Cuts Through Bone by Alaric Hunt Page B

“I’m Robert Deaton.”
    Guthrie handed him a card. “Maybe you got some foundation for saying Olsen didn’t kill Camille Bowman?”
    Deaton paused a moment, then stepped in and closed the door. “He didn’t need to freak over her, because he had her. She was serious about him, right? She dumped all that Greek stuff for him, and she was like a serious princess.”
    â€œSo he was a good guy, and like that?”
    â€œOkay, I get it,” Deaton said. “Just the facts, man. Right? Holy had one weird thing about his scene—the mouse.” He took a long look at Vasquez, and continued: “See, you’re not a mouse.”
    Guthrie shrugged. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s a mouse?”
    â€œA plain girl. Holy drew girls, you know? Some girls just know they ain’t got a chance with some guys, you know? Too much competition. So they fade when the pretty ones show up. But Holy had a mouse.” He frowned. “Or maybe it was Cammie. I don’t know. The mouse was always running behind both of them, so I guess I really can’t say who she was chasing.”
    â€œThe mouse have a name?” Guthrie asked.
    â€œMichelle something. She was a grad student, I think, because I never ran into her in classes.”
    â€œMaybe she was a friend?” Vasquez suggested.
    â€œNo way. After he hooked up with Cammie, Holy didn’t use this room much. So I noticed when he did, you know? So when the two’d go in, cuddled up and making out, the mouse would tumble after. They were cramming, but not for a test. That wasn’t like Holy, except for Cammie and this mouse.”
    â€œMaybe that’s what you wanted to see?” Guthrie asked.
    Deaton frowned and ran a hand over his unruly hair. “No way. This was just the one weird thing. Don’t matter if he got something going—it’s just how I saw it, you know?” He shrugged. “Anyway, what’s going to happen to Holy?” He aimed the question at Guthrie.
    â€œWe’re looking at it,” Guthrie said. “Don’t be shook up if the lawyers give you a call.”

 
    CHAPTER FIVE
    The midday sunshine was blinding after the darkness of Livingston Hall. Guthrie was quiet, thinking to himself, while Vasquez had a quicker step. She wanted to move faster, but the little man kept pausing to rearrange his fedora on his head. She took their visitor IDs and ran them to administration to give him time to reach the car without making her wait. The detective was sitting in the passenger seat when she walked up to the Ford. She climbed in, watched him for a moment, and decided he was bothered about something. His expression was the same as on the elevator ride down from the ISU lab, after Tommy Johnson landed in the crosshairs.
    â€œHow often do you get something like this?” she asked quietly.
    Guthrie didn’t hesitate; he might’ve been waiting on her question. “You thinking about bailing?”
    She laughed. “Are you kidding? This’s what I took the job for.”
    â€œSo you’ll be thinking about bailing,” Guthrie said gloomily. “If you’re looking for murder cases, you want to be a cop. Because this ain’t normal for a PI.” He sighed. “Pick a place to eat, someplace we can sit for a while.”
    Vasquez started the Ford and pulled out. She drove past St. John’s and turned onto 110th Street. The traffic was light. “You didn’t answer my question, Guthrie,” she said. “How often?”
    The little man smiled. “You’ve learned some things in the past few days. I gotta give you that. Anyway, every few years something serious like this comes up. Sometimes back to back.” He shrugged. “This isn’t where the money is at, you know. It’s just where the reputation is at. You make a mark on something like this and people don’t forget it.”
    â€œBut it’s