Chase: Roman

with school, I only go to bed when I feel like it, usually around three or three-thirty in the morning.’ She smiled abruptly, changing the subject with her expression. ‘May I get you a drink?’
        ‘No, thanks,’ Chase said.
        ‘Mind if I have something?’
        ‘Go ahead,’ he said.
        He watched her trim legs scissor as she went to the pull-down bar shelf concealed in the wall bookcase. As she took out the ingredients for a Sicilian Stinger, she stood with her back to him, her hips artfully canted, her round ass thrust toward him. It might have been the unconscious stance of a girl with all the attributes of a woman but with only a partial understanding of the effect her pneumatic body might have on men. Or it might have been completely contrived.
        When she came back with what appeared to be a professionally mixed drink, he said, ‘Are you old enough to drink?’
        ‘Seventeen,’ she said. ‘Almost eighteen, out of high school, starting college in the fall, no longer a child.’
        ‘Of course,’ he said, feeling stupid. He'd heard her tell this to the detective. What in the world was the matter with him, reacting to her as if he were a parent himself? There was little more than seven years between them, after all, not nearly enough time to permit him to question her codes. It was just that only seven years ago, when he was her age, one was a child at seventeen. Again he had forgotten how fast they grew up now - or how fast they thought they did.
        ‘Sure you won't have something?’ she asked, sipping at the drink.
        He declined again.
        She leaned back against the couch, crossing her bare legs, and she made him aware for the first time that he could see the hard tips of her small breasts against the thin halter.
        He said, ‘It's just occurred to me that your mother may have been in bed, if she gets up early for work. I didn't mean -’
        ‘Mother's working now,’ Louise said. She looked at him coyly. Or perhaps she didn't realize the effect of the look, with her lashes lowered and her head tilted to one side. ‘She's a cocktail waitress. She goes on duty at seven, off at three, home about three-thirty in the morning.’
        ‘I see.’
        ‘Are you frightened?’ she asked, smiling now. ‘Of being here alone with me?’
        ‘Of course not,’ he said, smiling, leaning back on the sofa, turning sideways to see her. But he knew now that none of her sensuality was unintentional.
        ‘Well,’ she said, ‘where do we begin?’ She made a distinct try for the double entendre.
        Chase ignored that, and for the following half-hour, guided her through her memories of Monday night, augmenting them with his own, questioning her on details and urging her to question him, looking for some small thing that might be the key or for some change of perspective that might put the madness in a more orderly light. Though they came up with nothing new and though they had little hope, she answered all his questions with a genuine effort to dissect the events of that night. She looked upon them almost as a disinterested outsider, and she appeared to have to make little effort to achieve this tone, as if they really were little more than second-hand stories already.
        ‘Mind if I have another one?’ she asked, shaking her glass.
        ‘Go ahead.’
        ‘Want one this time?’
        ‘No, thank you,’ he said, recognizing the need to keep his head clear, though not the reason.
        She stood mixing her drink in the same provocative pose as before, and when she returned to the couch, she sat down much closer to him than she had been before. ‘One thing I just thought of,’ she said.
        ‘What's that?’
        ‘You asked me if he was wearing a ring, and I said he was. But I forgot to say how he was wearing it.’
        Chase leaned away from the back of the couch, eager for anything, no matter how unimportant it seemed at the moment. ‘I don't understand what you mean,’ he said.
        ‘It was a pinkie ring,’ she said.
        ‘A what?’
        She wiggled the smallest finger on her free hand. ‘A pinkie ring, for your pinkie, your littlest finger. Haven't you ever seen one?’
        ‘Of course,’ he admitted. ‘But I really don't understand where it tells us anything new or important.’
        ‘Well,’ she said, making a face that seemed divorced from any possible human emotion, ‘ I've only