She unrolled her napkin and fiddled with it before placing her silverware in front of her. “Well, busy, as usual. I guess actually a little more busy than usual.”
“You didn’t have any more problems with anyone, did you?”
Shaking her head, “No, that was well in hand by the time I left. We have a number of volunteers and a few staff members that always oversee the bag lunches.” She looked down at the napkin that was now crinkled in her hands. “You probably want to know more about Rocky, don’t you?”
He considered his response, then replied honestly. “When I asked you to lunch, yes. And that’s still true, I do need to know what you can tell me. But I have to admit that I’m having a good time getting to know you.”
Her smile brightened her already beautiful face. Tilting her head to the side, she asked, “Are you looking for anything in particular about him?”
“Honestly, anything you can think of. I know what you talked about privately with him or in counseling groups might be considered—”
“It’s okay, Carter. With Rocky being deceased and the drugs he was carrying being investigated, I don’t consider anything to be confidential.” She cast her gaze back to the table and sighed. “He said he had been diagnosed with PTSD by the Army after he was treated for his injuries. He had been near an IED explosion and had several surgeries on his leg.”
“Yes, his injuries were indicated in the autopsy.”
A wince slashed crossed her face, and he hated that he reminded her. “Do you know how long he’d been homeless? We don’t have an address for him since he was discharged from the VA hospital.”
“I don’t think he had a home. His father abandoned them early, and his mother was a substance abuser. He ended up in the foster system as a teenager and then joined the military as soon as he graduated high school. When he got out, he had some money he’d saved, but as you know, housing can be expensive. I first met him about six months ago when he came into the shelter. I put him on a list for a bed but went ahead and enrolled him in counseling. By the time the bed came available, he had been in and out of the center enough to see families in need. He told me that he was fine on his own and didn’t want to take the bed away from someone else who needed it more.”
She sucked in her lips for a minute, and Carter watched as she blinked as tears formed in her eyes. “I told him the bed was his and he deserved it as much as anyone.” Shrugging again, she added, “But he came in for the lunches and counseling and got his meds at the clinic.”
He reached across the table, his fingertips barely touching her hand in comfort when the server appeared with their plates. Startled, he jerked his hand back but not before seeing a flash of something in her eyes that looked very much like regret. Uncertain if he was reading her correctly, he turned his attention to his sandwich and they both began to eat.
After several minutes of eating and conversation centering around their food in the deli, she leaned back in her seat. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Absolutely.”
“You said he had a plastic bag of prescription pills. Opioids, I believe. Was it the same type of plastic bag that the sandwich scraps were in?”
“Everything is still at the lab, but I can tell you that the only fingerprints on the bag of drugs were his. So, wherever he got them, someone was using gloves.”
“Maybe he just had a few extra or saved them up if he didn’t need them right away.”
He battled the desire to reach across the table and smooth the wrinkle in her forehead, wiping the concern from her face. Instead, he pushed his now empty plate to the edge of the table so that he could lean forward, wanting to close as much distance between them as he could. “I think you know enough about substance abuse to know that’s probably not true. And, Tara, I know enough about distribution to know that’s not true either.”
Her face fell, and he longed to see her smile again. She nodded slowly, and said, “You’re right. I know you’re right. Of course, the sandwiches would be bagged in all kinds of different ways by the many volunteers who are making them.” She nibbled on the corner of her bottom lip, furrowing her brow again. Suddenly, eyes wide, she asked, “What about the other men? Were there similarities with their bags of drugs?”
Impressed with her analysis, he nodded. “Same kind of bags. No prints except for the men’s.”
“So, you’re looking for the same person who’s dealing drugs?”
“Not necessarily. It may be more than one person who’s using the same method.”
“Were they the same kind of drugs with each of the men?”
He hesitated, flipping his hands palm up on the table. “That’s something I can’t tell you right now.”
“I understand, ongoing investigation, and all that.”
He expected her to be angry or at least irritated that he was unable to give her more information. Before he had a chance to say anything else, the server dropped off the bill. Tara reached inside her purse, but he shook his head. “Lunch is on me, Tara.” Seeing her about to protest, he added, “I’m the one who asked you. It was my idea, so my treat.”
She lifted an eyebrow and her lips curved slightly. “So, by that logic, if I invite you out, then I get to pay?”
He grinned, her question surprising him. Of course, the idea that he would like to go out with her again was also surprising. “Absolutely. You can ask me out for coffee, and I’ll let you pay. When I ask you out for dinner, that would be my
