““You would like to see the papers on Jean’s son’s death in Italy? Why?” We were sitting in his favorite restaurant for lunch, he eating seafood and drinking a beer, I nursing a Coke and a ham sandwich, wondering why they’d loused it up with some fancy cheese. “I wish I could tell you,” I admitted. “Call it a hunch I can chase down while we wait for Marcel to decide about the polygraph. It’ll probably be a waste of time, but it occurred to us we might’ve let a few details slide after we ...found that letter from Marcel to his father, like what the old man was doing in Stowe in the first place. I’m hoping those old papers might help.” I was purposefully downplaying my interest. This wasn’t my turf. If Lacombe liked what he heard, I was fearful he’d take control of it, leaving me as empty-handed as before. I didn’t ponder the irony that VBI had been created precisely to overcome such territorial self-interest—I was too busy both licking my wounds and hoping to earn my paycheck.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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