She smiled. “Dope.”
I sent a note to Camila’s grandmother Rosa from Cassie’s phone, telling her I’d get Camila from school. Then I handed the phone back and grabbed my laptop. But before I could open it to begin work, Cassie started talking at the ninety-mile-an-hour pace that I had become accustomed to in the two years we had been partners.
“I was starting to worry that Frank had low-key blown it,” she said. “I mean, years ago, not looking into this case. But Frank knew, you know?”
I squinted at Cassie, not sure what she meant.
“I mean, he didn’t like Offerman. Who would? But Frank knew Offerman was never gonna pass the case on.”
“You mean through official channels?”
“Exactly,” Cassie said. “Offerman chatting Frank up in the elevator, but never formally requesting that we take it? Never passing the file to PAR in any real capacity? He wanted to control it. Still does today.”
Cassie was correct. Offerman flying in from Mexico proved it.
“He asked me out once,” she said, rolling her eyes, her face nonplussed.
“Offerman?”
“Well, not Frank,” Cassie said, snorting. “The whole thing was kinda cheugy, actually.”
This was an expression for when someone “super boomer”—as Cassie would put it—did something untoward.
“I was in the lunchroom on the second floor,” she continued. “In the old office. Offerman came in with a salad in a to-go container.Likethat guyeats salads. He plopped down across from me. Started making small talk.”
“Did you go out?” I asked.
“Pfft.” She made a noise. “Do I look delulu?”
I paused. Considered what little I understood of office politics. “You don’t date guys in the office…?”
“I don’t datejerksin the office. Let me think what I told Ed.…” She paused, cocking her head to the side as if recalling the moment. “Oh yeah. ‘If you want to date me—first, go invent a time machine. Then go back to when you’re thirty. But wait—I’ll be fourteen, and yes, that’s giving creep vibes, just like it is now.’”
“Wow,” I said.
I recalled that retirement party for the outgoing FBI director fifteen months earlier. How that night Cassie had asked me ifwewere on a date. We were only four years apart in age.
“Cupcake,” she said, making a noise with her nose. “And on a case like this—with dead women?” She shook her head. “Some generations.…”
Cassie got up and grabbed her carry-on, took a few things from it while balancing the bag on the edge of the overhead bin. Then she headed to the bathroom. When she returned, she had changed into a skirt, black tights, and a V-neck with an illustration I knew to be Luffy, a popular manga character from a series that Camila read.
I stared at her.
“You changed.”
“This is my science fair outfit, Gardner.” She smiled, striking a pose. “Part stylish. Part nerd. I can wear glasses if you think it’ll help.”
I studied her. Cassie always looked good. I thought of what she or Camila would say.
“Perf,” I said, my voice flat.
Cassie grinned. “Good answer. You’re learning.”
An hour later, we touched down at Miami International and got in an Uber. Took it to the corner of Thirtieth Avenue and Seventh Street, where my daughter attended elementary school.
On a white-and-blue marquee was the school’s name and below it the words “It’s science time, Kensingtonians.”
Cassie and I hustled through the parking lot, but when we arrived at the auditorium, I couldn’t locate Camila or her project.
