“Decker gave me Adrianna’s diary. I’m going to look through it before we talk to the boys. See if I can find out a hint of a love connection between Aaron and her. But you’re welcome to use the machine.”

“You know I don’t know how to do it.”

“And that’s my problem because—”

“All right, all right.” He stood up. “I’ll bite the bullet. Teach me how to foam.”

“Now it’ll have to wait, Scott. I’ve got things to do.”

“How long would it take?”

“The truth is, it probably wouldn’t take too long, but that’s not the point. I was willing to put myself out this morning, but you didn’t want to.”

“How about if I beg?”

She got up. “If you’re going to demean yourself, ask for more than a latte.”

“Sweetheart, I’ve demeaned myself for a lot less. At least a latte won’t slap my face when I’m done drinking.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

MARGE WAS OLD enough to remember when a tattoo meant something, that the skin art went hand in hand with felonious behavior and an affiliation with a badass gang. Back then, the only other acceptable tattoos, like MOM enclosed in a heart, were associated with men of the U.S. armed services. The rest of the male population went without. Nowadays ink was completely accepted and worn like permanent jewelry. Tattooing had almost become, dare she say it, conventional ornamentation. The really handy thing that came out of the craft was identification because no two images were exactly alike.

Aaron Otis was festooned with multicolored swirls up and down his left arm, while his right arm had been inked in a series of arm-bands that included—but was not limited to—a circle of razor-tipped barbed wire, a bangle of Japanese writing, a snake bracelet, and an array of bullets in an ammo belt. The only place that showed Aaron au naturel was his gaunt face—tan, craggy, and blond—as if he’d spent his life in the outback. He wore a black T-shirt and beige cargo pants. Loafer Vans encased his sockless feet.

Greg Reyburn was a little more discerning in his choice of body pictorials, but his skin still contained enough ink to pen a novelette. He was average height and build. The young man had a head of black curls, high cheekbones, and a pointy chin. His eyes, like those of his fellow traveler, were saggy and red-rimmed. He had on jeans, a black polo shirt, and sandals.

Marge had put them into two separate interview rooms. While Scott worked his magic on Greg Reyburn, she’d take Aaron Otis. She brought him a soda and sat down next to him, leaning forward, trying to appear maternal. “You look tired.”