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Luke mouthed a most uncomplimentary term but immediately left his office to greet them. “How nice to see you again. Have you arrested a suspect?”
“Not yet,” Garcia replied. “But we wanted you to know how popular red satin dresses and blond wigs have become among a certain element of our population.”
“You’re kidding,” Luke scoffed.
“I assure you we’re not,” Detective Salzman replied. “We heard you provide kids with clothes here. I don’t suppose you’ve noticed a run on red cocktail dresses?”
“We don’t accept donations of party clothes, so if red dresses are now a trend, they aren’t from here. Try the Goodwill, Out of the Closet, or Salvation Army thrift shops.”
“We intend to, but we thought you might have heard something,” Garcia pressed. His paisley tie in wines and blues was remarkably subdued compared to the golden brilliance of the one he’d worn on his previous visit.
“I haven’t heard a peep,” Luke assured them. “How about you?”
“No,” Salzman claimed with an exasperated sigh. “But we will. Even if it’s the Lady in Red’s dry cleaner, someone will talk soon.”
“I’m surprised you’re so optimistic,” Dave commented from his seat behind the computer. “From what I read in the Times, more than fifty percent of the homicides in Los Angeles remain unsolved. So it stands to reason that a lot of people aren’t talking.”
Neither detective had taken much notice of Dave, but obviously peeved at the lack of efficiency his comment implied, they turned toward him with the precision of synchronized swimmers.
“That’s due in part to gang killings where the murderer didn’t know the victim,” Garcia emphasized. “Clearly, the Lady in Red targeted her victims.”
“Excellent point,” Dave conceded. “I wish you good luck.”
“We make our own luck,” Salzman insisted, her mouth drawn as tight as a drawstring bag. “Let’s keep in touch.” She led the way out the door, and with a disgusted grimace, Garcia followed.
“Charming pair,” Dave noted. “Maybe I ought to consider a career in law enforcement. Do you suppose I’m too old to enter the police academy?”
“Call them and ask,” Luke replied. “Now, this is Monday, and I don’t want to miss out on Mabel’s spaghetti. Let’s go have lunch.”
Dave walked over to the hall with them robbing Catherine of the opportunity to speak with Luke privately, but she hoped he could suggest a diplomatic way to discourage Toby and Dave without alienating either one. As if that were her only worry, she mumbled under her breath, but the thought of facing a plate of spaghetti wasn’t welcome, either.
To elude Dave, she slid into the last place at a table and sat directly across from Polly. “Did you find an extra pair of shoes? You won’t want to get paint on your purple hightops.”
“Yeah, I thought of that and found some jogging shoes that look brand new. I guess somebody must have given up on jogging awfully quick. I picked up a baseball cap too. I sure don’t want to get paint on any of my good hats.”
“No, of course not.” Catherine twirled her spaghetti on her fork but guided none to her mouth.
“I’m glad you’re working on the mural,” Polly offered softly. “All the volunteers here are nice, but you’re my favorite.”
“Thank you, Polly.” She was pleased, but attempting to follow Luke’s advice, she was determined to be a friend to all the teens and not make favorites of any.
Luke was seated at a table near the door to the courtyard, and when he finished his lunch and left the hall, Catherine followed. She caught up to him just as he reached the steps leading up to the office.
“I need your help with something,” she began.
“Sure, if you have a problem, I want to know.” He held the door open for her.
Pam wasn’t back yet, and the outer office was cool and quiet. Luke escorted her into his private office, but she left the door standing open. She had to force herself to sit down, but even then she perched stiffly on the edge of the chair. She hadn’t been this nervous on her first visit to Lost Angel, and she slid her hands between her knees to suppress her jitters.
“You can pretend we’re not well acquainted, but you don’t have Toby and Dave constantly hitting on you. I’m hoping they’ll b
ack off once we’re working on the mural and surrounded by kids, but if they don’t, I’ll be forced to tell them I’m dating an insanely jealous trucker from San Bernardino. Unless, of course, you can come up with a better story.”
Luke leaned back in his chair. He was so pleased she had no interest in Toby, it was difficult for him not to gloat. “I’ll speak with Toby when I take him the contract. Let’s hope that cools him off. San Bernardino is a nice touch, but before you go making up any stories, let’s think them through. After all, a trucker would be likely to drive by to check out the mural, wouldn’t he?”
The office’s warm terra cotta walls and deep russet carpeting formed a soothing cocoon, but Catherine continued to fidget. “I suppose, but just what is it you plan to tell Toby?”
Luke knew precisely what he’d like to say to the tattooed freak, but for her benefit, he modified it considerably. “I’ll just point out you’re a lady and unaccustomed to having to fend off guys on the make. I’ll say you’re too polite to complain to him, but that you’re deeply insulted by his more or less constant stream of sleazy sexual innuendoes. That ought to work.”
