Chance by Kem Nunn Page B

when a man entered the room. Chance did not at once take his full measure. When he did, he saw that it was Raymond Blackstone.
    The detective stood for a moment framed by the doorway that opened onto the street. When he spotted Chance in the booth he waved off a hostess and crossed to where Chance sat. To Chance’s great surprise Detective Blackstone said nothing by way of greeting but moved to sit opposite him in the booth, taking occupancy of the very place where Chance had thought to find Jaclyn. The detective didn’t say anything right away and neither did Chance. There was a place setting on that side of the table and a second cup. The party lights strung gaily upon a wire above their heads bathed them in a rosy glow, as outside the evening had grown dark with a light mist falling once more.
    “Expecting someone?” Raymond asked. He looked to the unusedplace setting and then, before Chance could respond, “Dr. Chance, isn’t it?” He spoke in a pleasant, conversational tone.
    Chance nodded, not immediately willing to trust his voice.
    “We met in the hospital,” Raymond went on in his pleasant manner. “You were looking in on my wife.”
    “Yes,” Chance said. “That’s correct. I remember you now.”
    “Now. As opposed to when you saw me walk in?” He made no adjustment in tone for the bullying nature of the question.
    “You looked familiar. I meet a lot of people in the course of a day. That was some time back, as I recall.”
    “Uhm,” was all Detective Blackstone had to say. He turned over the cup before him and reached for the pitcher. “Do you mind?” he asked. He poured without waiting for a reply.
    “Please,” Chance said. “Feel free.”
    The detective nodded and poured a bit more for Chance as well. “Thank you,” Chance said. It was an absurd response. He could not imagine what was next. A waitress approached but Blackstone waved her away. A certain amount of time went by. The folder containing the photographs of Chance’s furniture rested on the table between them. Raymond Blackstone took the liberty of turning it toward him and flipping it open. He looked at a number of the pictures. “Would this be what they call Art Deco?”
    “It is. French Art Deco. Probably from the late thirties or early forties. Prewar. These you’re looking at happen to be signed by the designer.” Why he felt inclined to add this last bit was at that moment a mystery to him.
    Raymond lifted an eyebrow. “I’m impressed. Yours?”
    “It was. I recently sold it.”
    “Well,” Blackstone said, “I hope you got your price.”
    “Yes, so do I.”
    Raymond smiled a little. He closed the book and looked at Chance. “So . . . what brings you to our side of the bay, Doc?”
    “I sometimes see patients here. I enjoy being on campus now and then. It reminds me of my student days.”
    The detective nodded. “Are you on staff at any of the hospitals here?”
    “I was asked by Jaclyn’s therapist to look in on her. She was worried about possible trauma to the brain. She wanted to make sure they weren’t missing anything. So I came, but I’m not on staff.”
    Chance was aware of the detective’s hands on the table, one of which seemed to remain in more or less constant motion, opening and closing as Chance spoke. Raymond Blackstone was not a small man. Chance took him to be about six feet in height, with the lean, rawboned build of a light heavyweight fighter. Even so, the hands at play on the table seemed unusually large and powerful, the veins prominent across their backs. They were also, Chance noted, quite well groomed, manicured even, if he was any judge. There was a plain white gold wedding band on his left hand, an expensive-looking watch on his wrist. “Well,” Raymond said at length. “I shouldn’t intrude. I saw you sitting here and thought I’d come over and say hello.” He paused for just a beat. “You did say you were meeting someone?”
    To Chance’s great displeasure, he was