Page 121 of The Bone Code
A blond-oak desk occupied space to the left of the door, its design exuding a similar lack of warmth. The woman at it was trying to appear focused on papers she was sorting. With minimal success. An engraved acrylic block introduced her asDora Eisenberg.
“Attendez ici.” Plourde gestured to the table. “Docteur Murray sera avec vous dans un instant.” Wait here. Dr. Murray will be with you in a moment.Trèsefficient.Trèscold.
Ryan and I took side-by-side chairs. Mine faced Dora Eisenberg—I assumed some sort of HR administrative assistant—allowing me to observe her while appearing not to.
Eisenberg was bosom-heavy, round-shouldered, andupper-arm-jiggly. Her hair was brown and curly, her eyes enormous behind Hubble-thick lenses.
Perhaps sensing my curiosity, Eisenberg glanced up. Color spread across her cheeks like blood on snow. I smiled. Flushing even more flamboyantly, she finger-waggle-waved and returned to her papers.
It was a bit longer thanun instantuntil Murray appeared.
“Please accept my apology for making you wait.” Murray spoke in English while striding across the room, hand extended.
As Murray closed in, my brain took a snapshot.
The man wasn’t big, but his body was lean and toned, his spine straight enough to stand in for a flagpole. Though showing some mileage, his jawline was good, his silver-gray hair professionally styled. Colored? A gold chain heavy enough to moor theQueen Marylooped his neck, and a bagel-sized sapphire graced one finger. I put his age at somewhere north of fifty.
Ryan and I rose and took turns shaking. Murray’s grip was pretentiously heavy-duty.
“Dr. Arlo Murray.” We knew that. “I’m the director here.” We didn’t know that.
Ryan and I introduced ourselves.
“Please.” Murray pulled out a chair. “Make yourselves comfortable.”
As if.
“SQ, eh?” To Ryan as we both dropped back into place.
“Many years.” Leaving out the bit about being retired.
Murray didn’t ask to see Ryan’s badge or query my credentials. “I understand you have questions about a former employee. May I inquire why?”
“No,” Ryan said.
Murray’s brows rose, but he said nothing.
“Mélanie Chalamet,” Ryan said.
“So I was told.”
Noting that Murray had completely ignored Eisenberg—not so much as a nod—I wondered if that was his manner with every subordinate.
“I did pull her file,” Murray said. “But there’s not much I can tell you. Ms. Chalamet came on board in 2000, stayed with us less than two years.”
“In what position?”
“She was just a lab technician.” As if referring to a slug under an upturned rock.
“What background does that job require?”
“I think she may have had an undergraduate degree.” Similar tone of disdain.
“De quel institution?” Ryan, testing.
“I’m sorry. I do not speak French.”
“Did Mélanie?” With a sharp edge of disgust. Irritating to Francophones are longtime Quebec residents who haven’t bothered to learn the language.
