She didn’t look up when I walked in. Across the room Murakawa leaned against a segment of the clear plastic desk that hugged all four walls. Roger Macalester was resting his rump on a portion of the desk between them. He was fingering a squishy orange ball, but not squeezing. Color me nonchalant. “Three police officers for what she said was just a superficial glance at the books? Like the road repair crews: one to work, two to watch? Or is one of you going to hold the flag?” A little testy. “The investigation seems to be stressful for you, Mr. Macalester,” I said smarmily. “When your colleague’s been murdered, it can ruin your whole day.” “What do you think we’re going to find in your books?” A retainer to Ott? “Not my books, Bryant’s books. Bryant founded ACC. He hired me. My contribution was showing him the importance of mediating for individuals. I’ve got no idea what’s in his books.” Pereira stopped still, then leaned into the books like a woman transfixed.
