Corcoran was always a blusher, did so often and deeply when embarrassed or anxious. He did so now.
“Concerning Rose’s death?” I asked.
Corcoran nodded, avoiding my eyes. I felt the first stirrings of uneasiness.
“What did this anonymous tipster say?”
“Walczak didn’t share that information with me. All I know is I was tasked with overseeing a review of the case from this end.”
“
I could think of nothing to say.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Corcoran broke the silence.
“Edward Allen is now eighty-one years old and in failing health. Perhaps he feels like a schmuck for having driven Rose from his life. Perhaps he’s still the same controlling sonovabitch he always was. Perhaps he’s nuts. What I do know is that Jurmain called his lawyer. The lawyer called Walczak. And here we are.”
“Jurmain thinks the case was mishandled?” I asked.
Corcoran nodded, gaze locked on the tabletop.
“Walczak shares that belief?”
“Yes.”
“Mishandled by whom?” It came out sharper than I meant.
Corcoran’s eyes came up and met mine. In them I saw genuine distress.
“Look, Tempe, this is not my doing.”
I took a calming breath. Repeated my question.
“Mishandled by whom, Chris?”
“By you.”
3
I GLANCED AT RYAN. HE JUST SHOOK HIS HEAD.
“You can’t let on that I shared any of this.” Corcoran looked more anxious than I’d ever seen him.
“Of course not.” My tone was surprisingly calm. “I appreciate-”
The door opened. Corcoran and I sat back, casual as hell.
Two men entered, both wearing suits fitted by Armani himself, one blue, one gray.
I recognized Blue Suit as Stanley Walczak, peacock and legend in his own mind. Especially concerning his impact on women.
I had met Walczak at American Academy of Forensic Sciences meetings over the years, been favored by his attention on at least one occasion. For a full five minutes.
Why’d I bomb? Easy. I’m forty-plus. Though well past fifty, Walczak prefers ladies just out of training bras. Big ones.
Gray Suit, I assumed, was Perry Schechter. He had sparse black hair and a long craggy face that had taken at least six decades to form. His briefcase and demeanor screamed attorney.
As we rose, Walczak performed a quick but subtle assessment. Then he crossed to Ryan and shot out a hand.
“Stanley Walczak.”
“Andrew Ryan.”
The two shook. Corcoran jiggled keys in his lab coat pocket.
“Tempe.” Yards of capped dentition came my way. Walczak followed. “Each time we meet you look younger and younger.”
Digging deep, I managed to resist the famous Walczak charm.
“Nice to see you, Stan.” I proffered a hand.
Walczak enveloped my fingers in a double-palm grip, held on way too long.
“I understand you and Dr. Corcoran are already acquainted.”
Corcoran and I answered in the affirmative.
Walczak introduced Schechter.
There followed more pressing of palms.
“Gentlemen, Dr. Brennan.” Again, a lot of teeth were displayed for my benefit. “Shall we proceed?”
Walczak strode to the head of the table and sat.
Ryan and I withdrew files, he from his briefcase, I from my computer bag. As Schechter settled beside Corcoran, I booted up my laptop.
“So,” Walczak began. “I suppose you’re both wondering why the passing of an eccentric old lady with severe alcohol and psychiatric problems necessitates such extraordinary inconvenience on your parts.”
“Any death deserves proper attention.” Even to myself, I sounded pedantic. But I meant it. I share Horton’s worldview. A person’s a person. No matter how eccentric. Or old. Rose Jurmain was not even sixty.
Walczak regarded me a moment. With his silver hair and salon tan, I had to admit, he was pretty. On the outside.
“Precisely why I’ve asked Dr. Corcoran to do oversight on this case,” Walczak said.
Corcoran shifted in his chair, clearly uncomfortable.
“Dr. Brennan and I will be happy to answer all questions concerning my investigation, her examination of the remains, and the coroner’s finding,” Ryan said.
“Excellent. Then I’ll turn this meeting over to Mr. Schechter and Dr. Corcoran. Please let me know if there’s anything, anything at all, that you need.”
With a meaningful look in Corcoran’s direction, Walczak left the room.
“I’m pleased you speak English, detective.”
A subtle tensing around the eyes suggested that Schechter’s first words did not sit well with Ryan.
“
“Mr. Jurmain requests clarification on a number of points.” Schechter’s tone indicated that Ryan’s humor was not appreciated.
“Clarification?” Ryan matched cool with cool.
“He is deeply troubled.”
“You have copies of our reports?”
Schechter withdrew a yellow legal pad, a gold Cross pen, and a large white envelope from his briefcase. I recognized the envelope’s logo, and the words
“Dr. Brennan and I have prepared scene and autopsy photos to walk you through the investigation.”
Clicking his pen to readiness, Schechter gave an imperious wave of one hand.
Ryan spoke to me in French. “Let’s clarify this prick’s head right out of his
