Fare Play by Barbara Paul

finish?”
    â€œUh, yes, we finished it.”
    â€œThen what’s the problem? Why didn’t you just send it up?”
    â€œI thought I’d better bring it to you myself.” She opened a folder and took out the computer-generated portrait.
    Marian looked at the portrait … and then looked back at Paula Dancer. “That’s you!”
    Dancer nodded slowly, a wry smile on her face. “Just as a test, I asked André to describe the man he works for. We built up a perfect likeness of the man sitting at the next desk.”
    Marian made a noise of exasperation. “Do you have that one with you?”
    â€œUh—yes.” She fished another portrait out of her folder. “Do you know him?”
    â€œI know the man André works for.” Marian looked at the portrait. “And he doesn’t look anything like that! Christ.”
    Dancer smiled in sympathy. “I’m afraid our André is easily distracted. I thought you ought to know.”
    â€œThanks, I appreciate it. Where is our wonderful witness now?”
    â€œHe’s out in the squadroom. Shall I send him in?”
    â€œPlease.”
    Dancer grinned. “You know, I think that’s the first time anyone has said ‘please’ to me since I joined the force. I’ll go get André.” She left.
    André Flood, when he came in, was a surprise. Like most people, Marian had a mental picture of a computer hacker as someone overweight, unkempt, with bad skin. A can of Coke in one hand and a bag of munchies in the other. But that must have been the first generation of hackers; Holland’s André was, in contrast, exceedingly kempt. Jacket and tie, good haircut, and a perfect baby-boy face that must drive the girls wild. He called Marian “ma’am” and avoided eye contact.
    When he was seated across from her, Marian pushed the two sketches toward him that Paula Dancer had left. “The man first,” she said. “You maintain that’s an accurate representation of your boss?”
    The young man picked up the computer-generated sketch and examined it carefully. “There are some differences, but—essentially, yes.”
    â€œEssentially, no,” Marian said. “The only similarities between that face and Holland’s are that they’re both male and they’re both clean-shaven. And they both have dark hair. The graphics tech told me that’s the face of the detective who was sitting at the next desk.”
    â€œReally?” André found this mildly interesting.
    â€œHow can you not know what the man you work for looks like?”
    He looked everywhere in the room except at Marian. “I do know what Mr. Holland looks like. I’m just not very good at describing people.”
    â€œI’ll say. This sketch of the woman is useless.”
    â€œExcuse me, ma’am, but I’m pretty sure of that one.”
    Marian sighed. “André, do you remember the policewoman who composed these pictures? You last saw her, oh, three minutes ago.”
    â€œUh, I remember her,” he answered vaguely.
    She flicked the sketch with her finger. “There she is.”
    His eyes widened, his attention caught at last. “I described the policewoman? Wow. Isn’t it amazing, the tricks your mind plays on you?”
    â€œYeah, really amazing.” Marian turned both sketches facedown and tried to get him to look at her. “Think back, André. What were you doing when this woman calling herself Laura Cisney came into the office?”
    â€œWell, I was tracing funds a building contractor was moving around to keep them from being frozen by the IRS. He was using South American banks mostly—”
    â€œThe IRS hired Holland’s agency?”
    â€œNo, one of the contractor’s creditors is our client. I don’t think I should talk about it, ma’am. Confidentiality, you know.”
    â€œOh.” Marian