He glanced at Pincus’s notes in the margin of a page. The furrow of his pen’s pressure revealed an intensity for work. Something’s not quite right, Stanislas warned himself. At his interrogation, didn’t Monsieur Boucher deride the man as riffraff? Yet the victim had seemed in command of his life, however impoverished it was.
He ignored the restless shuffle of feet to his right, Christophe waiting to type his observations; the policewoman, eager to show her crime scene prowess, snapping photos. He pushed open two of the four windows that bracketed the bookcase and leaned out.
To his right past several windows, a satellite dish was perhaps receiving some Middle East program. And five stories below visible through the mist, now slipping around the corner onto the brick street below, a sedan
