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“Until she broke up with him last semester,” said one of his friends.
His features reddened. “She didn’t break up with me.”
“As much as I’d like to hear about your romantic life, I don’t have time.” I showed the photo around. “When was the last time you saw this girl?”
“Last semester,” one shrugged.
“How about you?” I looked at T-Bone.
He gathered up his wounded manhood and squared his shoulders. “Before Christmas break. She hasn’t been back in school since.”
“Why not? Did you call her to check?”
“Nah.” He got his smirk back. “Easy come, easy go. Lots of fish in the sea. What’s the inside tattle, cop?”
“You tell me? I’m a curious guy. Like what’s with the T-Bone bit?”
He grabbed his crotch. “That’s what the girls call me.”
His friends laughed.
“Such BS,” one said. “He works part-time at the stockyards, in the slaughterhouse.”
The suspect list grew again. The kid had motive with the breakup, and means with his slaughterhouse skills.
“So, what’s your real name?”
He reluctantly gave it—Tom Albert—along with his address in Phoenix.
“You were in art class.”
“Yeah, so what?”
“I liked your painting of Carrie,” I said. The angry ruddy tone of his face drained away. “Now scram before I get more curious.”
They slowly sauntered away, as if the whole encounter had been their idea.
When they had gone, Pamela approached me without her friends.
“Nice touch, handling those pills, Mister Private Dick.”
I smiled. “You can call me Gene. What’s up, Pamela?”
She smiled. “You like my name. I can tell by the way you say it.”
“I do. It’s a rare and lovely name.” There was plenty more to appreciate as she sat on a concrete bench with “Philomathian” engraved into the back. In addition to her large green eyes and lush auburn-red hair, she was pleasingly small-breasted under a tight wool sweater. Below a plaid wool skirt and above two-tone high-heeled lace-up oxfords, her ankles and calves were beautifully sculpted. I joined her.
“The name means ‘all honey,’” she said, hiking her skirt above her knees to get sun despite the cold.
“Not just sugar and spice, huh?”
She batted her eyes in a practiced move. “It’s a more common name in England. I’m Pamela Sue, if you must know.”
“I like it even more, Pamela Sue. Now, are we here to flirt, or did you want to tell me something?”
She hesitated, looked around to make sure we were alone.
“Flirting is nice,” she said. “But it’s about Carrie. Have you got a cig?”
