Gray Suit, I assumed, was Perry Schechter. He had sparse black hair and a long craggy face that had taken at least six decades to form. His briefcase and demeanor screamed attorney.

As we rose, Walczak performed a quick but subtle assessment. Then he crossed to Ryan and shot out a hand.

“Stanley Walczak.”

“Andrew Ryan.”

The two shook. Corcoran jiggled keys in his lab coat pocket.

“Tempe.” Yards of capped dentition came my way. Walczak followed. “Each time we meet you look younger and younger.”

Digging deep, I managed to resist the famous Walczak charm.

“Nice to see you, Stan.” I proffered a hand.

Walczak enveloped my fingers in a double-palm grip, held on way too long.

“I understand you and Dr. Corcoran are already acquainted.”

Corcoran and I answered in the affirmative.

Walczak introduced Schechter.

There followed more pressing of palms.

“Gentlemen, Dr. Brennan.” Again, a lot of teeth were displayed for my benefit. “Shall we proceed?”

Walczak strode to the head of the table and sat.

Ryan and I withdrew files, he from his briefcase, I from my computer bag. As Schechter settled beside Corcoran, I booted up my laptop.

“So,” Walczak began. “I suppose you’re both wondering why the passing of an eccentric old lady with severe alcohol and psychiatric problems necessitates such extraordinary inconvenience on your parts.”

“Any death deserves proper attention.” Even to myself, I sounded pedantic. But I meant it. I share Horton’s worldview. A person’s a person. No matter how eccentric. Or old. Rose Jurmain was not even sixty.

Walczak regarded me a moment. With his silver hair and salon tan, I had to admit, he was pretty. On the outside.

“Precisely why I’ve asked Dr. Corcoran to do oversight on this case,” Walczak said.

Corcoran shifted in his chair, clearly uncomfortable.