Page 123 of Kismet

I called the constable and arranged to meet him at a Subway in the neighborhood he patrolled. He was happy to take a modified lunch break.

I rolled up a few minutes shy of noon and spotted his patrol car in the lot. The fast-food joint didn’t have a huge eat-in area, but most people ordered sandwiches and left. The staff consisted of bored-looking high school students.

Yates had secured a table in a back corner, for which I was grateful, considering what I wanted to discuss. I joined him, not bothering to order food. Yates had a loaded footlong and a fountain drink, so it gave us an excuse to linger.

“Hey,” I said, dropping into the seat across from him.

He quickly chewed the massive bite he’d taken before swiping a napkin over his mouth. “Kobe. What’s up?”

The man seemed thrilled to see me, and I hated that the only reason I’d contacted him was because I needed something and not because I sought to rekindle a nonexistent friendship.

“Not too much. I want to chat about that case. Those girls you were telling me about. You know, the ones from three years ago.”

Yates’s smile evaporated. A defensiveness sharpened his gaze and stiffened his shoulders. “Why? I told you I didn’t handle it well. I’m not proud, but I’ve been doing all I can to make up for my mistakes.”

“I know. I’m the last person to judge you. Believe me. I make plenty of my own mistakes. I wanted to chat because I’m starting to think those girls may be tied to my case.”

Yates’s brow furrowed as he plucked a fallen curl of lettuce off the paper wrap and popped it into his mouth. “Your serial?”

“It’s the only one I’m working at the moment, and my boss would probably like nothing more than to haul me off it. You said the girl who claimed to be raped named Jesse Vargas.”

“She said Jesse, but I didn’t know who Jesse was until his death and all the background noise hit the news. I assume it’s the same guy.”

“I assume too.”

“I looked for him. I swear. Those girls haunt my nights. I have a daughter. Did I tell you that?”

“No.”

“She’s three months old.” Yates’s face crumpled. “I look at her, and I think about how I treated those girls. The ugly things I said to them.”

“People make mistakes.”

He nodded absently and picked at his sandwich. “What do you need?”

“I need to know everything you remember. Physical descriptions of the girls. Height, hair color, eye color, weight, mannerisms, tone of voice. Everything. What do you remember about the boy? I’d like a detailed breakdown of what everyone wore and how they smelled. I want you to go through this report again and fill in any missing details.”

I pushed the brown folder he’d given me a couple of weeks ago across the table.

Yates stared at it, pale, his lunch seemingly forgotten.

“Can you do that for me?”

“Yes.”

I took out a notepad and pen, opened it to a clean page, and waited.

Yates blinked up from his musing. “Now?”

“Now.”

It was nearly onethirty before I made it to the forensic lab. Dominique wasn’t in his office, so I called his cell as I paced the lobby.

“You’re late,” he said in lieu of hello.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Downstairs.” He hung up before I could say more.