What else do you need?”
“What were you doing during the hour before?”
“I have no idea. Why do you need to know?”
“Cognitive interview techniques.” She didn’t need to explain it to him. It was something he was familiar with, though probably not when it came to doing a drawing. When used, it could help someone recall the smaller salient details that might be overlooked.
“The hour before? Paperwork.”
“The entire hour. Actions, thoughts, weather. I’m sure you can summarize without leaking secrets of national security. Very simple, even for super spies.”
Griffin looked mildly annoyed. “I was looking at a picture of my wife,” he said, which made her wish she hadn’t asked. But then he added, “The secretary delivered a packet allegedly from Dorian, and then Tex called, saying Dorian changed his mind and wanted to meet. Pissed about the short window to recon the new area. No daylight. Cold out. Heard the gunshot, ran in, the elevator opened—” He stopped mid-sentence, his gaze again moving to the side as though seeing something in his mind’s eye. “I remember seeing dangling earrings. Distinctive shape. Like an upside-down question mark.”
As much as Sydney wanted to quip I-told-you-so, she held her tongue about his remembering this tiny yet significant detail. What she did ask was the shape of the woman’s face.
“Heart-shaped.”
She drew, then turned the paper so he could see it.
“A little wider in the forehead.”
Sydney made the correction, turned it back to him.
“That’s it.”
And so it went. Back and forth for the next two hours, with only a short break between for coffee. Unlike other drawings, with other witnesses, there was no small talk to make the witness more comfortable, nothing to fill in the seemingly endless minutes while she sketched and shaded. And as she worked in silence, she wondered what he was thinking as he sat there.
She felt his eyes on her but didn’t look up, and she decided she needed to settle this thing between them. Whatever it was, because hell if she even knew. Her pencil moving across the paper, she finally came out with it. “The truth is that I was upset partly that you consulted Carillo instead of me.”
“Why?”
She put down her pencil and looked right at him. “I called you over Christmas.”
“I know.”
“I just thought . . .”
“I was in Mexico. On a mission with Marco. I didn’t get the message until yesterday.”
Which made her feel every bit the idiot. “Doing what?”
“Trying to find the route they’re using to smuggle terrorists into the U.S. via Mexico. Unfortunately, not successful.”
“Oh.”
And the rest of the sketch was done in silence, because Sydney had no idea where to go next, and it was clear that neither did Griffin. By the time she finished shading in the hair, he appeared more than ready for this to be over. She showed him the final version.
He reached out. “May I?”
She handed it to him, and their fingers brushed as he took it from her. His attention, however, was on the drawing.
He studied it. “Something’s off . . .”
“What would you do to change this? Make it look more like her?”
He held up his hand, blocking out part of the drawing, probably to see if he could isolate what was bothering him. “Her cheekbones,” he said after a few moments. “They were higher. Sharp, but nice. She was pretty.”
In that deadly sort of way, she told herself as she erased the area, resketched, then showed him.
He nodded. “Definitely her.”
Once he decided there were no further changes, she gave him the final drawing, and was glad when Carillo knocked on the door, saying Tex was done interviewing Trip.
All she could think about was that she still had no idea where she or Griffin stood. She told herself it didn’t bother her at all.
Sometimes the lies came easily.
13
New Year’s eve dawned bright and cold, and when Griffin entered his office that morning, he tossed
“What were you doing during the hour before?”
“I have no idea. Why do you need to know?”
“Cognitive interview techniques.” She didn’t need to explain it to him. It was something he was familiar with, though probably not when it came to doing a drawing. When used, it could help someone recall the smaller salient details that might be overlooked.
“The hour before? Paperwork.”
“The entire hour. Actions, thoughts, weather. I’m sure you can summarize without leaking secrets of national security. Very simple, even for super spies.”
Griffin looked mildly annoyed. “I was looking at a picture of my wife,” he said, which made her wish she hadn’t asked. But then he added, “The secretary delivered a packet allegedly from Dorian, and then Tex called, saying Dorian changed his mind and wanted to meet. Pissed about the short window to recon the new area. No daylight. Cold out. Heard the gunshot, ran in, the elevator opened—” He stopped mid-sentence, his gaze again moving to the side as though seeing something in his mind’s eye. “I remember seeing dangling earrings. Distinctive shape. Like an upside-down question mark.”
As much as Sydney wanted to quip I-told-you-so, she held her tongue about his remembering this tiny yet significant detail. What she did ask was the shape of the woman’s face.
“Heart-shaped.”
She drew, then turned the paper so he could see it.
“A little wider in the forehead.”
Sydney made the correction, turned it back to him.
“That’s it.”
And so it went. Back and forth for the next two hours, with only a short break between for coffee. Unlike other drawings, with other witnesses, there was no small talk to make the witness more comfortable, nothing to fill in the seemingly endless minutes while she sketched and shaded. And as she worked in silence, she wondered what he was thinking as he sat there.
She felt his eyes on her but didn’t look up, and she decided she needed to settle this thing between them. Whatever it was, because hell if she even knew. Her pencil moving across the paper, she finally came out with it. “The truth is that I was upset partly that you consulted Carillo instead of me.”
“Why?”
She put down her pencil and looked right at him. “I called you over Christmas.”
“I know.”
“I just thought . . .”
“I was in Mexico. On a mission with Marco. I didn’t get the message until yesterday.”
Which made her feel every bit the idiot. “Doing what?”
“Trying to find the route they’re using to smuggle terrorists into the U.S. via Mexico. Unfortunately, not successful.”
“Oh.”
And the rest of the sketch was done in silence, because Sydney had no idea where to go next, and it was clear that neither did Griffin. By the time she finished shading in the hair, he appeared more than ready for this to be over. She showed him the final version.
He reached out. “May I?”
She handed it to him, and their fingers brushed as he took it from her. His attention, however, was on the drawing.
He studied it. “Something’s off . . .”
“What would you do to change this? Make it look more like her?”
He held up his hand, blocking out part of the drawing, probably to see if he could isolate what was bothering him. “Her cheekbones,” he said after a few moments. “They were higher. Sharp, but nice. She was pretty.”
In that deadly sort of way, she told herself as she erased the area, resketched, then showed him.
He nodded. “Definitely her.”
Once he decided there were no further changes, she gave him the final drawing, and was glad when Carillo knocked on the door, saying Tex was done interviewing Trip.
All she could think about was that she still had no idea where she or Griffin stood. She told herself it didn’t bother her at all.
Sometimes the lies came easily.
13
New Year’s eve dawned bright and cold, and when Griffin entered his office that morning, he tossed
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