Kat almost swooned. Woody Allen stops before he and Diane Keaton arrive at the restaurant, kind of like Stan here just did, and says, “Hey, gimme a kiss.” Diane Keaton replies, “Really?” Woody says, “Yeah, why not, because we’re just gonna go home later, right, and then there’s gonna be all that tension, we’ve never kissed before and I’ll never know when to make the right move or anything. So we’ll kiss now and get it over with, and then we’ll go eat. We’ll digest our food better.”
Oh, how she loved that scene. She smiled at Stan and waited.
“Hey,” Stan said, doing a meh impression of Woody, “let’s go have sex before we eat.”
Kat blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Right, I know that’s not the exact line, but think about it. I won’t know when to make the right move and how many dates before we jump in the sack and, when you think about it, we might as well start off doing the horizontal mambo because if we aren’t good in bed, well, what’s the point, you know what I mean?”
She looked for him to start laughing. He didn’t. “Wait, you’re serious?”
“Sure. We’ll digest our food better, right?”
“I can feel my last meal coming up right now,” Kat said.
During dinner, she tried to stay on the rather safe topic of Woody Allen movies. It soon became apparent that Stan wasn’t a fan, but he had seen Annie Hall. “See, here’s what I do,” Stan confided to her in a low whisper. “I just search on the site for women who love that movie. That line? It didn’t work with you, but most of Woody’s fans immediately get their legs in the air.”
Terrific.
Stacy listened intently to Kat’s story about Stan, trying her best not to laugh. “Wow, he sounds like such a douche.”
“Yep.”
“But you’re still being too picky. That guy on the second date. He sounded nice.”
“True. I mean, he didn’t ruin any of my favorite movies for me.”
“I hear a but.”
“But he ordered a Dasani. Not a bottle of water. A Dasani.”
Stacy frowned. “Let me rephrase: Wow, he sounds like such a Massengill.”
Kat groaned out loud.
“You’re being too picky, Kat.”
“I probably need more time.”
“To get over Jeff?”
Kat said nothing.
“To get over a guy who dumped you, what, twenty years ago?”
“Shut up, please.” Then: “Eighteen years.”
They were just about out the door when Kat heard a voice behind her call her name. They both stopped and turned. It was Chaz.
“Need you for a sec,” Chaz said.
“Heading out to lunch,” Kat said.
Chaz beckoned her with a finger, all the while keeping his eye on Stacy. Kat sighed and headed up to meet him. Chaz turned his back and pointed with his thumb down toward Stacy. “Who’s the Grade A, prime beef, select choice hottie?”
“Not your type.”
“She looks my type.”
“She has the capacity to think.”
“Huh?”
“What do you want, Chaz?”
“You have a visitor.”
“I’m on my lunch hour.”
“I told the kid that. Said I’d help him, but he said he’d wait.”
“Kid?”
Chaz shrugged.
“What kid?”
“I look like your secretary? Ask him yourself. He’s sitting by your desk.”
She signaled to Stacy to give her another minute and headed up another level. A teenage boy sat in the chair next to her desk. He sat, well, like a teenager—slouching to the point of nearly melting, as though someone had removed his bones and propped him up. His arm was draped over the back of the chair as if it was something that didn’t belong to him. His hair was too long, aiming for boy band or lax bro, but it hung down in his face like a tassel curtain.
Kat approached him. “Can I help you?”
He sat up, pushed the curtain off his face. “You’re Detective Donovan.”
It was more a statement than a question.
“That’s right. What can I do for you?”
“My name is Brandon.” He stuck out his hand. “Brandon Phelps.”
She shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Brandon.”
“You too.”
“Is there something I can help you with?”
“It’s about my mom.”
“What about her?”
“She’s missing. I think you can help me find her.”
• • •
Kat canceled lunch with Stacy. Then she came back up to her desk and sat across from Brandon Phelps. She asked the first question to come to mind.
“Why me?”
Brandon swallowed hard. “Huh?”
“Why did you come to me specifically? My partner said you wanted to wait for me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Brandon’s eyes darted around the precinct. “I heard you were the best.”
A lie. “From?”
Brandon shrugged like a teenager, somehow both lazy and melodramatic at the same time. “Does it matter? I wanted you, not that other guy.”
“That’s not how it works. You don’t get to choose your investigator.”
He suddenly looked as though he were about to cry. “You won’t help me?”
“I didn’t say that.” Kat didn’t get this, but it didn’t feel right. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
“It’s my mom.”
“Right.”
“She’s missing.”
“Okay, first things first.” Kat took out a pen and paper. “Your name is Brandon Phelps?”
“Yes.”
“And your mother’s?”
“Dana.”
“Phelps?”
“Yes.”
“Is she married?”
“No.” He started biting a fingernail. “My dad died three years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, because, well, that was what you said. “Do you have any siblings?”
“No.”
“So it’s just you and your mom?”
“Right.”
“How old are you, Brandon?”
“Nineteen.”
“Where do you live?”
“1279 Third Avenue.”
“Apartment number?”
“Uh, 8J.”
“Phone?”