Sometimes I’m amazed I have any naïveté left.
In any event, I’d become their caterer. At the beginning of September, Dusty Routt, our pretty, enthusiastic neighbor, had asked me to teach her to cook. Because of her class and work schedule, we met every Thursday night at ten in H&J’s beautifully outfitted kitchen, to plan and prep Richard’s Friday-morning meetings. We would chat, roast rashers of bacon so that they would just need a quick heating in the micro-wave, mix up bread to rise overnight, cut creamy chèvre into dot-sized bites, check for jams and preserves, count croissants and slices of prosciutto … I’d enjoyed Dusty’s company, and I’d taught her to flip omelettes with the best of them.
So.
I put my head down on the steel table in the interrogation room. Earlier, earlier, I shou
