Blood Bond
“But when he was shown into the room, he came face-to-face with Bryce Engler, man about town, California-style: even today, when presumably he wouldn’t be going to work, the man was wearing slate-colored trousers and a sport coat, his smooth yellow shirt open a couple of buttons to reveal a few strands of silvery chest hair.
“I’m sorry to take your time today, Mr. Engler.”
Joe gestured to a chair, and the men took their seats across the interview table from one another. Engler crossed one leg on the other knee; he wore argyle socks and shoes that probably cost more than a car payment.
“I trust my wife explained that we don’t really know the Bergmans that well.”
Joe pretended to read something from his notebook. Considered Engler’s reaction. Not quite cold, but . . . unaffected. As though he were accustomed to houseguests dying in his driveway on a regular basis. “Yes. I was wondering, though, if you and he ever discussed things.
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