“Drugs,” Marino muttered.
“…and is believed to be drug related…”
“See?” Marino said to Jimmy. “You know what that kind of homicide’s called?”
The boy was stretched out on the brown vinyl couch, a blanket pulled up to his chin. Marino had given him a Richmond police academy T-shirt to sleep in, and the sleeves came down to Jimmy’s hands, the hem over his feet.
“No, sir,” Jimmy sleepily said.
“It’s called urban renewal.”
“What does that mean?” Jimmy yawned.
“You’ll figure it out when you get older. Sometimes we call them misdemeanor murders, too.”
Jimmy was clueless.
“Oh,” he said.
Marino took one last swallow of beer. That was his quota for the night. His guest had devoured two helpings of chili topped by melted mozzarella that had been stringy on Jimmy’s spoon and had gotten on his face and sleeves, and everywhere, really. Marino had put out a plate of saltine crackers and had shown Jimmy how to crumble them into his bowl. For dessert, Marino had spread Chunky Monkey ice cream between two large sugar cookies, making a sandwich that Jimmy had dripped on his jeans.
“What are we having for breakfast?” Jimmy asked.
“Snow with maple syrup on it,” Marino replied, switching to NBC.
“No way.
“It’s okay as long as you stay away from yellow snow.” Jimmy Simpson guffawed.
Chapter 7
Dessert was on Lucy’s mind, and the longer she and her friends sat before the fire telling war stories about law enforcement and the cruelty of former lovers, the more it seemed a good idea for them to have one last forage before bed.
“Milk and cookies before bed,” Lucy announced, getting up from the floor, where she had been lazily leaning against her aunt’s handsome blue-and-maroon striped couch.
“Forget the milk part.”
“Really.”
“We’ll figure out something,” Lucy assured them. “You guys don’t do anything fun without me. I’ll be in the kitchen. And talk loud so I can hear everything you’re saying.”
LUCY’S FELONIOUS COOKIES
She set a deep Pyrex dish on the counter and hunted down brown and white sugar, all-purpose flour, vanilla extract, eggs, salt, and baking soda. When she was ten, her aunt had taught her to make these special, lawless cookies. By now, it was instinctive. Lucy never measured or timed anything. She had learned long ago to speed up the process and dirty as few dishes as possible. An important start was to melt a cup of Breakstone butter in the Pyrex dish, making sure the butter was warm but not hot.
Next, she stirred in dark brown and white sugar, forming a thick paste. Eggs followed, and her experience guided her to use two before mixing in enough flour to reach a moist, crumbly consistency that was neither too wet nor dry. Baking soda must not be overlooked, and she sprinkled in maybe a teaspoon of it before adding salt and vanilla to taste. By now, the dough was cool, and, with clean hands, Lucy kneaded in chopped pecans and semisweet chocolate and butterscotch chips. Although her aunt did not agree with her, Lucy believed in erring on the side of too much.
She turned on the oven to 350 degrees and lightly coated cookie sheets with a cholesterol-free vegetable oil that made Lucy smile. Her aunt was fastidious about good health.
“That’s because you’ve seen so many dead people,” Lucy frequently chided her, when Scarpetta would not buy her soft drinks or bubble gum or take her to fastfood restaurants except in an emergency.
During Lucy’s many visits while she was growing up, there had always been fresh fruit juice in the refrigerator, and apples, bananas, tangerines, and white grapes. Popcorn at the movies was not a problem, but Scarpetta would not buy Lucy sweets, especially hard candies such as lemon drops or Fire Balls that potentially could choke. Suckers were out of the question, especially the sort from the bank or the doctor’s office that were impaled on a hard stick.
“Imagine if you had that in your mouth and fell or ran into something,” Scarpetta used to say.
“Why can’t I just bite it off the stick?”
“Bad for your teeth. Actually, there’s nothing about a lollypop that’s of any benefit to you, Lucy. They don’t even taste very good, if you think about it.”