Dark Rivers of the Heart

gently extracted Guinevere's treasure from the Tupperware container and put it on the seat beside him.
        Five exquisite digits. Perfect, natural, unpainted fingernails, each with its precisely symmetrical, crescent-shaped lunula. And the fourteen finest phalanges that he'd ever seen: None was a millimeter more or less than ideal length. Across the gracefully arched back of the hand, pulling the skin taut: the five most flawlessly formed metacarpals he ever hoped to see. The skin was pale but unblemished, as smooth as melted wax from the candles on God's own high table.
        Driving east, heading downtown, Roy let his gaze drift now and then to Guinevere's treasure, and with each stolen glimpse, his mood improved.
        By the time he was near Parker Center, the administrative headquarters of the Los Angeles Police Department, he was buoyant.
        Reluctantly, while stopped at a traffic light, he returned the hand to the container. He put that reliquary and its precious contents under the driver's seat.
        At Parker Center, after leaving his car in a visitor's stall, he took an elevator from the garage and, using his FBI credentials, went up to the fifth floor. The appointment was with Captain Harris Descoteaux, who was in his office and waiting.
        Roy had spoken briefly to Descoteaux from Malibu, so it was no surprise that the captain was black. He had that almost g ossy, midnight-dark, beautiful skin sometimes enjoyed by those of Caribbean extraction, and although he evidently had been an Angeleno for years, a faint island lilt still lent a musical quality to his speech.
        In navy-blue slacks, striped suspenders, white shirt, and blue tie with diagonal red stripes, Descoteaux had the poise, dignity, and gravitas of a supreme court justice, even though his sleeves were rolled up and his jacket was hanging on the back of his chair.
        After shaking Roy's hand, Harris Descoteaux indicated the only visitor's chair and said, "Please sit down."
        The small office was not equal to the man who occupied it. Poorly ventilated. Poorly lighted. Shabbily furnished.
        Roy felt sorry for Descoteaux. No government employee at the executive level, whether in a law-enforcement organization or not, should have to work in such a cramped office. Public service was a noble calling, and Roy was of the opinion that those who were willing to serve should be treated with respect ratitude and generosity Settling into the chair behind the desk, Descoteaux said, "The Bureau verifies your ID, but they won't say what case you're on."
        "National security matter," Roy assured him.
        Any query about Roy that was placed with the FBI would have been routed to Cassandra Solinko, a valued administrative assistant to the director.
        She would support the lie (though not in writing) that Roy was a Bureau agent; however, she could not discuss the nature of his investigation, because she didn't know what the hell he was doing.
        Descoteaux frowned. "Security matter-that's pretty vague."
        If Roy got into deep trouble-the kind to inspire congressional investigations and newspaper headlines-Cassandra Solinko would deny that she'd ever verified his claim to be with the FBI. If she was disbelieved and subpoenaed to testify about what little she knew of Roy and his nameless agency, there was a stunningly high statistical probability that she would suffer a deadly cerebral embolism, or a massive cardiac infarction, or a high-speed, head-on collision with a bridge abutment. She was aware of the consequences of cooperation.
        "Sorry, Captain Descoteaux, but I can't be more specific."
        Roy would experience consequences similar to His. Solinko's if he himself screwed up. Public service could sometimes be a brutally stressful career-which was one reason why comfortable offices, a generous package of fringe benefits, and virtually unlimited perks were, in Roy's estimation, entirely justified.
        Descoteaux didn't like being frozen out. Trading his frown for a smile, speaking with soft island ease, he said, "It's difficult to lend assistance without knowing the whole picture."
        It would be easy to succumb to Descoteaux's charm, to mistake his deliberate yet fluid movements for the sloth of a tropical soul, and to be deceived by his musical voice into believing that he was a frivolous man.
        Roy saw the truth, however, in the captain's eyes,