“Actually, she’s hot as hell.”

Hot as hell, Simon thought, the excitement of the story heading south from his brain. No offense to female law enforcement officers, but some women on the force tended to look like Mickey Rourke in a pantsuit. “Blonde? Brunette?”

“Brunette. Athletic. Big brown eyes and great legs. Major babe.”

This was shaping up. Two cops, beauty and the beast, dead white girls on crack alley. And he hadn’t lifted cheek one out of bed yet.

“Give me an hour,” Simon said. “Meet me at The Plough.”

Simon hung up, threw his legs over the side of the bed.

He surveyed the landscape of his three-room apartment. What an eyesore, he thought. But, he mused further, it was—like Nick Carraway’s West Egg rental—a small eyesore. One of these days he would hit. He was sure of it. One of these days he would wake up and not be able to see every room of his house from the bed. He would have a downstairs and a yard and a car that didn’t sound like a Ginger Baker drum solo every time he turned it off.

Maybe this was the story that would do it.

Before he could stumble to the kitchen, he was greeted by his cat, a scrappy, one-eared cinnamon tabby named Enid.

“How’s my girl?” Simon tickled her behind her one good ear. Enid curled twice, rolled over on his lap.

“Daddy’s got a hot lead, dolly-doll. No time for loving this morning.”

Enid purred her understanding, jumped to the floor and followed him to the kitchen.

The one spotless appliance in Simon’s entire flat—besides his Apple PowerBook—was his prized Rancilio Silvia espresso machine. It was on a timer to turn on at 9:00 am, even though its owner and chief operator never seemed to make it out of bed before noon. Still, as any coffee fanatic would aver, the key to a perfect espresso is a hot basket.

Simon filled the filter with freshly ground espresso roast, made his first ristretto of the day.

He glanced out his kitchen window into the square airshaft between the buildings. If he bent over, craned his neck to a forty-five-degree angle, pressed his face against the glass, he could see a sliver of sky.

Gray and overcast. Slight drizzle.

British sunshine.

He could just as well be back in the Lake District, he thought. But if he were back in Berwick, he wouldn’t have this juicy story, now, would he?

The espresso machine hissed and rumbled, pouring a perfect shot into his heated demitasse cup, a precise seventeen-second pour, with luscious golden crema.

Simon pulled the cup, savoring the aroma, the start of a glorious new day.

Dead white girls, he mused, sipping the rich brown coffee.

Dead Catholic white girls.

In crack town.

Lovely.

8

MONDAY, 12:50 PM

They split up for lunch. Jessica returned to the Nazarene Academy in a department Taurus. The traffic was light on I-95, but the rain persisted. At the school, she spoke briefly to Dottie Takacs, the school bus driver who picked up the girls in Tessa’s neighborhood. The woman was still terribly upset by the news of Tessa’s death, nearly inconsolable, but she managed to tell Jessica that Tessa was not at the bus stop on Friday morning, and that no, she didn’t recall anyone strange who frequently hung around the bus stop or anywhere along the route. She added that it was her job to keep her eyes on the road.

Sister Veronique informed Jessica that Dr. Parkhurst had taken the afternoon off, but provided her with his home address and phone numbers. She also told her that Tessa’s final class on Thursday had been French II. If Jessica recalled correctly, all Nazarene students were required to take two consecutive years of a foreign language to qualify for graduation. Jessica was not at all surprised that her old French teacher, Claire Stendhal, was still teaching.

She found her in the teachers’ lounge.

...

“Tessa was a wonderful student,” Claire said. “A dream. Excellent grammar, flawless syntax. Her assignments were always handed in on time.”

Talking to Madame Stendhal hurtled Jessica back a dozen years, although she had never been inside the mysterious teachers’ lounge before. Her concept of the room, like that of many of the other students, had been a combination nightclub, motel room, and fully stocked opium den. She was disappointed to discover that, all this time, it was merely a tired, ordinary room with a trio of tables surrounded by chipped cafeteria chairs, a small grouping of love seats, and a pair of dented coffee urns.

Claire Stendhal was another story. There was nothing tired or ordinary about her, never had been: tall and elegant, with to-die-for bone structure and smooth vellum skin. Jessica and her classmates had always been terribly envious of the woman’s wardrobe: Pringle sweaters, Nipon suits, Ferragamo shoes, Burberry coats. Her hair was shocked with silver, a little shorter than she remembered, but Claire Stendhal, now in her midforties, was still a striking woman. Jessica wondered if Madame Stendhal remembered her.

“Did she seem troubled at all lately?” Jessica asked.

“Well, her father’s illness was taking quite a toll on her, as you might expect. I understand she was responsible for taking care of the household. Last year she took nearly three weeks off to care for him. She never missed a single assignment.”

“Do you remember when that was?”

Claire thought for a moment. “If I’m not mistaken, it was right around Thanksgiving.”

“Did you notice any changes about her when she came back?”

Claire glanced out the window, at the rain falling on the commons. “Now that you mention it, I suppose she was a bit more introspective,” she said. “Perhaps a little less willing to engage in group discussion.”

“Did the quality of her work decline?”

“Not at all. If anything, she was even more conscientious.”

“Was she close friends with anyone in her class?”

“Tessa was a polite and courteous young woman, but I don’t think she had many close friends. I could ask around, if you like.”

“I would appreciate it,” Jessica said. She handed Claire a business card. Claire looked at it briefly, then slipped it into her purse, a slim Vuitton Honfleur clutch. Naturellement.

“She talked about going to France one day,” Claire said.

Jessica remembered talking about the same thing. They all did. She didn’t know a single girl in her class who had actually gone.

“But Tessa wasn’t one of those who mooned about romantic walks along the Seine, or shopping on the Champs-Elysées,” Claire continued. “She talked about working with underprivileged kids.”