“How old was he?”
“Old? Oh, early twenties, I’d say. Like I said, Yasmine was fourteen or fifteen. So yes, I’d say that’s about right. Early twenties.”
“Early twenties, with curly blond hair,” Frank rumbled quietly. “Can you remember anything else? Any other detail or incident that might give us a clue?”
“I remember the car,” the woman nodded, and smiling. “Beautiful car. My son had one almost exactly like it. Big four-door Chevrolet Impala. Black Impala with chrome wheels. I know the color because he’d let Yasmine off at the end of the block. He’d stop underneath a streetlight. In fact, that’s how I know he had blond hair. One night after he let her off, he got out of the car and decided to urinate on the street corner. His head and shoulders were above the car’s roof line, so I got to
