Kobe sipped his drink. “Which one?”
Confused, I shifted my attention from the candle to face him.
Kobe chuckled. “Sorry. I’m kidding. We’re busy with several cases. You mean Navid, the heartless bastard. Well, the guy has a long list of people who consider him an asshole, so I anticipate his death will go unsolved, unless we unexpectedly hit pay dirt. Our suspect pool at present is immense.”
“Oh. That bad?”
Kobe eyed me with a hint of mischief. “I’m not really supposed to talk about open cases, Doc. You know that.”
I stalled, unsure what to say and concerned about the direction of our night. “I thought… Wasn’t that why you wanted to meet?”
I knew it wasn’t. Discussing the case was how Kobe had justified the meet-up, but I had intended to use the excuse for my own gain. It provided a buffer for this obvious date.
Kobe slapped my arm, his dimples reemerging. “I’m kidding. I mean, I’m not. My sergeant would have my head if you were anyone else, but you’re on the inside. Honestly, there isn’t much to tell. We chatted with his colleagues at the hospital and university, and apart from a TA, who sings his praises, everyone seems to confirm that Navid was a douchebag. We were hoping to chat with the ex-wife today, but she’s a surgeon at Montfort and was booked solid. We’re meeting with her in the morning.”
“What do you hope to learn?”
Kobe shrugged. “Not sure, but the TA seemed convinced their separation was not amicable.”
“Divorces rarely are.”
“True.” Another shrug. “That’s it. That’s all we’ve got. Dead guy on a trail and a hundred and ten people who aren’t all that sad about it. I give it a week, maybe two, and we’ll be shifting it aside for something else.”
The conversation died, and I wasn’t sure how to resuscitate it. The mellow jazz filtered in from a hidden speaker system saved us from an awkward moment. We sipped our drinks, and when a server stopped by to ask if we needed anything, Kobe requested two more Morticians.
When she left, he drained his tumbler and shifted, draping an arm across the seatback and folding his knee into the space between us. “I read your report. I have a question.”
“Shoot. I might have an answer.”
The candlelight danced in his eyes, transfixing me in the moment.
“The flower spike in the heart, the white rose, the message, the perfume. It’s significant. All of it. Rue put me on an impossible mission of researching flower shops, but I spent time this afternoon researching the symbolism of a white rose instead. It’s frustratingly subjective. People give white roses at weddings, funerals, anniversaries, graduations, you name it. Itcan mark new beginnings, be used to remember the deceased, or offer comfort during difficult times. They can stand for purity, devotion, love, friendship, and a handful of other things.”
“That doesn’t sound helpful.”
“It’s not. I have a feeling I won’t know its true meaning in relation to the case until I uncover our suspect.IfI uncover our suspect. Even then, understanding why a killer does something isn’t always clear-cut. Often, their motivations are subjective, rooted in their personal psychology.”
“You took criminology, right?”
“I did.”
“It shows.”
Kobe swelled with pride. “It’s the spike that makes me curious.”
“What about it?”
“Past the ribs and through the heart. A heartless bastard.Thisis more important than the rose, in my opinion.”
“Oh?”
The server arrived with our drinks and made his presentation. The comforting cloud of memories stirred once again.
Kobe deeply inhaled. “I love that smell. Rideau River Provincial Park. I can feel the sticky August heat on my skin, along with pesky mosquitoes.”
“Calabogie Lake in the fall. Campfires and autumn leaves.”
“Never been there.”
