“No problemo.”
He flipped the cover and slid the phone into his pocket, his movements stiff and jerky.
“Problems on the home front?”
“What's your pleasure for lunch? Fish or fowl?”
“Nice dodge,” I said, smiling. “And about as subtle as a full court press.”
“The home front is not your concern. Subtle enough?”
Though my mouth opened, no words emerged.
“It's just a personal disagreement.”
“Have a lovers' spat with the Archbishop of Canterbury for all I care, just don't treat me to the performance.” Heat flamed my cheeks.
“Since when are you curious about my love life?”
“I couldn't care less about your love life,” I snapped.
“Thus the inquisition.”
“What?”
“Let's forget it.” Ryan reached out, but I stepped back.
“You
“Look, this investigation has us both on edge.”
“But I don't take cheap shots at you.”
“What I don't need is more browbeating,” he said, lowering the shades from the top of his head.
“Browbeating?” I exploded.
Ryan repeated his question. “Fish or fowl?”
“Go fowl your own fish.”
I whirled and lunged for the doorknob, my face burning with anger. Or was it humiliation? Or hurt?
Inside, I slammed then leaned against the door. From the lot I heard an engine, then the squeal of brakes as a truck arrived with twenty more cases. Rolling my head, I saw Ryan kick a heel at the ground, then cross to his rental car.
Why had he made me so furious? I'd spent a lot of time thinking of the man during his months undercover. But distancing myself from Ryan had become so routine, I'd never considered the possibility that someone else might enter his life. Was that now the case? While I wanted to know, I sure as hell wasn't going to ask.
I turned back to find Larke Tyrell regarding me intently.
“You need some R and R.”
“I'm taking two hours this afternoon.” I'd requested the break so Ryan and I could search the area where I'd found the foot. Now I'd have to do it alone.
“Sandwich?” Larke tilted his chin toward the staff lounge.
“Sure.”
Minutes later we were seated at one of the folding tables.
“Squashed subs and pulverized chips,” he said.
“My usual order.”
“How's LaManche?” Larke had selected what looked like tuna on wheat.
“Back to his usual cantankerous self.”
Being the director of the medico-legal unit, Pierre LaManche was Larke Tyrell's counterpart at the lab in Montreal. My two bosses had known each other for years through membership in the National Association of Medical Examiners and the American Academy of Forensic Sciences. LaManche had suffered a heart attack the previous spring but was fully recovered and back to work.
“Mighty glad to hear that.”
As we peeled cellophane and popped sodas, I remembered the ME's first appearance at the site.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” He watched me carefully, his eyes chestnut in the sunlight angling down from an overhead window.
“Jesus, Larke, I'm fine, so quit with the stress assessment. Lieutenant-Detective Ryan just happens to be a horse's ass.”
“Noted. You sleeping O.K.?”
“Like Custer after Little Bighorn.” I avoided the impulse to roll my eyes.
“What's your question?”
“When you and the lieutenant governor arrived last week, where did the chopper land?”
