Not the kind of office Annja expected of a working policeman. She’d seen cop’s offices before. None of them were this pristine.She wondered if maybe Richelieu was gay or lived with his mother. Or perhaps he was a control freak. A personality trait like that was a real relationship killer.Not that Annja was looking for a relationship. But the inspector did have nice eyes and nice hands. Her mind wandered for a moment.“Have a seat,” Richelieu invited, waving to the chair across from his tiny metal desk.Annja sat. In the too neat office, she felt dirty and grimy. Outside in the main office with the other policemen, she’d felt that she belonged. Now she wanted a hot bath and a change of clothing. And food. She suddenly realized she was starving.“I gave a statement to one of the officers,” Annja said.“I know.” Richelieu sat on the other side of the desk. “I read it. Both versions.”While waiting for something—anything—to happen, Annja had written up her statement herself in addition to the one the policeman had taken.
