Lisbon watched as Jane played his usual game of mental misdirection . Within ten minutes, Henderson was sobbing, admitting he’d let a "mystery woman" spend the night in the gallery.
The air in the California Bureau of Investigation (CBI) office was thick with the scent of stale coffee and unwashed paperwork. , draped over his usual leather couch, stared at the ceiling as if the cracked plaster held the secrets to the universe. The Mentalist
At the gallery, the owner, a nervous man named Mr. Henderson, was vibrating with anxiety. Jane didn’t look at the empty wall where the masterpiece once hung. Instead, he watched Henderson’s hands. Lisbon watched as Jane played his usual game
“She’s at the park,” Jane whispered to Lisbon as they walked back to the car. “Wearing a blue scarf. She’s waiting for him, but she doesn't realize he’s already broken.” , draped over his usual leather couch, stared