Free The Rivers Run Dry by Sibella Giorello

coffee. It had the sharp challenge of bitter chocolate. I stared at the boxes along the shelves, the imports marked Italia , trying to find the courage to ask.
    â€œWhat does McLeod want you to tell me?”
    She set her cup in the saucer. “Our beloved supervisor has the idea you don’t know how to handle rich people.”
    I didn’t respond.
    â€œPersonally, I disagree,” she said. “In fact, I believe you come from that same tribe.”
    â€œYou think I’m rich?”
    â€œOld wealth, most of it gone. That once-upon-a-time circumstance of money.”
    I sipped the espresso.
    â€œYes, what I thought. Gentrified poverty. Which is lovely—consider yourself doubly blessed. You received what money’s mostly good for, education and high culture, but your boundaries broadened. McLeod, who is determined to rise in the ranks by playing by every rule, is fairly obtuse. The malaprops, for instance. But I noticed you never flinch when he mangles the mother tongue. That’s Southern, partly. But also cultured.”
    â€œI would appreciate your advice.”
    â€œWell, you’ve already surmised Jack is a raving egomaniac. What else do you need to know?”
    â€œYour best advice.”
    â€œWatch your back.”
    â€œHow long have you worked for the Bureau?”
    â€œEleven years,” she said. “All of them in Seattle. My back-ground is accounting; I’m a CPA. After eight years with white collar I didn’t want to go to Quantico for personal reasons. Three years ago I requested victim’s assistance. They complied. Other duties are thrown in occasionally, such as profiling.”
    I guessed she was a master at profiling. “How do you like this squad?”
    â€œMy father has a phrase: Eat for the hunger that’s coming.”
    â€œPardon?”
    â€œDon’t let yourself go empty. Keep some fuel in the tank.”
    â€œAll right.”
    â€œNow, the VanAlstynes,” she said, “they present a curious puzzle. Why the need for privacy when they’re so worried their daughter has been kidnapped? Perhaps they’ve been victims of extortion in the past, and they don’t want us or the public to know about it. I’ll find out what I can, and I’ll help you as much as possible, but . . .” She tilted her head, shrugging, the same gesture she gave about Mario. “After that, I’m hoping you’ll know what to do.”

    Friday rush hour began with a drive north to the University District. The sky had sealed itself with gray clouds that sank toward the horizon as though weighted with silver pellets. Just off Roosevelt Avenue, I found Mama Mia’s Pizza, the plate-glass window jaundiced by cooking oil fumes.
    Behind a chipped white counter, a clutch of Asian men wore clean green uniforms and chattered in their native language, paddling pizzas into the mouth of a false brick oven. Where Danato’s smelled of Italy through the centuries, Mama Mia’s smelled of wet cardboard, powdered milk, and bleached flour. A dozen teenagers waited at the counter, forking over ten bucks for an all-you-can-eat Friday buffet. Youth wasn’t the only thing wasted on the young.
    In the far back, I found Kermit Simms. He was wiping down a series of small round tables, the wrought-iron type found in French cafés, and when I introduced myself, the skin on his face turned a hue resembling the soiled rag in his damp hand.
    â€œDo you have a moment?” I asked.
    â€œWhat’s this about anyway?”
    â€œWhen was the last time you saw Courtney VanAlstyne?”
    â€œI knew it. Her old man put you up to this. I haven’t gone near her, so take a hike.”
    The teenagers pushed several tables together, scraping the iron legs across the beige linoleum that was gritty with soil. Kermit began tossing the dingy rag back and forth between his hands, his sinewy forearms twisting with each catch. He smiled