to the present and she called to her visitor to come in.
“Peter Loy from downstairs, Ms. Oullette.” He pronounced it oo-lit, leaning hard on the first syllable. Normally Kirsten made people rehearse the French pronunciation until they got it right, but she decided this wasn’t the time.
“CP said to bring you the Thomas material?” He stood hesitantly just inside the door. “And go over it with you? If you want?”
Kirsten’s first thought was “he’s even greener than I am,” but she was still stinging from the chief prosecutor’s unconscious insult about making do and was determined to work with what she was given without asking for help.
“Sit down,” she said. “Yes, go over everything. From the beginning.”
Grateful to be given some purpose, Peter Loy quickly settled himself and then pulled a large brown envelope from the stack he’d been carrying. It was full of photographs. “These are CS shots of the vic,” he said. “Thought that would be a good place to start.”
“C ... S ...?” Kirsten wrinkled her nose.
“Crime scene.”
“Oh.”
If Loy sensed her unfamiliarity, he didn’t show it. “Now, here’s the vic as he was found,” he said as he put a photograph on the table. “Name’s Velasquez, Martin Velasquez. Forty-two-year-old white male. Married, no children. Currency trader.”
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