And her boss—Ricky, I was assuming. Why would she go out of her way to tell him? Maybe they had been an item. Or maybe she knew he could help… what… hide the weapon? From what Calvin had told me last night, the mess-up with DNA evidence had hurt his case. Had he never gotten legal warrants to search Ricky’s club?
That would explain why the case went cold.
I took a big gulp of the remaining coffee. “But I’m not a cop.”
And I don’t need a warrant.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“YOU WANTme to what?” Max asked, his voice on loudspeaker and the phone on the bed as I moved around the apartment, getting dressed.
“Look someone up on Facebook.”
“Who am I Face-stalking and why?”
“His name is Roger Trim,” I called before pulling on yesterday’s T-shirt. “And you’re not stalking.”
“Sorta, yeah, I am. Tell me why.”
“Because I don’t know how.”
“You’re the best-looking ninety-year-old man I know,” Max replied. “I mean, why are you curious?”
“I’m a cat—I can’t resist.”
“You’re full of it this morning.”
I sat on the bed to put my shoes on. Roger Trim was the name of the boyfriend. Specifically, Wendy Brown’s—the deceased daughter of the more recently deceased Meredith Brown, so said the articles I’d checked that morning. “I want to know where he works. People put that on Facebook, don’t they?”
“Sometimes. But he might not even have a public account.”
“Are you checking?”
“You’re so pushy. Hold on,” Max grumbled. “Who is this guy? You swinging now?”
“What?No,” I said forcefully while looking down at the phone. “I am not. Thank you.”
“Good. You’re way too monogamous to enjoy playing around,” Max replied, and I could hear the clicking of computer keys just under his voice.
“Don’t say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“I’m not. I mean, you know, you’re so domestic and cute and shit with Calvin.”
“Domestic and cute and shit?” I repeated slowly.
“Yeah. When’s the wedding?”
“Hilarious.”
“I’m assuming I’m hunting for Roger Trims in New York City?”
“Yup.”
“Whoa. Uh, how old is this dude?”
“I don’t know—maybe around twenty by now?”
“Oh, okay.”
