CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Justin Ziegler did not look like a connoisseur of the arts, or a scholar of Church history. Remi could not imagine this person sneaking into an academic library or selling rare books on the antiquarian market.
He looked like a thug through and through.
He was a big man, with broad shoulders and a unibrow over a heavy forehead. Large, calloused hands hung at the end of muscled arms. He simply towered over the coroner, who was visibly shaking with nerves.
Remi gulped, wiped a nonexistent tear from her eye, and gazed down at the body of the old woman. At the last moment she remembered to bring her purse forward to cover the walkie talkie clipped to her belt. Out of the corner of her eye, she looked all around, seeking a plan of escape if things went badly, which they
