Mr. Kiss and Tell by Rob Thomas

the face. I don’t remember what he looked like, or where I was. But I remember how it felt. I remember falling down. I remember someone hitting me again and again.
    BUNDRICK: But you don’t actually remember being hit in the face, then. You remember getting hurt, but you don’t actually remember how it happened. Is that right? Now, now, there’s no need to cry, Miss Manning. We’re on your side.
    Foss, on the other hand, was obsessed with finding out the identity of Grace’s boyfriend.
FOSS: Look, Grace, I’m going to be straight with you here. We can’t move forward on this investigation until you tell us more about this man you’re protecting. We really need to know more about him if we’re going to rule anyone out.
    VICTIM: But he wasn’t even there that night.
    FOSS: Grace, honey, you know who the perp is in 99.99 percent of cases like this? The boyfriend, that’s who. Are you afraid of him? Because we can protect you.
    VICTIM: No! I’m not afraid of him. He didn’t do this to me—why would he do this to me? I already told you. He’s married. He’s got a reputation to protect. He’d lose everything if anyone found out. I can’t do that to him. But he wasn’t there that night.
    FOSS: We’re going to find out who he is anyway. Trust me, it’ll be a lot better for you and your case if you just cooperate with us now.
    By mid-April, there weren’t any more transcripts or notes. It seemed the case had stalled or been shunted aside. But suddenly in June there was another flurry of paperwork. New memories had surfaced as Grace recovered from her physical injuries. Veronica found an amended police report dated June 4, signed off by Deputy Foss.
Victim claims that she’s retrieved more memories of the night of March 6. She now recalls the features and build of the perpetrator and describes him as being Hispanic, about 5'11" and 170 lbs, wearing a red polo shirt with the Neptune Grand logo on the breast. However she still admits to no memory of the location of the attack, or the aftermath.
    A police sketch was attached to this report: it showed a brooding man with an aquiline nose and a close-shaven bristle of hair. Veronica placed it next to the mug shot of Miguel Ramirez—the Neptune Grand laundry-room employee who’d been deported in late May.
Ninety percent chance it’s the same guy in both images,
she thought.
    She kept reading all through the morning, taking in bits of information, making notes, sorting through the mess. A familiar, almost mechanical feeling was taking over, her focus sharpening, her mind clicking into gear. By the time she started watching the hotel surveillance footage, she was ready to give Mac her due for the catnip crack. There
was
a deep, rhythmic gratification to be found in scanning and organizing evidence; it was as close to high as Veronica got.
    A couple of hours passed almost unnoticed, then a soft knock came at her door.
    “Yeah?” Veronica said, jarred to reenter the physical world.
    Mac opened the door and poked her head in. “We’re ordering sandwiches. You want one?”
    “Would you come look at something for me?” Veronica asked, not even looking up from where she sat staring at her computer.
    She sensed Mac move silently in behind her. “What’s up?”
    Veronica hit a key on her laptop. The Neptune Grand surveillance footage started to play.
    “This is the night of the attack. The victim comes in through the main entrance of the hotel at ten twenty-seven.” The camera showed a sleek young woman walking briskly through the doors. Her long blonde hair was twisted up at the nape of her neck. She wore a tight blue dress that showed off a double take–worthy figure. The shoes were expensive-looking silver stilettos.
    The lobby was busy for a Thursday night. Grace passed a cluster of women in flamboyant red hats—some kind of social club, it looked like—clustered around the reception desk. She cut between four tall college-age boys in matching team jackets,