers were gnawed. The girl with her was also pretty and blond, a bit chubby. The table was littered with greasy paper and miniature foil packets of ketchup and mustard.
Milo held out his hand. Cindy swallowed and proffered hers. As she looked up at him her mouth lost resolve. He hunched a bit and made his voice gentle. “Good to meet you, Cindy. We really appreciate your talking to us.”
“Oh, sure.” She looked back at her friend and nodded. The chubby girl stared at us then got up, slinging her bag over her shoulder.
“Cin?”
“I’m okay, Deb. See you at two.”
Deb nodded and walked up the street, peering over her shoulder a couple of times before crossing and entering a record store.
Cindy said, “Do you—should we just talk here?”
“Whatever you like.”
“Um—I’m sure someone will want to use the table. Can we walk?”
“Sure.”
She retrieved her book bag, tossed back her hair, and gave a smile so effortful it must have burned calories.
Milo smiled back. Cindy turned away from him and saw me.
“This is Alex Delaware.”
“Hi.” She flinched and shot out her hand. I took it and received a sudden, hard squeeze from cold, child-sized fingers.
The three of us headed west to the end of the block. Across the street was a vast stretch of asphalt—one of the University’s off-campus parking lots serviced by shuttles. An idle blue bus was stationed near the entrance. Thousands of spaces, every one filled.
Milo said, “How about we walk through here? Should be pretty private.”
Cindy thought, gave three rapid nods. Her mouth had set grimly and her hands were closed tight.
As we entered the lot, she said, “When I was a little kid a policeman came to our school and warned us about darting out in front of parked cars.”
“Good advice,” said Milo. “We’ll be sure to look both ways.”
The girl’s laugh was constricted.
We strolled a bit before Milo said, “I’m sure you know why we want to talk to you, Cindy.”
“Of course. Professor Devane. She was—I’m really sorry what happened to her but it had nothing to do with Kenny and me.”
“I’m sure it didn’t, but we have to check out everything.”