Page 40 of Whispers at Dusk
Marlene’s parents were silent. Mason excused himself and headed out to his desk. He glanced at the clock. Angela would be home now—working hours were long over in the United States. But someone would answer at the offices, and there would be someone there who could do sketches for them.
As it turned out, Maisie was there. She told him she’d had a feeling she’d be hearing from him, and she’d planned to sleep in one of the small rooms offered at headquarters for any agent staying long hours.
He was grateful she had stayed, and he was able to set her up with Marlene. Della glanced at him, smiling as he told them Marlene would be working via video with Maisie; in his opinion, she was about the best to be found anywhere.
They all waited patiently as Marlene spoke, closing her eyes now and then, doing her best to describe everyone who had been there when she’d left the bar.
As Maisie showed her drawings, entered them into the computer, and enhanced them with directions from Marlene, Mason glanced at Della.
The blonde was the woman Scott Harrington had described.
And only one other person appeared to be familiar. It was the man Marlene had described asreally good-looking, movie-quality good-looking.
He was the man Scott Harrington had described.
Except now he had light hair.
No cape, no look of a Hollywood vampire.
When the work was finished, Mason and Della thanked Marlene and her parents. They were grateful to leave at last.
When they did, Marlene was no longer crying. She clung to Della for a minute at the door, saying, “I hope I’ve helped. I want to believe I did something for Asta!”
“You were wonderful. And I promise you, we will do everything in our power to see Asta’s killer is brought to justice.”
The mild manner Mr. Rogers had previously displayed slipped away, and he looked at Mason and said, “Justice! Shoot the bastard. If you find him, shoot the bastard!”
Neither Mason nor Della replied. They thanked the trio again for coming, and then the Rogers family was gone.
François Bisset had been standing quietly off to the side, but when the door closed on the three, he walked over to Mason and Della.
“Well?”
“She described the same man—and the woman—who shared what was supposedly their own blood with Scott Harrington,” Mason told him. “Maisie is sending her sketches of the bar patrons. We’ll get them to all members of our team and Norwegian law enforcement.”
“So, we do have a suspect,” François said.
“A chameleon,” Della told him. “Everyone will need to know he changes his appearance easily, but he still has the same face. Hair color doesn’t matter, eye color doesn’t matter. He probably has a dozen wigs and can change his eye color with contacts.”
“I will make sure all are advised. And,” he added, “Wilhelm called while you were in with the Rogers family. He has begged that you forgive him—he is with the family and friends of Ingrid McDonald. He does need this afternoon.”
“Of course,” Mason said.
“Also, Detectives Taylor and Lapierre checked in—they are returning to the woods with a forensic team seeking any kind of a clue.”
Mason nodded his approval. He looked at Della. “We’ll check in with Angela and head out. We have a good concept of what this man may look like, no matter his disguise.”
“And the blonde woman he travels with,” Della agreed.
“Yes, of course, you must keep moving,” Bisset said. “But I took the liberty of ordering food to be brought. Here, the main meal is the midday meal. There are many specialties, but they include sheep heads and pickled herring and deer meat and... I wasn’t sure about your American sensibilities, so I opted for a salmon meal. We don’t do many salads here, but I have greens and delicious bread arriving, so...”
“Kind of you to think of us,” Mason replied. “And I’m quite fond of salmon. Della?”
“Salmon will be great, and thank you,” she assured Bisset.
Bisset told them the food would arrive any minute. It did even before he finished speaking. They ate quickly, but the salmon was probably the best he had ever had, and Mason told Bisset that it was. Their Interpol liaison was pleased, but leaned forward to tell them, “Quite good, yes. But even Americans know that French food is the best in the world!”
Neither of them chose to argue the point.
