The name doesn’t click in my brain until he says: “My son was murdered in Washington a few weeks ago.” “Ah…” “I’m afraid I followed your partner over here. I’d like to talk to you,” he says. “Sure, drag up a chair.” “It might be best if we could talk where we have a little more privacy,” he says. “Listen, I can go,” says Joselyn. She’s trapped in the curved booth between Harry and me. I put my hand on her arm as she starts to slide toward me to get out. “We haven’t had lunch yet,” I tell her. “Have you had lunch, Mr. Snyder?” “No.” “Then please pull up a chair and join us. You already know my partner. I keep no secrets from him. And this is Joselyn Cole, our resident mystic psychic for whom my head is a glass display case. She knows all my most intimate thoughts.” He gives Joselyn a cautious once-over. “How do you do?” “He’s joking,” she says and gives him a simpering smile. “You want to talk here, it’s fine with me,” says Snyder.
