“What happened out in Chico?”
An idea hared through my mind. I didn’t chase it.
“You got a warrant?” Menard asked, again adjusting the glasses.
“No, sir,” Ryan said.
Menard’s gaze drifted to a point over Ryan’s left shoulder. We both turned.
A woman stood in the doorway. She was tall and thin, with ivory skin and a long black braid. I guessed her age as mid to late twenties.
The crow’s-feet cornering Menard’s eyes constricted.
The woman tensed so visibly she seemed to flinch. Then her arms wrapped her waist, and she scurried out of sight.
Menard pushed to his feet.
“I’m not answering any more questions. Either arrest me, or leave my home.”
Ryan took his time rising.
“Is there a reason we should be arresting you, Mr. Menard?”
“Of course not.”
“Good.”
Ryan zipped his jacket. I slipped into mine and started toward the foyer. Pausing near the secretary, I noticed the letter opener.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ryan put his face to Menard’s.
“We’ll play it your way for now, sir. But if you’re withholding information from me, I’ll make certain you come to regret that.”
This time Menard met Ryan’s gaze. The two stood eyeball-to-eyeball.
Turning my back to the face-off, I quietly scooped the letter opener into my purse.
27
“THOUGHTS?” RYAN WAS TURNING OFF THE FAR END OF DE Sebastopol.
“If they ever bring back the Inquisition, you’ll be their first hire.”
“I view that as a compliment. What’s your take on Menard?”
“Guy gave me the creeps. Do you think the hairlessness is a medical condition?”
Ryan shook his head no. “I could see nicks on his scalp.”
“Why would a man shave and pluck every hair?”
“Telly Savalas fan?”
“His whole body?”
“Cut cost on shampoo?”
“Ryan.”
“Training to swim in the next Olympics?”
That one got no reply.
“I don’t know. Zonked-out stylist? Lice? Some kind of hair phobia?”
“Did you notice how strangely that woman acted?”
“Didn’t jump in to offer us tea.”
“She seemed terrified.”
Ryan shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe the lady disapproves of uninvited guests.”
“Claudel said there’s no record of anyone else living at that address. Who do you suppose she is?”
“I intend to find out.”
I told him about the letter opener.
“Illegal seizure.”
“Yep,” I agreed.
“A judge would exclude any information gained from it.”
“Yep,” I agreed again. “But a print might ID the woman.”
“Might.”
“Look. It was an impulse. The opener was lying there. I figured the woman might have handled it. I borrowed the thing.”
