Scolari mounting. A patent print-versus the more familiar latent found by dusting and lifting with tape-is made by touching something, like paint, or grease, then touching something else, leaving behind an impression of a print formed of that same substance. I'd solved a homicide after finding a socalled patent print in a tub of margarine, and knew sometimes patents were more compelling evidence than the latents. This was enough to keep me silent, waiting for what he had to say next.
patricia's blood," he continued. "His thumbprint was in her blood."
I didn't want to think about it. "He told me she was already dead when he found her." "Why didn't he call us? And why did he try to hide his bloody clothes?" I hadn't heard about the clothes, and so couldn't answer. I wanted to believe Scolari didn't do it, but I wasn't sure why.
Because he was my partner? Because he was a cop, and the thought that one of our own could commit murder was too horrific? Or was it simply that I'd found him sitting in my apartment, and I didn't like to think I was that vulnerable? Despite the heat pouring into the car, I felt chilled to the bone.
"What now?" I asked.
"Now we put you to bed at night, and we get up with you in the morning.
No one knows why Scolari visited you, but we do know you were the last one to see him, and you were one of the last to talk to his wife. Until he's apprehended, we're not taking any chances."
"I love IA-"
"Management Control." "Next time, cut the subterfuge. Pick up a phone, call me. I'm not that difficult to work with." I didn't say goodbye, just got out and slammed the door. About halfway across the parking lot, I heard him call out, and thought about ignoring him until I realized I'd left my purse in his car. When I looked back, he was holding it out his window.
I retrieved my purse, turned, and made as graceful an exit as I could.
Not until I got in my car did I realize I'd shredded my nylons walking barefoot to sneak up on him. I bought a new pair at the mini mart, then drove through the rain to the restaurant with Torrance shadowing me. I figured I knew what the First Lady felt like, dogged by Secret Service every step. In fact, the more I thought about Torrance following me-was he even now aware I was sitting in my car, changing my nylons in the restaurant parking lot?-the madder I got. I crumpled up my ruined nylons, stormed to his parked car, and tossed them on his rain spattered windshield. Now that I was bundled up in my coat, I felt somewhat smug as he rolled down his window. "Was there something you wanted?" he had the nerve to ask. "Don't freeze your tail off on my account." With that I left, promising that Mike Torrance would have the most uneventful and, I hoped, cold evening of his life. Reid was seated at the bar when I got in, drinking his usual vodka and tonic. He stood when he saw me. "Sorry I'm late," I said, allowing him to take my damp coat. "Something came up at work." "Dr. Mead-Scolari's case?" he asked. "You hear anything more about the investigation?"
"Um, no. Not really. Mind if we talk about something else?"
"Of course not. Sorry." His cellular rang. After a brief conversation, he ordered me a glass of white wine.
Even after being married, he still didn't know what I liked to drink.
I know I wasn't the best company during our leisurely dinner, but I attempted to appear interested while Reid told me about his latest investigation, an embezzlement case at Hilliard Pharmaceutical, of all places. Thirty minutes together, and we were already talking shop. It was well after eleven and pouring rain when we strolled out arm in arm.
I scanned the parking lot, searched for Torrance's car. He wasn't where I'd left him. He'd taken a position of advantage in the back corner of the lot, where he could keep an eye on the front and back doors of the restaurant. My nylons were no longer on his windshield, to my relief, and I suffered a bout of
patricia's blood," he continued. "His thumbprint was in her blood."
I didn't want to think about it. "He told me she was already dead when he found her." "Why didn't he call us? And why did he try to hide his bloody clothes?" I hadn't heard about the clothes, and so couldn't answer. I wanted to believe Scolari didn't do it, but I wasn't sure why.
Because he was my partner? Because he was a cop, and the thought that one of our own could commit murder was too horrific? Or was it simply that I'd found him sitting in my apartment, and I didn't like to think I was that vulnerable? Despite the heat pouring into the car, I felt chilled to the bone.
"What now?" I asked.
"Now we put you to bed at night, and we get up with you in the morning.
No one knows why Scolari visited you, but we do know you were the last one to see him, and you were one of the last to talk to his wife. Until he's apprehended, we're not taking any chances."
"I love IA-"
"Management Control." "Next time, cut the subterfuge. Pick up a phone, call me. I'm not that difficult to work with." I didn't say goodbye, just got out and slammed the door. About halfway across the parking lot, I heard him call out, and thought about ignoring him until I realized I'd left my purse in his car. When I looked back, he was holding it out his window.
I retrieved my purse, turned, and made as graceful an exit as I could.
Not until I got in my car did I realize I'd shredded my nylons walking barefoot to sneak up on him. I bought a new pair at the mini mart, then drove through the rain to the restaurant with Torrance shadowing me. I figured I knew what the First Lady felt like, dogged by Secret Service every step. In fact, the more I thought about Torrance following me-was he even now aware I was sitting in my car, changing my nylons in the restaurant parking lot?-the madder I got. I crumpled up my ruined nylons, stormed to his parked car, and tossed them on his rain spattered windshield. Now that I was bundled up in my coat, I felt somewhat smug as he rolled down his window. "Was there something you wanted?" he had the nerve to ask. "Don't freeze your tail off on my account." With that I left, promising that Mike Torrance would have the most uneventful and, I hoped, cold evening of his life. Reid was seated at the bar when I got in, drinking his usual vodka and tonic. He stood when he saw me. "Sorry I'm late," I said, allowing him to take my damp coat. "Something came up at work." "Dr. Mead-Scolari's case?" he asked. "You hear anything more about the investigation?"
"Um, no. Not really. Mind if we talk about something else?"
"Of course not. Sorry." His cellular rang. After a brief conversation, he ordered me a glass of white wine.
Even after being married, he still didn't know what I liked to drink.
I know I wasn't the best company during our leisurely dinner, but I attempted to appear interested while Reid told me about his latest investigation, an embezzlement case at Hilliard Pharmaceutical, of all places. Thirty minutes together, and we were already talking shop. It was well after eleven and pouring rain when we strolled out arm in arm.
I scanned the parking lot, searched for Torrance's car. He wasn't where I'd left him. He'd taken a position of advantage in the back corner of the lot, where he could keep an eye on the front and back doors of the restaurant. My nylons were no longer on his windshield, to my relief, and I suffered a bout of
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