She kept sorting the list, occasionally glancing at the photos, trying to see any indications to support her deductions. Finally she had two smaller lists.
Alpha—Victim choice, plan, rape and murder, trophy
Beta—Familiarity with victim, blood consumption, covering victim, necklace
What about the bloody footprints? Checking the case report, she found there were multiple size 9 bloody footprints in the bedroom, from which beta had probably taken the necklace. Okay, the majority of the bloody footprints belonged to beta as well. He was the one who blundered into the bloodstain, who paced around the body multiple times.
One partial print of the other shoe size had been found in the entire apartment. Alpha had noticed that he’d stepped in the victim’s blood and wiped his shoe sole. Careful, calm, mindful of the traces he left behind. Alpha had probably done this before. Beta was a first timer.
Her stomach rumbled noisily. She was starving. She paused the music and took off her earphones.
“Hey,” she called to the adjacent cubicle. “Are you still hungry?”
“Must . . . eat,” Tatum rasped, sounding like a parched man in the desert.
Zoe rolled her eyes. “Okay, okay. But let’s find somewhere nice. I need a change of scenery.”
CHAPTER 9
The belly of a man was a fickle thing.
There was quite a long culinary negotiation, and Tatum had to admit it was mostly his fault. He had a sudden craving for a burger joint and shot down several of Zoe’s suggestions, none of which included burgers. Then, annoyed, she demanded that he decide, and suddenly he didn’t want a burger anymore.
They ended up in a place named Niko’s Taverna, which got a nice rating on Yelp, including one five-star review that said, Got engaged here to my sweet Tony, who is the love of my life!!!!!!! The souvlaki was good.
The place was crowded, but they had a free table for two at the far corner, and the window faced the bustling street. It was noisy inside, the sound of dozens of people talking, clanking kitchen utensils, and the background music of a cheerful bouzouki-played tune from overhead speakers.
Their waiter was a chubby man with gray hair, a thick mustache, and a wide grin. He suggested they try the “Niko couple special,” which was an assortment of small dishes, enough for two people. Despite not being a couple, they quickly agreed it sounded perfect and ordered it. Tatum also ordered a glass of ouzo for himself.
“The music is driving me insane,” Zoe said.
“I think it’s nice.” Tatum grinned. “Very atmospheric.”
Zoe shook her head. They remained silent for a while. The music played on. At a nearby table, a woman laughed, way too loud, sounding a bit like a hyena. On the other side of the restaurant, a group sang “Happy Birthday,” the song clashing with the music. Tatum hoped the food would be worth it.
“How’s Marvin?” Zoe asked.
Tatum sighed. His grandfather had sent him a cryptic text an hour before. Do we have a hacksaw? Though Tatum did have one, he responded reflexively that they didn’t, only to get a second text—Liar, I found it. Feeling that mild panic that always accompanied interactions with his grandfather, he asked carefully what Marvin was doing with a hacksaw. His grandfather didn’t reply, nor did he answer Tatum’s three phone calls. Tatum still debated with himself whether to ask the neighbor to make sure Marvin hadn’t sawed off his own hand by mistake.
“He’s fine,” he said. “Keeping himself busy. He has a smutty book club that meets twice a week, mostly in my apartment. Him and about a dozen women. He’s also trying to learn to play the harmonica, which I suspect he’s doing to scare the cat. Oh, and he’s practicing tai chi.”
“Tai chi is a good idea,” Zoe said. “It’s really good exercise, and it’s very meditative.”
“Not the way he does it,” Tatum muttered. Marvin did tai chi as if he were Bruce Lee fighting a hoard of nunchaku-wielding villains. “Did you ever do tai chi?”
“No, but Andrea had a phase. She did it every morning for a whole year.”
“How’s she doing?”
“She’s fine. My mom is probably driving her insane.”
Tatum nodded. That pretty much covered their non-work-related life.
He knew that Zoe would eventually use the lull in conversation to start talking about the case. He preferred to nudge the conversation away from the topic. For one, Zoe’s preoccupation with Rod Glover had been bordering on obsession in the past week. She spent nearly every waking hour thinking about the killer, analyzing his past behavior, trying to anticipate his actions. She was getting more frantic every day, as the deadline of their return to Quantico loomed closer. And besides, talking about murders tended to mess up his appetite.
“So what do you think of Detective O’Donnell?” he asked.
“She seems capable. But she doesn’t like me,” Zoe said.
“Why do you say that? She seemed interested in your opinions.”
“She is very impatient when I talk to her. She interrupted me several times and sounded really annoyed whenever I expressed an opinion.”
“I think that’s just her style. She did the same with me.”
“Well, her style makes me think she doesn’t like me.” Zoe shrugged.
Tatum was about to ask another question, when their waiter showed up, balancing a dozen plates on his arms with no tray, a stunt that seemed dangerous in the crowded restaurant. Just one wrong move, and an innocent diner would end up with a bowl of tzatziki upturned on his head. Their table was small, and it took a certain amount of Tetris-related knowledge to get all the plates onto it. While he did it, the waiter announced the dishes he was putting down. “Taramosalata, it’s fish roe. These here are artichokes with potato and lemon. Stuffed grape leaves with yogurt . . .” On and on the list went until the table was completely covered, and the waiter left.
Zoe seemed overwhelmed. She always gave a lot of thought to the way she ate her food, what to eat first, and which portions to combine together in a single bite. It seemed like the amount of possibilities momentarily short-circuited her brain functions.
Tatum stuck his fork in one of the stuffed grape leaves and took a bite.
They said smells could trigger memories, but Tatum didn’t know tastes could do the same. All of a sudden he was back in Wickenburg, sitting at the table, his mother trying to teach him yet again how to hold a knife, her tone exasperated, while his dad told her to “leave the kid alone.”
“My mom made stuffed grape leaves just like these,” he said, his mouth half-full.
Zoe had managed to compute herself out of her dilemma and now dipped a piece of roasted cauliflower in the bowl of tzatziki. “I didn’t know your mother was Greek.”
“She wasn’t, but she liked trying new recipes. She had a shelf in the kitchen with dozens of cookbooks.” Tatum smiled. “They had these amazing pictures, and I used to look through them, imagining what they’d taste like.”
“That was probably nice.”
Tatum snorted. “Not to a kid. Most of my friends would have steak and fries for dinner. We’d have Peking duck or falafel. I used to beg my mom to make something normal for a change.”
Zoe combined a sliced tomato and a piece of artichoke on her fork with the concentration of a nuclear physicist handling uranium. “Kids have almost three times as many taste buds as adults, so they experience taste differently and prefer simpler tastes.”