Sir Lancelot’s Crime Wave

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Lieutenant of Police Isaac Jamison gave the girl his most soothing smile. She sat on the edge of the chair placed beside his desk, looking at him with wary suspicion. She was young enough, with a face just a shade too wide for beauty, capable square hands, neat inexpensive suit. Isaac Jamison had noted the worn edge of the red leather shoulder bag, the alligator pumps, well-cared-for, but showing age. He guessed that this girl worked, understood the value of money, was willing to buy the best whenever she could afford it.

Her eyes were her best feature. Blue-gray, direct, without a shred of coyness. And she had the faint antagonism of the self-respecting person not accustomed to contacting the police.

“The man outside said you are a special assistant, Lieutenant. How much authority do you have?”

Isaac Jamison’s voice was low, with undertones of warmth. His voice was one of the reasons Deputy Chief Ringold had assigned him to this thankless job. His voice and his smile. His face had a long, bleak bone structure, severe, a thin-lipped mouth with the smallest hint of the fanatic, his beard blue-heavy under the dark skin. But the smile made him warm and human. He used it often in this new job, calculatingly, watching its effect.

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