can of Krylon, a brand that could be found at any hardware store in town. But putting a slideshow of impressions together, he thought he was beginning to see a picture.
It looked like there might have been a witness to tonight’s robbery. Maybe a graffiti artist or a tagger. Not exactly a huge break in the case, considering there must be dozens if not hundreds of them in the city.
Still, maybe they had their territories. And at the very least, it was a place to start.
Chapter Six
Okay, I have to admit it, today was different. Usually the kids I teach want to be here.
SATURDAY MORNING, on the north side of Jerry Harvey’s shop, Poppy faced three kids who stared back at her sullenly, their postures a study of teenage defiance. She turned to give Jason a brief glance, then concentrated her full attention on the teens. “My name is Poppy Calloway,” she said genially. “You will refer to me as Ms. Calloway. This is Detective de Sanges.” She looked at the lone girl in the group. “Are you Danny or Cory?”
“Cory.” The red lipstick, the heavily mascaraed blue eyes beneath the long, black bangs of an otherwise short, spiky hairdo gave her attitude. But a wash of color upon her fair, fair skin hinted at nerves.
“You’re a surprise.” There was an understatement, but she buried her astonishment in a calm tone. “Lot of people thought you were a boy.”
“No shit,” the scrawnier of the two boys muttered.
Poppy turned to him. “And you are?”
A who-wants-to-know expression was her only answer for a long moment. But when Poppy merely looked at him and de Sanges shifted impatiently at her back, he muttered, “Henry.”
She glanced at her notes, then back up to meet his gaze with a level, carefully nonconfrontational one of her own. “Well, Mr. Close,” she said pleasantly, “as long as you’re a part of this group, you will check your language at the door.”
“Right. That’s fuckin’ gonna happen.”
She put a hand on de Sanges’s arm as he took a giant step to brush past her, aware, even through two layers of clothing, of the strength and heat beneath her fingers. He was closer to them than the fifteen feet she’d insisted upon during their last conversation. She was willing to let it go, however, as long as he let her handle matters without his less-than-sympathetic interference.
The instant he subsided, she released her grip, then moved within a foot of Henry Close herself. He was undersize even for a thirteen-year-old, but he had old eyes and she recognized a hard life when she saw one written on a child’s face.
“Oh, it will happen, Mr. Close,” she said amiably.
“M’name’s Henry.”
“If you learn nothing else while you’re under my supervision,” she said as if he hadn’t interrupted, “you will learn this—we show each other respect. That’s my number-one rule. And a large part of that is avoiding the use of inflammatory language. Another part is to address each other with courtesy. So as long as you are in my program, you are Mr. Close, who is just as valuable a member of Seattle society as Bill Gates.”
“Who, technically,” the third kid said, “is a member of Medina society—not Seattle’s.”
“Yes, who is technically a member of the snooty eastside,” Poppy agreed with an easy grin, turning to the last of her trio, a tall boy with subtly expensive clothing and razor-cut brown hair. “But we like to claim him as our own when it suits our purposes to do so. And you, by process of elimination, must be Mr. Gardo.”
“Most people call me Danny G.”
“As I explained to Mr. Close, we’re a little more formal than most people.”
“What program?” Henry demanded.
Poppy raised her eyebrows at him in inquiry.
“You said as long as we’re in your program. I thought this painting over the tagging gig was just for today.”
“Then you weren’t paying attention when I called to let you know that while you will not be going to jail for defacing the shopping district, you are mine after school and on weekends until I say otherwise.”
“That sucks!”
“Funny, that’s pretty much what the merchants said when they saw what the three of you had done to their buildings.”
“Three of us, my booty,” Cory muttered.
Poppy looked at the young girl, only to find her exchanging some heavy eye contact with Henry. “Do you have something you’d like to contribute to the conversation, Ms. Capelli?”
The girl hesitated a moment, then tore her gaze away from Henry’s, glanced at Danny and shrugged shoulders burdened with a beat-up, much-too-large leather jacket worn over a black hoodie. “No, ma’am.”
“Then let’s discuss you for a minute.”
The teen started. “Nuthin’ to discuss,” she mumbled.
“Now, there we’ll have to disagree.” Poppy smiled at Cory’s unique attire. She wore a flowery black-and-tan dress over capri-length black leggings and she’d paired them with Doc Martens. Sort of Garden Party Barbie meets Urban Warrior. “Can I safely assume you dress as a boy when you go out at night for safety reasons?” she inquired gently.
Cory gave a jerky nod and Poppy allowed the girl to break eye contact.
She turned back to the two boys. “Then I suggest we all keep Ms. Capelli’s identity under our hats so she may continue to be safe. Is that agreeable with you, Mr. Gardo? Mr. Close?”
“Yeah, sure,” Danny said.
Henry opened his mouth to no doubt say something smart-ass, but snapped it shut again at the half defiant, half pleading look Cory shot him. “Whatever.” Then, as if to make up for what he clearly interpreted as a momentary weakness, he gave Poppy a slow up-and-down. “You’re hot.”
“Yes, I know. It’s my burden to bear. So shall we get started?” She nodded at the assortment of painting supplies on the sidewalk to her right and held out her hand, palm up. “You each owe me thirty-seven fifty.”
Danny dug through his wallet and forked over the required amount, but both Cory and Henry looked stricken, although they struggled to hide the fact. Cory said sulkily, “I’ve only got ten-fifty.”
“And I only got twenty,” Henry admitted.
“Then we’ll put you on the payment plan,” she said easily and accepted the money they did have, making a note of it in her little notebook. “You’ll contribute each time we meet until your debt is paid off. If you don’t have a way to make money on your own, a couple of the merchants whose buildings you defaced agreed to give you some chores, which they’ll pay you minimum wage to perform.”
“Pretty damn generous of them if you ask me,” Jase muttered.
She turned to face him. “The no-cursing rule extends to you and me, Detective de Sanges,” she said levelly. “I will thank you to show us the same respect we’re requiring of Misters Gardo and Close and Ms. Capelli.”
“Yeah, Detective,” Henry said. “Show us some damn respect.”
De Sanges’s dark brows inched toward each other for a moment, and he leveled a look on Henry until the kid shifted on his huge, laces-dangling sneakers. But he merely said to Poppy, “Yes, ma’am,” and looked beyond her to the kids once more. “My apologies,” he said flatly.
When it became clear none of the teens was going to reply, she turned her attention back to the two with balances left on their accounts. “Do you both understand my conditions?”
Cory gave a clipped nod.
Henry