“I’ll talk to your principal,” he offered. “Recommend that he set up some tutoring sessions for Dennis Farman. Maybe the boy could come to school for a couple of hours a day, as long he isn’t allowed in the classroom or on the playground. That way you can maintain some contact with him. How does that sound?”

“I would appreciate your support in that.”

Quid pro quo, Vince thought. Maybe she would find out something useful, or maybe nothing would come of it . . . except another dinner . . . or two . . .

He reached his hand across the table and she met it with hers. Her hand was small and soft, but strong, like a woman who knew what she wanted. He liked that.

“Deal?” he asked.

“Deal.”

He insisted on walking Anne to her car, and she put up little resistance. With a possible serial killer on the loose, it was no time for women to be turning down extra safety measures.

He put her in her sporty little red Volkswagen and leaned down into the open window.

“Lock your doors and don’t stop for anybody,” he instructed.

“Yes, sir.”

“And don’t call me ‘sir.’ You’ll make me think I’m too old.”

“Too old for what?” she asked with that little Mona Lisa half-smile and a sparkle in her eye.

With no thought process involved, he leaned down and kissed her on the lips.

“For that,” he murmured.

Damn bullet.

She didn’t slap him. That was a good first step.

“Thanks for your help, Anne,” he said.

She was still trying to process the kiss in her analytical little brain.

“Thanks for the ziti,” she said.

He watched her drive away into the night, not quite daring to let his hopes go where they wanted. Then he walked across the street and down the alley to the back of Peter Crane’s office.

Anne poured herself a glass of wine and went to stand on the back porch, just outside the open kitchen door. She thought of Vince’s warning to be careful. There was a killer prowling the streets. But her yard was fenced, and the moon was bright, and she wanted just a few minutes to overthink the evening before she went to bed.

She touched her upper lip, still feeling the brush and tickle of his mustache as he kissed her. She tried to remember the last time she’d been kissed.