Empty eyes, shiny and hard like wet gray stones. Unwavering eyes, utterly still. Eyes without affect. They sat facing one another on long black leather sofas, a large square glass coffee table in between. Nothing on the table. Nothing on the walls. The apartment cold, pristine, the floors painted a hard-gloss white, the young man sitting silent, still—watching, appraising, waiting for him to begin. Janek had puzzled over photographs before the meeting. Peter hadn't looked like the sort who would make the kind of films he did. No brooding countenance, no tormented brow. Rather a regular, bland unlined face, light brown hair cut short like a college boy's, the features empty, inexpressive, blank like a sentry's. Like a marine sentry, Janek thought, on duty, on guard. "Detective Rosenthal tells me you're interested in the Ireland homicide." No reaction, no anxiety, just that blankness in the eyes. "The investigation's bogging down.
