В сердце большого города скрываются тайны и загадки. Каждое утро открывает новый слой этой истории, напоминая о безвозвратности прошлого. Внутренние драмы и судьбы, переплетающиеся в пространстве и времени, создают непредсказуемую атмосферу будничной мелодрамы.
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"Ryan circled the room, turning on the overhead chandelier and a pair of crystal and brass lamps flanking the couch. The improved lighting allowed a better evaluation of the man of the house.
Stephen Menard was not just bald, he was totally hairless. No whiskers. No eyelashes. No body or head hair. The trait made him look smooth and oddly pale. I wondered if Menard’s lack of hair was a genetic condition, or some bizarre fashion statement intentionally created.
Ryan lifted a Windsor chair from beside the secretary and parked it in front of Menard with body language clearly not intended to calm.
Our reluctant host wore slippers, jeans, and a sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed above the elbows. Drawing back from Ryan, Menard tugged the sleeves to his wrists, shoved them back up, adjusted his glasses, and waited.
“I’m going to be honest with you, Mr. Menard. You’ve caught our interest.”
“Je suis—”
“My understanding is that you’re American, so English shouldn’t be any problem for you, right?”
Menard’s chin tucked in a bit, but he said nothing.
“Richard Cyr tells us you ran a pawnshop out of his property on rue Ste-Catherine a few years back.”
Menard’s lips went needle thin, and a wrinkle formed above the place his brows should have been.
“You got a problem with my asking about that?”
Menard ran a hand across his jaw, readjusted his glasses.
“Pretty successful operation. Lasted, what? Nine years? You’re a young man.
“I was not a mere pawnbroker. I traded in collectibles.”
“Please explain that to me.”
“I helped collectors locate hard-to-find items. Stamps. Coins. Toy soldiers.”
I’d seen Ryan interrogate suspects in the past. He was good with silence. The person being interrogated would complete an answer, but instead of putting another question Ryan would look up expectantly and wait. He did so now.
Menard swallowed.
Ryan waited.
“It was a legitimate business,” Menard mumbled.
Somewhere in the house I thought I heard a door open and close.
“Things grew complicated. Business was dropping off. The lease came up. I decided not to renew.”
“Complicated how?”
“Just complicated. Look, I’m a Canadian citizen. I have rights.”
“I’m just asking a few questions, Mr. Menard.”
Eye contact had become noticeably difficult for Menard. His gaze kept shifting from his hands to Ryan, then darting back down.
