Color of Blood(14)

“It’s a rental,” Lynch said.

“Find anything?” she asked. “Drugs? Cash?”

“Darlene nearly urinated on the floor, she was so excited,” Lynch said.

Judy had passed Darlene, the department’s drug-sniffing Alsatian, in the front yard when she pulled up.

“Odor only, but no drugs?” Judy asked.

“Correct,” Lynch said, reassembling his small carry bag. “But given Darlene’s ecstatic behavior, one would assume a healthy stash was here at one time.”

***

Judy waited in her car in front of the hotel and looked at her watch again. The American was more than twenty minutes late, and she wondered if she had misunderstood him when he had called the day before.

Dennis walked out of the hotel and waved. He was wearing a pair of khaki pants and a light blue short-sleeve polo shirt. He was medium height, Judy thought, but his personality made him appear taller. He had a rugged leanness to his body, the muscles on his forearms taut as he twisted around looking for her.

Dennis walked over to the car, noticing she did not wave back, and wondered idly whether there was something wrong. “Crap,” he said under his breath as he glanced at his watch. He was very late.

“Sorry,” he said getting into the car. “I lost track of time. I had trouble sleeping last night.”

“Jet lag is difficult, isn’t it?” she said.

“Yes. Wish they’d come up with a pill for it.”

“Oh, I’m sure they will,” she said. “But knowing the pharmaceutical companies, the medicine will get you over jet lag but will cause your eyelashes to fall out. Or something like that.”

Dennis smiled and gave Judy a sidelong glance. She made a joke, he thought. A sense of humor. Interesting.

They drove in silence. Judy was preoccupied with how nonchalantly Phillip had dumped their son this coming weekend. Their son, Simon, was a boarder at St. Thomas, a very old and prestigious high school for boys in a suburb of Perth. For a few minutes, she forgot she had a passenger in her car.

By the time they had parked, Dennis was vaguely aware he might have offended her somehow, and he tried to figure out what he had said or done to piss her off.

Normally he did not care what anyone thought of him while on assignment. There was only one goal: deliver the goods. If he had to give short shrift to people’s feelings, well, so be it. Maybe it was just his nature to remain distant from those around him. He had not given it much thought, really.

Dennis was not himself lately, and the sessions with Dr. Forrester were taking a toll on what little self-confidence remained. Was he too harsh with other people? Did he have trouble with intimacy? He was undecided, but more self-observant than usual.

They walked several blocks in silence. For the first time he noticed the brightness of the buildings and his reflexive need to squint. Perth’s streets smelled different, of course—there was a kind of scrubbed cleanliness—and the pedestrians he passed walked at a much slower pace than he expected. One older gentleman actually said “G’day” as he passed.

“Here it is, Mr. Cunningham,” Judy said, slowing in front of a small retail window. A sign above the store read The Swiss Movement, and in smaller letters underneath: Watches and Clocks Sold, Purchased, and Repaired.

A small, portly, balding man in his late fifties looked up from behind the counter. He was sitting on a stool reading a newspaper and stood up when a quaint brass bell attached to the inside of the door signaled with a high-pitched tinkle.

“Mr. Shingley?” Judy said.

“Yes. Are you Agent White from the AFP?”

“Yes, and I have with me today Mr. Cunningham from the United States. He is here on official business, as I explained to you on the phone. He is investigating the disappearance of an employee from the US Consulate, a Mr. Geoffrey Jansen. We believe you knew him or had business with him, yes?”

Shingley looked closely at Judy and Dennis, forcing his chin downward slightly so he could see them clearly over his reading glasses.

“That is correct, Mrs. White,” he said slowly. “I was acquainted with the fellow. He purchased several watches from me. And I had several watches repaired for him as well. A nice fellow. Passionate about his watches, I must say. It’s quite tragic, his disappearance.”

Dennis looked around the small retail space. Shingley sat behind a long glass case that ran from the front window to the back of the store. Behind the counter were several shelves of clocks of all sizes and colors. He noticed, almost idly, that none of the clocks were synchronized.

Judy took out a small black recording device and placed it on the counter in front of Shingley. “It is standard procedure for us to record interviews,” she said. “Do you mind if I do that, Mr. Shingley?”

“Not at all: I’ve nothing to hide.”

“Of course not.”

Judy was uncertain whether she should proceed with her questions or whether the American wanted to lead. She felt a little foolish for not clearing up the question of protocol before the interview.

“Well, can you tell us how you met Mr. Jansen and provide an overview of your interactions with him?”

Dennis walked slowly around the small store, bending over the glass case and looking at the watches and other occasional pieces of jewelry. Each item had a delicate hand-written price tag attached to it by a very thin piece of bone-white thread. Most of the watches, to Dennis’s eye, looked old and weathered. He was surprised to see that some of them were worth three thousand dollars.