Monday Mourning

A trapdoor. A camera.

The little turd at the pizza parlor had sold his snapshots."

"When working a case, I am adamant in my refusal to give media interviews. Many journalists think me rude. Others have described me in more colorful terms. I don’t care. Over the years I have learned that statements inevitably lead to misquotes. And misquotes invariably lead to problems.

And I never look good in the pics.

“Can I open that for you?” Ryan retrieved the Coke, pulled the tab, and handed it back.

“No doubt you’ve brought a copy,” I said, setting the can on the counter and yanking the oven door.

“For the safety of diners, viewing will take place when all cutlery’s cleared.”

During dinner I told Ryan about my day in court.

“The reviews are good,” he said.

Ryan has a spy network that makes the CIA look like a Cub Scout pack. He usually knows of my movements before I tell him. It annoys the hell out of me.

And Ryan’s amusement over the Journal piece was lowering my threshold for irritation.

Get over it, Brennan.

“Really?” I smiled.

“Critics gave you four stars.”

Only four?

“I see.”

“Word is, Pétit’s going down.”

I said nothing.

“Tell me about this pizza parlor case.” Ryan switched gears.

“Isn’t the whole affair laid out in Le Journal?” I helped myself to more salad.

“Coverage is a bit vague. May I have that?”

I handed him the bowl.

We ate arugula for a full three minutes. Ryan broke the silence.

“Are you going to tell me about your bones?”

My eyes met his.

I relented, but kept my account brief. When I’d finished, Ryan rose and retrieved a section of newspaper from his jacket.

Both shots had been taken from above and to my right. In the first, I was talking to Claudel, eyes angry, gloved finger jabbing the air. The caption might have read “Attack of the Shrew.”

The second captured the shrew on all fours, ass pointing skyward.

“Any idea how the Journal got these?” Ryan asked.

“The owner’s slimeball assistant.

“Claudel caught the case?”

“Yes.” I picked bread crumbs from the tabletop.

Ryan reached out and placed his hand on mine. “Claudel’s come around a lot.”

I didn’t reply.

Ryan was about to speak again when his cell phone twittered.

Giving my hand a squeeze, he pulled the unit from his belt and checked the caller ID. His eyes flicked up in frustration. Or irritation. Or something I couldn’t read.

“I’ve got to take this,” he said.