Patrick turned his mug slowly. “Could be random, but I don’t think so.”
She didn’t either. “So he chose that location specifically. But for what? And who was he?”
“Unidentified. You know that.”
“Not his name, although that would be helpful. I mean, what kind of man was he?” She leaned forward slightly. “A good death investigator looks at everything, not just the space and the body's position, but the victim himself. What he was wearing. What shape his shoes were in. Whether he was clean and groomed or not.” She paused. “A squatter looks like a squatter.”
Patrick was quiet.
“Was he dressed for the location?” she continued. “Was he underdressed? Overdressed? Those details tell you whether he knew where he was going or was taken somewhere without preparation.” She sat back. “How did he die? The publicized account didn’t give any details, and I don't have access to that information here.”
“But someone does,” Patrick said.
“Local law enforcement does.” She held his gaze. “Do you have any sources there? Someone you trust?”
Patrick met her gaze. “I know a guy.”
Morgan felt the corner of her mouth move before she could stop it.
His eyes widened. “Did I just make you smile?” he said.
“You did not,” she said. “I was thinking about something else.”
“Right.” That devastating grin was back with a vengeance. “I'll reach out tomorrow. See what I can find out.”
“Discreetly.”
“Always.”
She believed him, which was either good judgment or a sign that the Jameson had been a mistake.
She couldn’t believeit when she looked at her watch. Hours had passed.
She wasn't sure how that was possible. One minute, they’d been discussing the case. The next, he was asking her about her life in Philadelphia and she was telling him her life story—or at least a sanitized version of it, fit for public consumption.
“Do you like it?” he said. “Living in the city, I mean.”
She considered this honestly. “I like what I do there. The work is important. It matters. The city is...” She paused, looking for words to adequately convey her thoughts. There were parts she liked, and parts she didn’t. She’d spent most of her life in Philly but didn’t have strong feelings about it one way or the other. “A good place to be invisible, I guess. There's always something happening.”
“As opposed to Pine Ridge,” Patrick said wryly, “where nothing happens and there’s no such thing as being invisible.”
“Something happened,” she said quietly. “Someone died.”
“Fair point.” He looked at the table for a moment. “Why don’t you visit your grandfather often?”
“We didn't have much contact. My mother remarried when I was young. I didn’t even know about Frank until I was in college.”
“And now?”
She thought about the bookshelves and the clippings and the way Frank spoke more with silence than most people did with words.
“He’s a complicated man. I think I’m more like him than my mother,” she said without meaning to.
Patrick looked at her with an expression she couldn't quite read. “I think so too. There’s a lot more to you than meets the eye, Morgan Sullivan.”
The question was, was that a good thing or a bad thing?
“It’s late. I should go.”