Hide (Detective Harriet Foster #1)(20)

Lonergan nodded, twirling a ballpoint between his fingers. “Hear, hear.”

Li smirked, then reached for her coffee mug and took a sip. “Two cavemen. Wonderful.”

Symansky and Lonergan began a chorus of caveman grunts, which Kelley playfully joined in on. Li turned to Foster and shook her head. “This is what we have to put up with.”

Griffin clapped her hands together to get everyone back on point. “All right. Knock it off. So we start pulling some strings, right? We find somebody who can account for Birch’s time and for Ainsley’s. See if anything matches up. We concentrate on the march, the route. We hit the bars, the restaurants. We pull the street cameras. Spread out. If Ainsley left his friends and found Birch, let’s prove it. Foster and Lonergan, you take Birch. The rest of you grab some uniforms and get back out there before this thing blows up in our faces.” No one moved. “Today, people.”



Rimmer was a barista at a Starbucks near campus, though he wasn’t a student, according to Peggy’s mother, Beth. Instead, Peggy had told her that Rimmer was a singer in a rock band waiting for his big break. More talented than Bono, though Beth had confessed to not recognizing the name.

Foster walked into the Starbucks with Lonergan, her eyes tracking the twentysomething grunge type working up an order, a silver ring on every finger, sleeves of weird dragon art up and down his puny arms. He looked much like the other baristas there, but this guy’s gaunt, sullen face matched Joseph Thomas Rimmer’s driver’s license photo. As she watched faux Bono flirt with the female customers and strut between the counter and the espresso machines as though he were God’s gift, she wondered what Peggy Birch could have seen in him. Beside her, Lonergan emitted a disdainful groan. He was uncomfortable, out of his element. This wasn’t his scene.

Foster stepped up to the counter, jumping the line, her ID out so Rimmer could read it. “Joseph Rimmer?” She watched as his face paled. “I’m Detective Foster. This is my . . . this is Detective Lonergan.” She’d caught herself about to say my partner, Detective Thompson. Would she ever get used to not saying it? “We’d like to ask you a few questions, please.”

Light, glassy eyes focused on the badge first before traveling up to her face. He studied Lonergan next. She could smell the weed on him. “No. Sorry. Wrong guy.”

It was a nice try, and Foster couldn’t fault him for the attempt. She put her badge away and stood there waiting, holding up the line, prepared to do so all afternoon. The marijuana was a nonstarter. Rimmer was over twenty-one. He was legal if he had less than thirty grams on his person, but it didn’t look like he knew that. He’d begun to sweat.

“Excuse me. I was next. You can’t just cut in front.”

Foster turned around to face a dark-haired woman in business attire clutching a rhinestone-encrusted iPhone, a slender tote slung under her arm. Their eyes held. She was sure the woman had seen her present her badge. She saw Lonergan standing next to her, looking like a cop. Yet it was Foster she felt confident in challenging. She stared at the woman for a few moments, her head angled slightly, watching as the woman appeared to go from haughty and entitled to docile, deciding finally to step back from the counter to give her and Lonergan all the room and time they required. Foster turned back around.

A freckle-faced barista in her midtwenties at the other end of the counter shouted, “Joe, your Caffè Misto’s up.” Foster’s eyebrow rose. Lonergan’s too.

“Not you, huh?” Lonergan said.

Rimmer’s eyes began to dart around the room. It looked like he wanted to run, but he had nowhere to go. The place was crowded, even this late in the day. “Okay. Yeah. I’m Joe. What’s this about?”

“Mind if we talk for a minute?” Foster asked.

“Yeah, take a break, Frank Zappa,” Lonergan added.

Away from the counter and the busy line of caffeine junkies, Foster and Lonergan snagged the world’s smallest corner table to talk to the jumpy Rimmer, who slid his hands over his baggy pockets and left them there. Foster was sure Lonergan caught the move and the smell, and it looked like he was finding both hard to ignore.

“When’s the last time you saw Peggy?” Lonergan asked.

Rimmer let a breath go, relief loosening the tension in his face. “Peggy? Why?”

“Answer the question,” Lonergan said.

Rimmer read something in Lonergan’s face he didn’t want to challenge. “We broke up. Haven’t seen her in weeks. What’s all this about?”

“Peggy was killed last night,” Foster said gently. “Her body was found on the Riverwalk.”

Rimmer looked from cop face to cop face as he formed a half smile that slowly faded. “You’re full of shit. Both of you. Is this a joke?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Foster said. “I’m sorry.” Rimmer sat stunned, unblinking, and she wondered what was running through his head. Was he thinking about Peggy? He seemed genuinely surprised at the news, but not devastated by it.

“So when’d you see her last?” Lonergan asked again.

The jumpiness was back. Rimmer eyed the counter, where his espresso machine awaited. “Couple weeks . . . or more,” he said. “We didn’t hang anymore, so I wouldn’t know where she was or what she was doing, would I?” His eyes held Foster’s. “You’re solid? Peggy’s really dead?”