Murder in the Medina

She hadn’t paid much attention to the library last night. Her mind was cluttered with too many other things. But today, in the filtered sunlight, she was struck by what a beautiful room it was. More a sitting room or lounge than a library, per se. The high ceilings were decorated with mosaic-like trompe l’oeil, and the walls were swathed in rich taupe-colored silk. It was a small room that housed several walls of books and a few tables spread with international and local newspapers. At the far end of the room, the rotund chief inspector and his tall sidekick had stationed themselves at a table. The chief inspector sat at the table, while the other inspector sat behind him.

The light was better today than it had been last night, so Finley could get a good look at the man. He was tall, almost gangly, so much so that he had to fold himself into the small chair in which he sat. He wasn’t in uniform, like the chief inspector, but rather khaki pants, a white linen shirt and a coffee-colored linen jacket on which he had rolled back the sleeves to reveal muscled forearms. This is not a man I would like to meet in a dark alley.

His face was ruggedly handsome, with a strong nose that looked like it might have been broken once or twice, a broad forehead, and a wide mouth that turned down slightly at the ends, almost matching the chief inspector’s eyes. What was most arresting, however, were his eyes—those of a hawk, a predator who watched your every move. They looked to be a dark slate grey, hooded by brows that made him seem to be frowning even when he wasn’t.