leave.”
“Of course,” Ava said.
It was dark when she walked out of the Rijksmuseum, which made the wind and the rain seem even nastier. She opened her umbrella and peered into the street, trying to figure out how to get to the pub that Jacob Smits had mentioned. When she felt oriented, she held the umbrella towards the wind and started to walk.
It took more than ten minutes to get to the Melancholy Miller. The umbrella had kept her head and torso dry, but the bottoms of her pants were soaked and her running shoes were squishing. The pub was small, only ten tables spread around a horseshoe-shaped bar with six stools on each side. She looked for a man in a brown suit. There were two men at the bar, neither in a suit, and two tables were occupied by what looked like students. She sat at the table farthest from the bar. The bartender, tall and thin in a grey T-shirt and blue jeans and looking much like a student himself, yelled at her in Dutch.
“I only speak English,” she said.
“What would you like to drink?” he said, switching languages.
“I’m waiting for someone. I’ll order when he gets here.”
A few moments later a short, squat figure burst through the door, a hooded yellow rain slicker covering him from head to knee. He stood in the doorway and stared around. When he saw Ava, he pulled back the hood.
“Ms. Lee?” he said.
“That’s me.”
“I’m Smits.”
He pulled off the slicker over his head, scattering water in all directions, hung it on a hook, and started towards her. He was no more than five foot six but had to be well over two hundred pounds. He was almost round, his weight evenly distributed and firmly layered, with no jiggling of excess flesh. He looked surprisingly fit to Ava; she noticed how quickly he moved, his body in rhythm, and it occurred to her that he might be a very good dancer.
His head looked immense, but its size was probably exaggerated by his small, almost delicate facial features. He had tiny pink ears with lobes the size of pearls. His lips were thin and drawn. Deeply recessed blue eyes gazed at her from under light brown eyebrows that were so fine she wondered if they had been plucked and shaped. He was bald, with just a hint of fringe the same colour as his eyebrows.
“Ms. Lee,” he said when he was two paces away, offering his hand.
“Mr. Smits, you should have told me about your orange tie,” she said.
He looked down at his tie, loosened at the neck, its tail resting on the upper ledge of his belly. “We Dutch love our orange.”
He took a seat across from Ava and made a fuss about settling in. “Sorry to be a little late.”
“The weather is atrocious.”
“It’s typical enough.”
“Do you want something to drink?”
“Of course.”
Ava motioned to the bartender. “We’ll order now.”
“What do you want?” the bartender asked.
“I’ll have a glass of Pinot Grigio,” she said.
Smits looked at his watch. “I’ll have a Heineken,” he said and then turned back to Ava. “I’m trying to cut back. I don’t drink now until after six in the evening, and even then I try to limit myself to two.”
Ava didn’t know if he was making a joke. “Thanks for seeing me at such short notice,” she said.
“My pleasure.”
“How long have you been doing this kind of work?” Ava asked.
“Six years. I was actually hired by the man who started the business, but he died eighteen months on and I found myself running it. My wife says some things are meant to be, and this is one of those things. I would never have had the courage to quit my job and start out on my own. My partner’s death gave me no choice. It’s worked out well, better than I could have believed.”
“You’re a one-man firm?”
“Yes, so I don’t like to work more than a few cases at a time. Whatever jobs I have get my serious attention.”
“And I could be one of those jobs?”
“If you think I’m up to it. Not everyone thinks so. I don’t always make a
“Of course,” Ava said.
It was dark when she walked out of the Rijksmuseum, which made the wind and the rain seem even nastier. She opened her umbrella and peered into the street, trying to figure out how to get to the pub that Jacob Smits had mentioned. When she felt oriented, she held the umbrella towards the wind and started to walk.
It took more than ten minutes to get to the Melancholy Miller. The umbrella had kept her head and torso dry, but the bottoms of her pants were soaked and her running shoes were squishing. The pub was small, only ten tables spread around a horseshoe-shaped bar with six stools on each side. She looked for a man in a brown suit. There were two men at the bar, neither in a suit, and two tables were occupied by what looked like students. She sat at the table farthest from the bar. The bartender, tall and thin in a grey T-shirt and blue jeans and looking much like a student himself, yelled at her in Dutch.
“I only speak English,” she said.
“What would you like to drink?” he said, switching languages.
“I’m waiting for someone. I’ll order when he gets here.”
A few moments later a short, squat figure burst through the door, a hooded yellow rain slicker covering him from head to knee. He stood in the doorway and stared around. When he saw Ava, he pulled back the hood.
“Ms. Lee?” he said.
“That’s me.”
“I’m Smits.”
He pulled off the slicker over his head, scattering water in all directions, hung it on a hook, and started towards her. He was no more than five foot six but had to be well over two hundred pounds. He was almost round, his weight evenly distributed and firmly layered, with no jiggling of excess flesh. He looked surprisingly fit to Ava; she noticed how quickly he moved, his body in rhythm, and it occurred to her that he might be a very good dancer.
His head looked immense, but its size was probably exaggerated by his small, almost delicate facial features. He had tiny pink ears with lobes the size of pearls. His lips were thin and drawn. Deeply recessed blue eyes gazed at her from under light brown eyebrows that were so fine she wondered if they had been plucked and shaped. He was bald, with just a hint of fringe the same colour as his eyebrows.
“Ms. Lee,” he said when he was two paces away, offering his hand.
“Mr. Smits, you should have told me about your orange tie,” she said.
He looked down at his tie, loosened at the neck, its tail resting on the upper ledge of his belly. “We Dutch love our orange.”
He took a seat across from Ava and made a fuss about settling in. “Sorry to be a little late.”
“The weather is atrocious.”
“It’s typical enough.”
“Do you want something to drink?”
“Of course.”
Ava motioned to the bartender. “We’ll order now.”
“What do you want?” the bartender asked.
“I’ll have a glass of Pinot Grigio,” she said.
Smits looked at his watch. “I’ll have a Heineken,” he said and then turned back to Ava. “I’m trying to cut back. I don’t drink now until after six in the evening, and even then I try to limit myself to two.”
Ava didn’t know if he was making a joke. “Thanks for seeing me at such short notice,” she said.
“My pleasure.”
“How long have you been doing this kind of work?” Ava asked.
“Six years. I was actually hired by the man who started the business, but he died eighteen months on and I found myself running it. My wife says some things are meant to be, and this is one of those things. I would never have had the courage to quit my job and start out on my own. My partner’s death gave me no choice. It’s worked out well, better than I could have believed.”
“You’re a one-man firm?”
“Yes, so I don’t like to work more than a few cases at a time. Whatever jobs I have get my serious attention.”
“And I could be one of those jobs?”
“If you think I’m up to it. Not everyone thinks so. I don’t always make a
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