“You’ve a box in Galway as your address, Mr. Barrons. Is that where you were born?”

I’d once asked Barrons about his lineage, he’d told me Pict and Basque. Galway was in Ireland, a few hours west of Dublin.

“No.”

“Where?”

“Scotland.”

“You don’t sound Scottish.”

“You don’t sound Irish. Yet here you are, policing Ireland. But then the English have been trying to cram their laws down their neighbors’ throats for centuries, haven’t they, Inspector?”

O’Duffy had an eye tic. I hadn’t noticed it before. “How long have you been in Dublin?”

“A few years. You?”

“I’m the one asking the questions.”

“Only because I’m standing here letting you.”

“I can take you down to the station. Would you prefer that?”

“Try.” The one word dared the Garda to try, by fair means or foul. The accompanying smile guaranteed failure. I wondered what he’d do if the inspector attempted it. My inscrutable host seems to possess a bottomless bag of tricks.

O’Duffy held Barrons’ gaze longer than I expected him to. I wanted to tell him there was no shame in looking away. Barrons has something the rest of us don’t have. I don’t know what it is, but I feel it all the time, especially when we’re standing close. Beneath the expensive clothes, unplaceable accent, and cultured veneer, there’s something that never crawled all the way out of the swamp. It didn’t want to. It likes it there.

The inspector apparently deemed an exchange of information the wisest, or maybe just the easiest course. “I’ve been in Dublin since I was twelve. When my father died, my mother remarried an Irishman. There’s a man over at Chester’s says he knows you, Mr. Barrons. Name’s Ryodan. Ring a bell?”

“Ms. Lane, go upstairs,” Barrons said, instantly, softly.