I raised a brow. “And?”
“Fatemeh provided an alibi for this past Thursday when Ford Carrigan was killed. She was at dinner with a colleague. I confirmed she arrived at the restaurant at six forty-five, which istechnically close enough to our window that we can exclude her. She doesn’t have an alibi for Jesse’s murder. Claims she was at home sleeping. Alone.” Rue shrugged.
“Dominique could be off with the time frame.”
“Maybe.”
I wasn’t willing to dismiss her so easily. Something about Fatemeh bothered me.
“What do we do now?” I asked, checking the time on my phone. “Everyone we want to talk to has either gone home for Christmas or isn’t answering their phone. Reviewing surveillance is going to take hours, and it’s already close to five.”
“This is a terrible time of year to work a homicide. People are off routine and busier than usual. Look at this place.” Rue swept a hand, encompassing the bullpen. “It’s a ghost town, even here.”
“Are we convinced our killer is going to kill again, or is he or she finished?”
“No idea. Unless we can wrap this up quickly, only time will tell.”
I couldn’t help thinking about the girl who had gone to see Yates three years ago and how she’d implicated Jesse. It seemed like everyone and their dog could confirm the guy had a deplorable reputation. Was this girl seeking revenge three years later? Were Navid and Ford party to the assault? Was our killer finished? A fourteen-year-old girl would be a seventeen-year-old girl today. Trauma had a way of compounding itself, hibernating in the closet of your mind, growing toxic with each passing day, only to surface when you least expected it.
Could this be the work of a revenge-seeking teen?
“Kobe.” My partner’s voice shook me from my thoughts, and I blinked back to the present.
“Yeah?”
“Go home. Come in tomorrow and we’ll start from the beginning, chart everything, and see if we can’t find a new direction.”
She didn’t have to tell me twice.
21
Dominique
A rush of adrenalineaccompanied the knock at the front door at half past six. Although I’d invited Kobe to come over when he was done with work, I hadn’t expected him so early. Never mind that he had spent the previous night in my bed, I was apprehensive at the idea of seeing him again.
This was all so new and unexpected.
In her booster seat at the kitchen table, Cosette used a toddler spoon to meticulously scoop a shredded drumstick and mashed potatoes into her mouth. She liked utensils and spent a long time carefully moving each bite without the use of her hands. Regardless, she wore half her meal, but at least a spoon slowed her down. I rarely gave her a fork anymore since she liked to stab everything on her plate until the tines were overloaded and she almost choked on every mouthful.
The cut green beans from her plate had, not surprisingly, ended up on the floor beneath her chair. Cosette was sneaky like that. Every time I turned my back, another one vanished, never into her mouth. She tucked them inside her shirt, underher bum, but more often than not, she pushed them not-so-inconspicuously off the edge of the table.
Three months ago, she had decided that she no longer ate anything green. This decision included broccoli—a trusty old favorite—sweet peas, green beans, kiwi, certain apples, grapes, and even lime Jell-O.
She glanced up from her plate at the sound of the door, mashed potatoes covering her face and glued to her hair. “C’est qui qui est là, Papa?”
I wiped my hands on a towel, shaking my head at her appearance. “Papa’s friend Kobe. He’s coming to visit. How are you such a mess?”
“C’est bon.”
“I’m glad you like it, but stop throwing your vegetables on the floor.”
She wrinkled her nose and peered over the table at her fallen enemies.
I left her eating while I answered the door. I took an extra minute in the front hallway to compose myself and settle my nerves. My heart raced with anticipation. We’d crossed a line. I’d taken Kobe to bed. I wasn’t sure what unsettled me more. The fact that I wanted to do it again, or the absence of regret and guilt.
I blew out a calming breath and turned the dead bolt.
When I opened the door, Kobe looked especially rumpled. His tie was askew, and his shirt was wrinkled. Formal attire didn’t suit him. The unshaven jaw was more his style. A department beanie covered his mop of sandy-brown hair, but the long ends curled where they escaped from the bottom of the hat, giving him the look of a teenage snowboarder, or something to that effect. The contrast of personality versus profession never failed to baffle me.
