Drawing Conclusions by Deirdre Verne Page A

night.”
    I looked at DeRosa. It was Thursday. Tomorrow was Friday, and Teddy would be dead exactly fifteen days.
    â€œI didn’t go through the line.” I bit into one half of a cleanly sliced triple-decker club while I reached for DeRosa’s food receipt. “You paid $8.50 for the hamburger, $3.00 for the oversized chocolate chip cookie, and $5.50 for the bottled beer.” I crumpled the slip of paper and tossed it over my shoulder. “Total damage: $17. My bill: zero.”
    DeRosa’s bottom lip pursed like a fussy baby refusing a bottle. “Please tell me you paid for the food, CeCe.”
    â€œI didn’t pay for the food, Frank. You know damn well I snagged leftovers.”
    â€œLeftovers?” DeRosa took a swig of beer. “Well, that’s rich. You’re actually referring to half-eaten food headed down the conveyor belt as your personal doggie bag.”
    â€œIt’s all about perception,” I said as I savored a hunk of ham wrapped in bacon and marinated in mayonnaise. “Here’s a riddle for you. You work a full day and return home in the evening. You change out of your clothing and stuff your underwear in the hamper.”
    â€œThat’s overly personal.”
    â€œI take that as a yes.” I sipped my water fountain water from a free paper cup and continued with my inquiry. “The next day you don a pair of fresh underwear and head to back to the station. Within minutes of arriving, the chief assigns you to a stake-out where you stew in an unmarked car for forty-eight hours waiting for a tattooed perp to limp out of a drug den.”
    â€œYou watch too much television.” DeRosa broke his cookie in half and handed me the bigger piece. I continued with my riddle.
    â€œYou return home and, similar to a regular work day, you undress and put your underwear in the hamper.”
    â€œMy mother trained me well.”
    â€œYour future wife will thank Mama DeRosa. Anyway, here’s my question.” I leaned across the table and in a serious voice asked, “When is your underwear dirty?
    â€œWhen I take it off,” Frank replied without missing a beat.
    â€œSo, ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” I said as I raised my hands, palms open in astonishment. “The defendant claims that underwear, regardless of how long it is worn, be it ten minutes or ten days, is clean until it is removed. The defendant claims the concept of dirty is a matter of perception.”
    DeRosa swallowed his cookie as if it was rotting spinach. He didn’t take kindly to a trap that easily caught him. I ignored his displeasure and forged on with my analogy.
    â€œA man with plastic gloves and a hair net prepares a club sandwich.” I took another satisfying bite of my free meal and wiped my mouth politely. “He cuts the sandwich in half and wraps it in clingwrap. I eat one half and a stranger eats the other half. Does it really matter if I pick my half up at the counter or on the conveyer belt? Food ownership is a matter of perception.”
    â€œThe conveyor belt doesn’t have a spit guard,” DeRosa countered.
    â€œAnd your underwear is still dirty,” I replied.
    â€œCeCe.” His face relaxed, and he seemed to drift off to a place that preceded his overuse of the word interesting . “What if we are making too many assumptions about the facts of the case?” he posed. “If it’s all about perception, what if we looked at the facts from another point of view?”
    â€œHow about the killer’s point of view?” I suggested.
    â€œWe’ll get there, but we need to go through this exercise first. Work with me,” DeRosa said. “We believe Teddy knew he was in danger. We suspect that Naomi was involved in something per Charlie’s feedback about their break-up. We think Naomi’s suicide and Teddy’s death are linked.” DeRosa rustled in his tote bag and located an evidence