“Yes, ma’am.”
“He is my right hand.”
Mr. Doonan sits again, his expression unchanged. His eyes are gray like his suit, giving him a kind of hazy, indistinctly distinguished look. He resumes writing in his notebooks.
I watch the clock over Petras’s head. I talk as quickly as I can. “In the course of pursuing a seemingly unrelated anomaly, we discovered that Judge Sampson was involved in an extramarital affair. Our speculation led us to believe that an individual had gained knowledge of this affair and was interested in blackmailing the judge regarding this affair. Or—” I stumble, not certain how to frame it. Not certain even of what I know. As Petras’s eyes remain on me, cool and evaluating, I am treading out onto thinner and thinner ice. “Or potentially over other improprieties.”
“You need to know if we know anything.”
“Yes.”
“About any improprieties.”
“That’s right.”
She regards me quietly, weighing my heft with her Expert’s eyes. Doonan, in his corner, stays busy with his papers, clipping and unclipping his binders. Making a performance of not paying attention, making of himself a capture, inconspicuous but active, noiseless in his gray suit, gathering every word.
“Mr. Doonan?” Petras says. “Would you come here for just a moment?” He walks quickly over, waits for the half instant it takes Petras to write something on a piece of paper, reads it and tucks it away in a pocket while he returns to his corner.
Petras looks at me. The clock behind her has swallowed up half our time.
“It strikes me that you’ve done an awful lot of speculation, based on an awfully small number of facts.”
“I’m—excuse me, ma’am?”
Doonan at his desk switches from one notebook to another. I fold my arms.
“I am not here to have my work evaluated, ma’am.”
“And neither will I be instructed in how to entertain your presence. You are here. Here you are.” Her tone is elevated now; she has brought her authority into her voice. “And my position requires me to observe that I am not convinced this investigation is carefully built on the facts as they exist.”
“Listen. Look.” I take a step toward her, feeling a new sheen of sweat at my hairline, a new consciousness of my great bulk in the polished interior of this office. “All I need to know is what that judge was up to.”
“Then you would have to ask him.”
“Well, see, I can’t do that. He’s dead.”
There it is again: a flutter of emotion at her brow, a fleeting grief of awareness. This time I am sure I see it, long enough to know it for what it is, and to wonder what it means. Ms. Petras looks at me accusingly across the desk. “You might have begun with that information.”
I shrug, conceding the point. I’m waiting for the obvious next question, and when she doesn’t ask I tell her anyway.
“He did it himself. Drank poison.”
“When?”
“Today. Earlier today.”
I see it again, like it’s happening now, in front of me. Blood leaping from his throat like a living thing, his arms flailing forward, body spinning. Doonan closes one of his notebooks and slides it off his desk. For an instant I see a red cover on the notebook, an unfamiliar gold logo. He has the book under his arm as he rises.
“Remind me, Mr. Speculator,” says Petras. “What is the inciting anomaly at issue?”
“Pardon me, ma’am?”
“You have come here regarding Judge Sampson. But the original investigation began elsewhere?”
“Yes.”
“And what was that matter?”
Maybe if the day had begun differently. Maybe if I wasn’t standing here with the judge’s blood on my shirtfront, with his memory of Silvie blazoned on my mind.
“I understand your authority, ma’am, but I am here to ask you questions and not the other way around.”
She holds my gaze for a moment, another one, and then directs herself to my partner.
“What is your name, young lady?”
“Ms. Aysa Paige, ma’am.”
“Ms. Paige, two and four are even numbers.”
“One and three are not.”
“What is the original anomaly you and your partner are after?”
“Ma’am? I—I would have to—to respect Mr. Ratesic’s authority, as far as discussing our investigation.”
Our Acknowledged Expert does not rise from her desk. She barely moves, in fact. her head. She speaks very carefully, putting each new word precisely in its place.
“Ms. Paige, my office would be happy to make available to you a laminated copy of the chain of command of the law enforcement divisions of the Golden State, including the position of the Speculative Service, in which you serve, relative to this office, and at the head of which I sit. I am asking you a direct question with a simple answer.”
Paige looks at me. I look at the ground.
“We are investigating anomalous circumstances relating to a death,” she says.
“Death of whom?”
“Crane, ma’am. A man named Mose Crane.”
“Foul play?”
“No.”
“Merely anomalous? Potentially?”
“That is—right. Correct.”
“Where?”
Aysa’s answers are coming quickly now, either out of deference or fear or some combination of the two.
“On Vermont Avenue. At Judge Sampson’s home, ma’am.”
“Ah,” says Petras, and she tilts her head up and thinks. “Ah.”
Mr. Doonan softly shuts the door, returning from the inner office. I don’t recall seeing him leave. He passes a note to Petras, who writes on it and passes it back.
“Madam Expert,” I begin, and Doonan stops me, pointing at the clock.
“Mr. and Ms. Speculator,” he says blandly, “your time has elapsed.” I don’t move. Aysa doesn’t move. Doonan steps between us and Ms. Petras, drawing his suit coat together and buttoning it like he’s closing a door. “The Expert is a busy woman, as you know, and your allotted time has long since elapsed.”
“Sit down,” Ms. Paige tells him.
“Respectfully, miss,” Doonan begins, and Paige says, “I said sit the fuck down,” and I hope she knows I love her—not with some goony-eyed romantic love but with the fierce, true love of respect. One Speculator to another. I love Ms. Paige fierce and true and I will love her forever.
“Have a seat, Mr. Doonan,” says Petras, and
