Face of Murder

And the victims themselves—they had to have more to reveal, they had to. Zoe went over the crime scene photographs that she had burned into her memory again, trying to see them in as much detail as possible. Five foot nine, yes, it had to be, and more than one hundred and thirty-five pounds. But how much more? Could she set an upper limit? The perpetrator would not be obese, because they were fit enough to attack and to get away without leaving behind weighted impressions in the ground.

There was something, somewhere, in all of this. There had to be.

If there wasn’t, Zoe was never going to forgive herself.

A buzz from her pocket brought her back to the real world, and she looked down at her phone to see a message alert. It was from John—the man she had seen for just a single date, and who both Dr. Monk and Dr. Applewhite seemed positive she should see again.

What a moment for him to reach out to her.

Hey, Zoe. How are you? I was wondering if you wanted to meet up for a drink?—John

Zoe didn’t need to read this one three times, or leave it until the morning to decide, or turn to her therapist for advice. She knew what she wanted to say. John had been trying for a long time, and it was time that paid off for him. She wrote back and sent it immediately, not hesitating to consider whether she was doing the right thing.

Yes. Are you available right now?

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

The cocktail bar was crowded, but Zoe tried to ignore the mass of bodies dotted around the tables and focus on moving through them. She was bad with crowds at the best of times—too much to see and notice—but John had already texted her to let her know that he was sitting near the window. She just had to get over there.

Had to get through the one-foot gap which narrowed to half a foot where one man had pushed his chair out too far, past the four couples and the three groups, past seventeen glasses on tables. The staff was efficient—no empty glasses left to sit as superfluous. That was a positive sign, at least.

She couldn’t quite see him in the dim lighting until she drew closer, training her steps as close to the glass as possible so that she could effectively blank out most of the room behind her. Then she recognized him—at first by his shape, the same height and bulk as she remembered, and then by the facial features lit by the glow of a small candle on the table. The song playing in the background, under the chatter of those around them, was four beats per bar. Three chords. Simple and inoffensive.

“Zoe,” he said, standing up from his chair as she approached. A little old-fashioned. “You made it!”

He sounded genuinely surprised. Zoe felt a stab of guilt at that. She supposed that she had not been efficient at returning his messages. “John, hello. It is good to see you again.”

John waited for her to sit before he did. “You look wonderful.”

“Thank you.” Zoe was too busy thinking about the fact that she had not dressed up and did not, in fact, look wonderful. It was only when a brief flicker passed over his expression that she remembered: most people liked to have a compliment returned, and she should have politely remarked that he looked good, as well. Such things had always seemed stupid to her. How could one ever think a compliment was genuine, if it was enforced by courtesy?

“I ordered you a martini. I hope you don’t mind,” John said, hastily continuing with many a waved hand gesture. He was wearing a white shirt today. Last time, it had been blue with two-millimeter stripes. “If you don’t like it, I’ll drink it. I just thought I’d better get something for you if I was ordering for myself. I figured you wouldn’t be long.”

He was talking a lot. More than last time, maybe. His rate of words per minute was higher, which normally indicated nervousness. Or fear. “Thank you,” Zoe said again, wondering if she was going to be able to get any more words in edgewise. “I will drink it.”

In truth, she did not drink often. Did she like martinis? She couldn’t even recall. It was a rare occasion that she touched alcohol, mostly because she didn’t like that weird, wavy, out-of-control feeling that everyone else seemed to relish. When the room began to sway and all the numbers got wonky and out of sync. Depth perception, sense of direction, mathematical ability, all of it began to disappear the more alcohol she had. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation.

But tonight, maybe it would be good to get detached from everything a little. To drown out the horrible things she couldn’t help thinking about herself.

“I didn’t think you were going to get back to me,” John admitted, picking up his own glass. It was considerably more masculine than the one prepared for her: a tumbler filled with amber liquid, not a recipe that Zoe could name. She couldn’t find a justification for taking up space in her memory with knowledge about cocktails.