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“Jamie? Our Jamie?”
“Lingstrom. He was a friend.”
“It’s a damn small world when it sucks.”
Couldn’t argue.
She knew Jamie was home for the summer, and staying with his mother. She kept tabs—loosely. He was the grandson of a dead cop—a damn good cop, and a boy who’d lost his sister to murder when he’d been sixteen.
He was no stranger to death.
And at sixteen, he’d intrigued her husband by using a homemade jam mer to bypass Roarke’s home security enough to gain access to the estate.
She knew Jamie had a job in one of Roarke’s R&D departments for the summer—just as she knew Roarke harbored a bit of frustration that the boy’s goals were toward the Electronic Detective Division and cops rather than the private sector.
“Since they were friends, and knowing Jamie, he’s going to want in.”
Eve picked her way through the holiday traffic. Gathering crowds, souvenir and snack stands prepared for the afternoon parade.
“That’ll be up to Feeney.” There was a connection there, too, as Feeney and Jamie’s grandfather had been tight back in the day. “More to the point, he is in. He’s on the short list of the vic’s friends, and the only male on it.”
“You think they were involved, romantically?”
“The parents don’t think so—but according to one of the neighbors, and the mother—there was somebody. Somebody fairly recent that the vic was keeping to herself.”
Peabody pondered a moment. “If she had a thing for Jamie—and he had one back—I don’t think she’d have kept it to herself. He’s just the type the parents would approve of. He’s smart, responsible, has the cop connection. He’s on scholarship to Columbia, and had plenty of other offers from top-level colleges. He took Columbia so he could stay close to home, not leave his mother too much alone.”
At Eve’s sidelong stare, Peabody shrugged. “He chats up with McNab, which is also how I know Jamie’s been dating the field the last few months. No one girl, nothing serious. I don’t think he’s even mentioned Deena. I’d’ve remembered, since I knew her. Plus most college guys don’t go for high school girls, or not for long.”
“What do high school girls go for?”
“Boys. A college boy would be a big status coup. But . . . Deena wasn’t the type. She was kind of sweet and serious and shy.”
“Vulnerable. A guy pays attention, knew how to play it. She got her nails done.”
“Huh?”
“Sometime Saturday, she did her nails or had them done. She dressed up—skirt, nice shirt, jewelry, put on makeup. If you’re hanging at home for the evening, alone, what’re you wearing?”
“My pajamas or sweats, probably my rattiest.”
“She didn’t just let him in. She was expecting him.” Eve pulled over to the curb of the modest town house.
She’d done all this before, walked this same path to tell Brenda Lingstrom her daughter was dead.
This time Jamie answered the door.
When had he gotten taller? She had to shift her gaze up to meet his, an odd sensation. He’d let his hair grow a little longer so it tumbled around his face in blond disarray. His jeans were full of holes, his T-shirt baggy with the faded faces of what she recognized as a popular trash rock group sneering out.
His face had fined down since she’d last seen him, and had gone handsome on her. Another mild shock. She wasn’t looking at a boy anymore, she realized, but a man.
His sleepy eyes brightened in friendly pleasure, then immediately went blank. He said, “Oh shit.”
“Nice to see you, too.”
“Who’s dead? You’re not at the door because you were passing by. Who’s—my mother.”
Panic leaped, even as his hand shot out and gripped her arm hard enough to bruise.
