Live to Tell - Lisa Gardner [27]
The waitress appeared, sliding oval plates smothered in red sauce in front of each of them. The smell alone made D.D.’s mouth water. She loaded her chicken parm with grated cheese and went to town.
“Brings us back to the kid,” she managed after the third bite.
“Ah, but which one?” Alex asked with an arched brow. He was taking more time with his lasagna. A patient man, she observed. Probably had to be for working crime scenes. She wondered what had taken him from the field to the classroom, and what now made him want to be out in the field again.
“I mean Ozzie,” she prompted. “You know, the one that kills squirrels for sport. Why? You’re not suspecting the oldest, are you?”
The neighbor Dexter Harding had had some news: The Harringtons were not a family of five after all. They were a family of six. Patrick had an oldest son from a previous marriage who was currently in Iraq. In honor of Private William Edward Harrington, aka Billy, Denise often set a sixth plate at the table. The Harrington version of tie a yellow ribbon ’round the old oak tree.
It appeared they didn’t have to worry about a mystery guest anymore. Unfortunately, Billy Harrington was about to get some very bad news from home.
“We should at least confirm the kid’s in Iraq,” Alex said.
“Well, duh.”
He grinned at her. “How’s the chicken parm?”
“Love it.”
“I can tell.”
“How’s the lasagna?”
“Almost as good as my grandmother’s.”
D.D. eyed him suspiciously. “With a last name like Wilson, you want me to believe you know about red sauce?”
“Ah, but my mother’s a Capozzoli.”
“I stand corrected. With a name like Capozzoli, your grandmother can probably make some gravy.”
“She taught me everything I know,” Alex commented.
D.D. paused, fork midair. “You can cook?”
“It’s my passion. Nothing like a Sunday afternoon rolling out pasta while simmering a nice sauce Bolognese.”
D.D. couldn’t swallow.
“You should come over for dinner sometime,” Alex said.
D.D. finally got it: the whispers, the exchanged glances … “Phil sold me out. Told you the quickest way inside my pants is through my stomach.”
“Didn’t even cost me thirty pieces of silver,” Alex confirmed cheerfully. “You should still come over for dinner.”
“I don’t date fellow detectives.”
“I’m not a detective.” He smiled at her. “For the next month, I’m just playing the part on TV.”
“Problem with dating another detective,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard him, “is that all you end up doing is talking shop.”
“We can talk food. What I enjoy cooking, what you enjoy eating.”
“I enjoy eating everything.”
“Works for me.”
She eyed him skeptically. “Don’t let my current good mood fool you; I’m a bitch most of the time.”
“Don’t let my current charm fool you; I get as pissed off as the next guy.”
“Why the classroom?” she asked. “Why leave the field for the classroom?”
“Had a wife. Wanted kids. More traditional hours seemed a good idea at the time.”
“What happened? She change her mind about Bolognese sauce?”
“Couldn’t get pregnant. When my wife couldn’t become a mother, she decided she didn’t want to be a wife either. We split amicably two years back.”
“You’re still teaching.”
“I like it.”
“But you’re here now.”
“I like this, too.”
“That’s awfully likable,” D.D. said with a scowl.
“Which is why you should come over for dinner.”
“I don’t do kids,” she warned. “I’m too old, too cranky.”
“Perfect, because I was just hoping for lots of sex.”
D.D. laughed, surprised and a little charmed. Laughter felt good after eighteen hours of working a crime scene. So did lunch. “I’ll think about it,” she said finally. She took a bite, chewed, swallowed. “Now, back to the matters at hand: What do we make of nine-year-old Ozzie Harrington?”
“Kid’s tricky,” Alex said at last.
“Kid’s dead.”
“We’ve already had allegations of animal cruelty and petty arson. I’m guessing there’s bed-wetting in there somewhere, which makes him a textbook serial killer.”
“Dexter thought the barbecue accident was really an accident,” D.D. countered.
“Dexter fidgeted uncontrollably every time we mentioned Ozzie’s name. Kid gave him