gripped the handhold over the glove
compartment. He drove in silence until they arrived at the site that
St. John had identified as the spot where Jane Ferrar's body must
have been dumped into the storm drain. Cassiletti parked the Buick on
the dirt easement beside the stables where a woman in tight Levi's
and a long-sleeved blue shirt was mucking out the stalls. St. John
waited so Cassiletti would be the first to approach the woman.
" Excuse me, ma'am," Cassiletti said.
St. John winced. Women under thirty, as this one
appeared to be, preferred to be addressed as "miss."
She paused, leaned against her rake, and studied
them. Most of her attention was on Cassiletti, taking in the
detective's full height of six-three. She had a friendly smile on her
tanned face even though she gave St. John no more than a cursory
glance.
"Patricia," she said. "Patricia
Kelly."
"I hate to bother you, Miss Kelly"
Cassiletti said, "but I was wondering if you could help me."
" Call me Patty " She rested her rake
against the corral wall and pulled off her leather work gloves. "And
you're?"
Cassiletti handed her a business card and her eyes
lit up even more. St. John watched with a pang of nostalgia.
Something about the badge parted more knees than the Charleston.
"What do you need?" Patty asked.
Cassiletti was all business as he produced the
plastic evidence bag containing the rope that had been used to bind
Jane Ferrar. "Is this the type of rope you use around here?"
" May I?" She reached for the bag.
Cassiletti let her take it. She studied the rope for
a moment. "Nylon."
" That's right."
"We'd never use it here, not for a lead. I like
cotton, much softer on your hands if the horse shies. Nylon burns
your hands and when you cut it you have to seal the ends or it
unravels."
Cassiletti showed her the melted end. "Seal it
like this?"
She looked, learning in much closer than she needed
to, St. John thought. "Exactly" she said, giving her long
brown hair a flip and smiling with all her teeth for Cassiletti.
" One more thing," he said.
"Sure."
" Were you here last Saturday?"
"In the morning. I came in and fed the stock."
"How about later?"
"You mean Saturday night?" She looked at
him speculatively "I had a date, a very boring date, and I went
home early."
St. John waited for her to add "alone."
With Cassiletti, she'd be better served if she hit him over the head
and then lassoed him with one of her soft cotton ropes.
" Thank you, Patty," Cassiletti said.
"You've been a big help."
"Do you want my number?" she asked. "In
case you have any more questions?"
"That would be great. Thank you very much."
Cassiletti wrote down her full name and phone number,
checked his watch, and made a notation of the time. All business.
Patty touched his hand. "And that's 'Miss.' "
Cassiletti nodded without looking up. His ears
darkened and he cleared his throat.
Fuck, St. John thought, this is truly painful to
watch. When they walked back to the car, St. John held his hands out
for the keys. Cassiletti relinquished them without protest.
St. John swung a U when there was a break in traffic.
"You going to call her?"
"About what?"
" Have I taught you nothing?"
Cassiletti let out one of his trademark giggles and
rolled his eyes. "Oh," he said.
"Yeah," St. John said. "Oh." He
looked across the seat. "What did you do last Saturday night?"
" I cooked dinner for my dad."
" What about your mom?"
"What about her?"
"l don't know, you never talk about her."
" She was a model from England. And very
beautiful."
That would explain Cassiletti's hazel eyes and long
lashes. St. John had met the father, a hefty but short Italian. His
son's looks hadn't come from him. "Is she still alive?"
"Probably." Cassiletti stared out his
window.
" You don't know? When's the last time you saw
her?"
"I was eight when my dad kicked her out."
" And he kept custody of you?" St. John
didn't mean to pry; but this was too surprising not to demand
compartment. He drove in silence until they arrived at the site that
St. John had identified as the spot where Jane Ferrar's body must
have been dumped into the storm drain. Cassiletti parked the Buick on
the dirt easement beside the stables where a woman in tight Levi's
and a long-sleeved blue shirt was mucking out the stalls. St. John
waited so Cassiletti would be the first to approach the woman.
" Excuse me, ma'am," Cassiletti said.
St. John winced. Women under thirty, as this one
appeared to be, preferred to be addressed as "miss."
She paused, leaned against her rake, and studied
them. Most of her attention was on Cassiletti, taking in the
detective's full height of six-three. She had a friendly smile on her
tanned face even though she gave St. John no more than a cursory
glance.
"Patricia," she said. "Patricia
Kelly."
"I hate to bother you, Miss Kelly"
Cassiletti said, "but I was wondering if you could help me."
" Call me Patty " She rested her rake
against the corral wall and pulled off her leather work gloves. "And
you're?"
Cassiletti handed her a business card and her eyes
lit up even more. St. John watched with a pang of nostalgia.
Something about the badge parted more knees than the Charleston.
"What do you need?" Patty asked.
Cassiletti was all business as he produced the
plastic evidence bag containing the rope that had been used to bind
Jane Ferrar. "Is this the type of rope you use around here?"
" May I?" She reached for the bag.
Cassiletti let her take it. She studied the rope for
a moment. "Nylon."
" That's right."
"We'd never use it here, not for a lead. I like
cotton, much softer on your hands if the horse shies. Nylon burns
your hands and when you cut it you have to seal the ends or it
unravels."
Cassiletti showed her the melted end. "Seal it
like this?"
She looked, learning in much closer than she needed
to, St. John thought. "Exactly" she said, giving her long
brown hair a flip and smiling with all her teeth for Cassiletti.
" One more thing," he said.
"Sure."
" Were you here last Saturday?"
"In the morning. I came in and fed the stock."
"How about later?"
"You mean Saturday night?" She looked at
him speculatively "I had a date, a very boring date, and I went
home early."
St. John waited for her to add "alone."
With Cassiletti, she'd be better served if she hit him over the head
and then lassoed him with one of her soft cotton ropes.
" Thank you, Patty," Cassiletti said.
"You've been a big help."
"Do you want my number?" she asked. "In
case you have any more questions?"
"That would be great. Thank you very much."
Cassiletti wrote down her full name and phone number,
checked his watch, and made a notation of the time. All business.
Patty touched his hand. "And that's 'Miss.' "
Cassiletti nodded without looking up. His ears
darkened and he cleared his throat.
Fuck, St. John thought, this is truly painful to
watch. When they walked back to the car, St. John held his hands out
for the keys. Cassiletti relinquished them without protest.
St. John swung a U when there was a break in traffic.
"You going to call her?"
"About what?"
" Have I taught you nothing?"
Cassiletti let out one of his trademark giggles and
rolled his eyes. "Oh," he said.
"Yeah," St. John said. "Oh." He
looked across the seat. "What did you do last Saturday night?"
" I cooked dinner for my dad."
" What about your mom?"
"What about her?"
"l don't know, you never talk about her."
" She was a model from England. And very
beautiful."
That would explain Cassiletti's hazel eyes and long
lashes. St. John had met the father, a hefty but short Italian. His
son's looks hadn't come from him. "Is she still alive?"
"Probably." Cassiletti stared out his
window.
" You don't know? When's the last time you saw
her?"
"I was eight when my dad kicked her out."
" And he kept custody of you?" St. John
didn't mean to pry; but this was too surprising not to demand
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