Criminals are dumb as stumps. If they were smart they could go be investment bankers. Or judges.

Abstract art filled the walls, lined the bookshelves. But all painted with the same crude hand, no eye to detail or form. Savagely mixed, the colors selected to hurt the eye. Jackson Pollock without the pictures. They were ugliness disguising themselves as talent.

She spoke with the air of the artist, playing out each nuance until it wasn't a nuance anymore.

The perfection of her face created a sense of emptiness--like a house with no curtains in the window.