Nineteen
“He was bound to mess it up.” — Francesca BoyleBailey settled herself into the chair next to Officer Rainer, then looked silently across the table at her interview subject.
Gus Dakin’s tousled hair and two days-worth of stubble looked exactly as it had when she had last seen him at his apartment four days ago, reinforcing Bailey’s opinion that the look was a carefully manicured projection of stylish unkemptness, rather than the real thing. His plaid Tattersall shirt — open at the neck and radiating a price tag of, Bailey guessed, around $500 — managed to discreetly showcase his Adonis physique without clinging to it.
But for all his expensive elegance, Gus Dakin looked like he needed a cigarette. Badly. He had The Look. That look of fear and confusion, the look she had last see
