Free Silent Slaughter by C. E. Lawrence

he was already dressed and gone by the time Lee woke up around seven.
    “You sure you’re up to this, Angus?” Jimmy asked. “I can handle it on my own, you know.”
    “I’m fine. Let’s just get on with it.”
    “Feeling touchy this morning, are we?” Jimmy said as they swung onto Fourteenth Street off Seventh Avenue.
    “Put a sock in it,” Lee replied.
    They entered the creamy Beaux Arts building housing the Manhattan campus of Pratt Institute. The interviews with Lisa Adler’s roommate and boyfriend hadn’t turned up much, so they had lined up interviews with members of the art class Lisa had posed for. It didn’t seem like a very promising lead, but in an investigation like this, thoroughness was everything. As Butts liked to say, “You never know what vermin are hiding out underneath the woodpile.”
    There didn’t seem to be any vermin hiding under this particular woodpile—just a handful of frightened-looking design students huddled around the grand staircase leading up to the art gallery.
    No one seemed to know Lisa very well; the only one who even knew her name was the graduate student who had hired her, a handsome young Iranian named Amin Rasmani. He was the last one they talked to, as the others wandered off in the direction of various classes. Lee had observed before that art students often had a dreamy look, as if only part of them was physically present at any given time. Laura had had that look sometimes, and he wondered if it had made her vulnerable to whatever creep snatched her away.
    “So how did you meet Lisa?” Jimmy asked, peering intently at Amin. Lee wondered if he was trying to intimidate the kid, but Amin Rasmani had too much poise to fall for that. His accent was the King’s English, with only a hint of his Middle Eastern origins; his manner was aristocratic and refined.
    “She wandered in one day while a life drawing class was going on,” Rasmani said. “I saw her out in the hallway. When I asked her if she was looking for someone, she said a peculiar thing.”
    “Yeah?” Jimmy asked. “What was that?”
    “She said, ‘I’ll know it when I find him.’ ”
    Jimmy gave a short laugh. “Sounds like a come-on to me. I’ll bet a lot of chicks go for you, huh?”
    Rasmani looked insulted by this remark. “Detective, I have a fiancée in Iran.”
    Jimmy wasn’t about to be put off the scent. “I’m just sayin’, I’ll bet you’re a chick magnet, with those big dark eyes and all.” He shot a glance at Lee, though Lee had no idea what response he expected. Whatever game Jimmy was playing, it wasn’t going well. Rasmani’s body language indicated that he was about to clam up, so Lee decided to intervene.
    “Your English is perfect,” he said. “Have you been in this country long?”
    The question seemed to relax him. “Not long. I read philosophy at Cambridge and spent half my childhood in England. My mother is British,” he added, with a glance at Jimmy.
    Lee’s intuition was right—the kid came from money and privilege all the way. He would have had that in common with Lisa Adler. He wondered what else they might have in common.
    “Did you socialize with Lisa at all after class?” Lee asked.
    “Not really,” Rasmani said too quickly. His eyes darted to the side, and in that moment Lee knew he was hiding something.
    They couldn’t get him to admit anything, though, and finally let him go, after Jimmy gave him a business card and the usual “call-me-if-you-think-of-anything” spiel.
    “He did her,” Jimmy said as they emerged into the afternoon bustle of West Fourteenth Street. “He’s trying to hide it from us, but that guy totally did her.”
    “You have such a charming way of expressing yourself,” said Lee. “Did anyone ever tell you that?”
    “Only me dear old mum,” Jimmy replied in an atrocious attempt at a Cockney accent. “She’s not nearly as hot as your mom, though,” he added, poking Lee in the shoulder.
    “Don’t you ever let