Free Lying in Wait by J. A. Jance Page A

walking behind him, I think I would have been tempted to give them a yank. It wouldn't have taken much effort to have dropped them around his ankles.
    For some unknown reason, kids who insisted on wearing their baseball caps backward six months ago have now, for no apparent reason, collectively turned them bill forward. Jared Danielson was no exception. At least the maroon-and-gray Washington State University baseball cap perched on his head was turned in the right direction. The dark brown hair sticking out beneath it fell well below his shoulders, and a small gold hoop earring pierced the lobe of one ear. He sported a spectacularly black-and-blue bruise under his right eye.
    I'm old enough and old-fashioned enough so that the combination of earring and shiner jarred. When I was growing up, a boy who wore earrings wasn't likely to be hauled into the principal's office for fist-fighting. I take that back. They got in fist fights, all right, but they usually weren't the ones who started them. This punk looked as if he had mouthed off to the wrong person.
    Just one look at his typical twelve-year-old-tough-guy pout as Jared Danielson slouched into the backseat of the Mustang was enough to make me regret having offered to take the little ingrate along to lunch. But then, settling back into my own seat, I managed to find something positive in the prospect. Lunch with Jared Danielson was all I was in for. He was Sue Danielson's son. She was stuck with the kid for life.
    "Where to?" Sue asked me, once she resumed the driver's seat.
    Attempting to play the role of polite host, I turned to Jared. "What would you like for lunch?" I asked.
    Jared glowered back at me and shrugged. "I dunno," he said.
    "Fair enough. It's my call then. Let's try that little diner up on Forty-fifth," I said. "The one just across from the Guild Forty-five Theater."

    Ever since the Doghouse Restaurant closed in downtown Seattle, I've felt like a displaced person. Over the past few months, I've auditioned a few other hangouts, but so far none of them quite measures up.
    I hate to admit it, but I miss the thick gray haze of secondhand smoke. I miss the butt-sprung orange plastic booths with their distinctive, triangular tears and duct-tape patching. I miss the basic "Bob's Burger" with the onions fried into the meat. But most of all, I miss the crusty old-time waitresses who always knew how I liked my coffee and who saved me a daily collection of crossword puzzles from various abandoned newspapers.
    The diner on Forty-fifth was trying hard--too hard--to achieve a "real" 1950s look and atmosphere. Their recipe for authenticity was missing several essential ingredients. What was needed was more grime, more cigarette smoke, a few nonconforming extension cords strung along the moldings, and some hash-slinging waitresses at least one of whom would have a racing form handily tucked in her apron pocket.
    Jared skulked into the far corner of a booth. Sue slid in beside him. We had no more than picked up our menus when Sue's pager went off. She headed for the pay phone in the back. "Order me a burger with fries and a cup of coffee," she said on her way. "I'll be right back."
    I turned to Jared, who was scowling at the menu. "What'll you have?" I asked, trying once again to break the ice.
    "I dunno," he said. "A cheeseburger, I guess."

    Such unbridled enthusiasm, to say nothing of gratitude. I wanted to slug him.
    He avoided my gaze by staring out the window. "So what are you?" he mumbled sarcastically. "My mom's new boyfriend? Are you two going out or something?"
    Boyfriend? Going out? If I had ever been tempted to cut the kid any slack, that just about corked it.
    "The lady happens to be my partner," I explained as civilly as I could manage. "We're working a homicide case together. Period."
    He looked at me then, his eyes angry and accusing. "Well," he said, "you're taking us to lunch. It seems like a date to me."
    The waitress showed up at the booth and saved me