out all the ambient noise. These walls are thick, but not that thick. Cooper, what are you doing?”
He’s taken one of his ubiquitous handkerchiefs from his pocket and hit the return key on the computer keyboard. He always carries a neatly folded bandana (preferably in blue) somewhere on his person, a trick he picked up from one of his many formerly incarcerated friends. Keeps you from leaving fingerprints, he says.
“Just checking to see the last thing she was doing on the computer before she went to bed, besides listening to iTunes.” He squints down at the keyboard, then the screen. “Twitter,” he says with some disgust.
Cooper refuses to participate in any form of social networking. He doesn’t have a Web site advertising his private investigation business. His clients come from lawyers he knows, word of mouth, and a discreet listing in—of all things—the phone book. He seems to have all the work he can handle, though, proof that not everyone turns to the Internet for their professional needs.
“What a shocker, a college student using Twitter,” I say sarcastically. “Now, come on, you know if the cops find you here they’re going to blame me for messing up their crime scene . . . if her death turns out to be murder.”
He pokes around a little more on her computer. “She wasn’t logged on,” he says. “To Twitter. It’s just the whaddayoucallit, home page. What was her Twitter handle?”
“How would I know?”
He looks around. “Where’s her phone?”
I follow his gaze. “I don’t know.”
“Do you have her phone number? We could call her phone.”
“Of course I have her number,” I say, pulling out my phone and—a little proudly—the wallet-size list of emergency numbers I’d made. “But why is it so important we find her phone?”
“Because then we can find the last person she was talking to. It’s possible that person could give us a little insight into how she died.”
“Or we could just wait for the OCME to tell us.” I’m dialing. “And don’t you have a case of your own you’re supposed to be working on?”
“It’s insurance fraud, a little less pressing than this,” Cooper says. “No dead bodies are involved.”
“Oh.” I hold my cell phone away from my ear. “That’s weird. Jasmine’s phone is ringing in my ear, but not in her room. And now it’s gone to voice mail.”
“Her phone’s not in here,” Cooper says, looking around the room.
“Of course it’s here,” I say, looking around as well. “She must have it on vibrate.”
The clothes Jasmine had worn the day before are in a heap on the floor beside her bathroom door. I walk over to the pile and begin to feel through the pockets of her jeans.
“What young person do you know who doesn’t take her phone to bed with her?” Cooper points at Jasmine’s nightstand, which sits beneath her wide casement window, between the two beds. “It should be right there. But it’s gone.”
“It’s not gone,” I say. Look, her wallet’s here.” I hold it up. “Cash, credit cards, ID, everything still inside. Even her keys.” I jingle them. “So she wasn’t robbed. Who would steal her phone and not her cash? There’s a hundred bucks in this wallet. And that laptop over there is top of the line. It’s not like someone broke in here—there’s no sign the door’s been tampered with. Who would take her phone but not her laptop and cash?”
Cooper shakes his head, unconvinced. “Then where is her phone?”
I eye Jasmine’s body. “Probably there.” I point.
Cooper’s gaze follows the direction of my finger, which is aimed at her bedclothes, tangled around the bottom of her legs. He takes a quick step backward.
“No way,” he says.
“Well, you’re the one who thinks all young people take their phones to bed with them,” I say. “Where else is it going to be? Except maybe under her.”
“Well, I’m not going to look,” Cooper declares. “You do it.”
“ I’m not doing
He’s taken one of his ubiquitous handkerchiefs from his pocket and hit the return key on the computer keyboard. He always carries a neatly folded bandana (preferably in blue) somewhere on his person, a trick he picked up from one of his many formerly incarcerated friends. Keeps you from leaving fingerprints, he says.
“Just checking to see the last thing she was doing on the computer before she went to bed, besides listening to iTunes.” He squints down at the keyboard, then the screen. “Twitter,” he says with some disgust.
Cooper refuses to participate in any form of social networking. He doesn’t have a Web site advertising his private investigation business. His clients come from lawyers he knows, word of mouth, and a discreet listing in—of all things—the phone book. He seems to have all the work he can handle, though, proof that not everyone turns to the Internet for their professional needs.
“What a shocker, a college student using Twitter,” I say sarcastically. “Now, come on, you know if the cops find you here they’re going to blame me for messing up their crime scene . . . if her death turns out to be murder.”
He pokes around a little more on her computer. “She wasn’t logged on,” he says. “To Twitter. It’s just the whaddayoucallit, home page. What was her Twitter handle?”
“How would I know?”
He looks around. “Where’s her phone?”
I follow his gaze. “I don’t know.”
“Do you have her phone number? We could call her phone.”
“Of course I have her number,” I say, pulling out my phone and—a little proudly—the wallet-size list of emergency numbers I’d made. “But why is it so important we find her phone?”
“Because then we can find the last person she was talking to. It’s possible that person could give us a little insight into how she died.”
“Or we could just wait for the OCME to tell us.” I’m dialing. “And don’t you have a case of your own you’re supposed to be working on?”
“It’s insurance fraud, a little less pressing than this,” Cooper says. “No dead bodies are involved.”
“Oh.” I hold my cell phone away from my ear. “That’s weird. Jasmine’s phone is ringing in my ear, but not in her room. And now it’s gone to voice mail.”
“Her phone’s not in here,” Cooper says, looking around the room.
“Of course it’s here,” I say, looking around as well. “She must have it on vibrate.”
The clothes Jasmine had worn the day before are in a heap on the floor beside her bathroom door. I walk over to the pile and begin to feel through the pockets of her jeans.
“What young person do you know who doesn’t take her phone to bed with her?” Cooper points at Jasmine’s nightstand, which sits beneath her wide casement window, between the two beds. “It should be right there. But it’s gone.”
“It’s not gone,” I say. Look, her wallet’s here.” I hold it up. “Cash, credit cards, ID, everything still inside. Even her keys.” I jingle them. “So she wasn’t robbed. Who would steal her phone and not her cash? There’s a hundred bucks in this wallet. And that laptop over there is top of the line. It’s not like someone broke in here—there’s no sign the door’s been tampered with. Who would take her phone but not her laptop and cash?”
Cooper shakes his head, unconvinced. “Then where is her phone?”
I eye Jasmine’s body. “Probably there.” I point.
Cooper’s gaze follows the direction of my finger, which is aimed at her bedclothes, tangled around the bottom of her legs. He takes a quick step backward.
“No way,” he says.
“Well, you’re the one who thinks all young people take their phones to bed with them,” I say. “Where else is it going to be? Except maybe under her.”
“Well, I’m not going to look,” Cooper declares. “You do it.”
“ I’m not doing
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