James listens in silence and takes the wallet, looking through everything slowly, money, betting slips, and ah, identification. "William Walker," he says slowly, "Willy Walker, a man interested in horses, poker and women. This wallet reeks of cheap perfume. Someone who shows up dead on our doorstep. How very interesting."
He places the wallet on the table with a small nose wrinkle of disgust. Only a certain type of woman wore perfume that would permeate so readily, and it wasn't a type that James wishes to be associated with. He brushes his hands together as if he could wash of the smell that way. "Well, Scott. Someone is trying to either get our attention or the police's attention. Which do you think is the more likely scenario?"