“Yes.”
“In your opinion, was the hostage in clear and present danger?”
“Had Ryan not acted, her life expectancy would have dropped to about three minutes.”
“When Lieutenant-detective Ryan discharged his weapon, did the gunman return fire?”
“He nearly spray-painted the Forum with my cerebral cortex.”
Claudel’s lips compressed into a hard, tight line. He inhaled, exhaled through hard, tight nostrils.
“Why were you at the Forum, Dr. Brennan?”
“I was looking for the daughter of a friend.”
“Were you there in any official capacity?”
“No.”
“Why was Detective Ryan at the Forum?”
What was going on? Undoubtedly Ryan had answered these questions.
“He’d come to meet me.”
Finally, the hawk eyes focused on mine.
“Was Detective Ryan there in any official capacity?”
“Studmeister.”
Claudel and I glared at each other like wrestlers on
“In your opinion, did Andrew Ryan act properly in the shooting of Carlos Vicente?”
“He was a peach.”
Claudel stood.
“Thank you.”
“That’s it?”
“That is all for now.”
Claudel clicked off and pocketed the recorder.
As usual, Claudel left me so angry I feared I might suffer an embolism. To recompose, I went to the lobby, bought a Diet Coke, and returned to my office. Resting my feet on the window ledge, I drank the soda and ate the tuna sandwich and Oreos I’d brought from home.
Twelve floors below, a barge drifted up the misty St. Lawrence. Lilliputian trucks sprayed water from the edges of the Jacques Cartier Bridge. Cars glided over shiny asphalt, wakes of street rain rising from their tires. Pedestrians scurried with heads bent, umbrellas colored bobbins in a sodden world.
My daughter and I smiled from a beach on the Carolina coast. Another place. Another time. A happy moment.
By the last Oreo, I’d convinced myself that Claudel’s brevity was a good sign. Had there been any concern about Ryan’s actions, the interview would have been much more protracted.
Absolutely.
Brief is good.
I looked at my watch. One-twenty. Time to check Lucien’s approximation.
Arcing my wrappers into the wastebasket, I scored myself two, and headed to
Lucien was at lunch, but his composite image stared from the screen.
One look and my newfound composure shattered like a windshield in a Schwarzenegger film.
23
PATRICIA EDUARDO WASN’T SMILING. NOR WAS SHE FROWNING or showing surprise. In one view, long dark hair framed her face. In another, the hair corkscrewed in thick, springy curls. In a third, it was cropped short.
I barely breathed as I moved through the variations Lucien had created. Glasses on, glasses off. Straight brows, arched brows. Fleshy lips, thin lips. Droopy lids, hidden lids. Though the superficial details changed, the anatomic framework remained the same.
I was returning to the second of Lucien’s long-hair images when he entered the section.
“What do you think?” He set a bottle of Evian on the counter beside me.
“Can you add bangs?”
“Sure.”
