Page 89 of Long Way Down

“Yeah. And Daniel Loraine made the Society pages with his folks that night, some kinda big charity funraiser thing at the Plaza.”

Melissa unlocked her phone to punch it into Google. She didn’t doubt Rojas and Novak’s thoroughness, but of the young suspects, her money had been on either the ex or the snot-nosed rich boy. She wanted to see his smug face for herself.

A beat of silence passed, filled with some rustling on the other end of the call, and the quiet tap-tap of Melissa’s phone keyboard.

Tone going careful, Contreras said, “What about Tobias Santini?”

Melissa shot him a glance and saw the suddenly-grim set of his mouth, like he hadn’t wanted to ask; like, maybe, he hadn’t wanted to ask in front ofher.

Novak’s voice came on the line. “He says he was up most of the night, painting. At his apartment. Alone.”

“What about dinner? He gonna show on any security footage?”

“He cooked for himself, he said. Linguine with jarred clams.”

Contreras’s thumb tapped on the wheel.

“There’s another thing about Santini,” Rojas said. “We can’t find any sort of record.”

Melissa had been preparing herself all along for Tobias to be the guilty party. Hadn’t trusted her own attraction and had been able to imagine all-too-well the ease with which those smoky, dark eyes and the faintly curved smile could land himself in a woman’s favor – could land him in herbed. That was why she’d hesitated, refusing to believe it fully. Yes, he was big, and strong enough to do the deed, had a connection to both of their on-the-books vics and nothing from the others to rule him out. But the idea of someone like him needing to resort to rape…

Rojas’s words landed strangely. She should have been relieved, but flushed hot and then cold, hand tightening on her phone instead.

“That’s a good thing,” she said.

“Yeah,” Rojas sounded uncertain, though. “But it’s like he didn’t exist until ten years ago. That’s when he got a driver’s license, but there’s no record of a learner’s permit, no prior tickets, arrests, warnings. I mean, not to sound like that, but if a guy starts college that late, you start to suspect things have gone a little sideways in his past.”

“Did you guys ask him about it?” Contreras asked, darting her a glance from the corner of his eye, checking on her.

“Yeah. Big surprise: he didn’t wanna talk. Got all cagey and started talking about privacy.”

“Shit,” Melissa whispered, pulse thudding.

Contreras nodded. “Did you talk to the professor?”

“Dubois? Yeah. Real stick up that one’s ass – or maybe he’s just French.” Rojas chuckled, and Contreras cracked a grin. “He said all the right things, that he wanted to cooperate, was real complimentary about you two, but he was nervous as a cat. Said he wouldn’t come down to the station unless he was forced to.”

“I got the impression he was worried about his immigration status,” Melissa said. “He might be afraid of deportation and not, you know, a rapist.”

“Yeah, could be. He was real twitchy.”

“We’ll talk to him again if we don’t catch another break,” Contreras said. “Thanks, guys.”

“Yeah.”

Contreras reached down to disconnect the call and, after another darted look her way, said, “So Tobias, huh?”

“You don’t have to say it like that.”

“Like what?” he asked, feigning innocence.

“Like you’re afraid I’ll fly apart.”

A finger lifted off the wheel. “Not ‘fly apart.’ Just…I know that…”

“That he’s good-looking? Yeah. So? That doesn’t mean he’s not guilty.”

His sideways glance wasn’t convinced.

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