The idea struck him as oddly fitting—if they had to be anywhere, they might as well spend the rest of the evening at Sardi’s. He liked the bartender on the second floor, a genial Croatian named Jan (pronounced “Yan”) who made a mean Manhattan. Lee hadn’t been to Sardi’s in a long time. He hoped Jan would be working tonight.
They made their way through the downstairs dining room with its wall-to-wall Hirschfeld caricatures of theatrical luminaries, turning toward the stairs at a toothy portrait of Carol Channing, grinning like the Big Bad Wolf, her eyes alight with the actor’s curse: the insatiable need for attention and adoration.
Luck was with them—Jan was on duty upstairs, and the place was hopping. Fortified with a few drinks, the upscale clientele gathered around the long bar was looking more relaxed than the people on the street, with their tight, worried-looking faces. Perhaps everyone feared another attack was imminent—but after a couple of Jan’s cocktails, Lee thought, you would forget to worry about it. At the far end of the bar, a plump woman with bleached hair in a pink Chanel suit and matching pillbox hat snuggled happily next to her date, a dignified gentleman in a tuxedo with a pencil mustache. Two theater programs lay on the bar next to them, with their characteristic yellow heading, PLAYBILL stenciled in bold black lettering. The couple fit in perfectly with the décor—a pair of extras out of a B movie from the 1940s.
When he saw Lee, the bartender’s sallow face broke into a broad grin.
“Where you been, my friend? Long time I don’t see you.”
While Lee was a student at John Jay College, he had gotten in the habit of stopping at Sardi’s after class on a fairly regular basis with his friend Jimmy Chen, who loved the place. They would order Manhattans and talk about class—Jimmy was already a cop, but was set on becoming a detective, so he was on night duty and taking classes during the day. He did end up making detective, and worked in Chinatown, where Lee sometimes met him for lunch.
“I’ve been working, Jan—sorry I haven’t been around.” That was only a partial truth; Lee wasn’t about to go into the story of his nervous breakdown and subsequent hospital stay.
The bartender turned and refilled a customer’s drink in one fluid motion, while presenting another with a credit card receipt. Jan was smooth, and Lee liked watching him at work, enjoying the pleasure he took in his job. Jan had a long sallow face with merry, droopy eyes, a swatch of sandy blond hair and no chin whatsoever. If he’d had a yen for acting, like everyone else within shouting distance of the restaurant, his face alone would have landed him comic lead roles.
“In Croatia, there is saying,” Jan declared as he plucked two Manhattan glasses from the glass shelf behind him. “Work is a poor man’s mistress.”
Lee laughed and nudged Kathy. “Jan is full of sayings from Croatia, but I think he makes them up himself.”
Jan wheeled around and placed a glass in front of each of them. “Your girlfriend?” He smiled, cocking his head to one side.
“Yes,” said Kathy. “I’m his girlfriend.”
Jan grinned at Lee. “Lucky man—too lucky, perhaps?”
“Sure,” Lee said, his mood already lifted. “Whatever you say, Jan.”
“She will drink Manhattan too?” Jan said, hesitating, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and vermouth in the other.
“She will,” Kathy replied.
“Good!” Jan beamed, pouring a generous amount of each into a silver cocktail shaker. He added a dash of Angostura bitters and ice, and shook exactly four times. Any more than that, he had told Lee many times, and you risk bruising the vermouth.
He poured them each a glass, lifting the shaker high in the air with a flourish—without spilling a drop. He placed the glasses in front of them and winked at Lee.
“Let me know when you want refill.”
“Thanks—I will,” Lee said, and lifted his glass to Kathy’s.
“Cheers,” she said. “To survival.”
“To survival,” he said, and drank deeply. It was good—very good. “You make a great Manhattan, Jan. Now what was that saying you were going to tell us about?”
Jan grinned. “Maybe you don’t believe me,” he said, bending down to wash out some glasses in the sink under the bar. The familiar sound of glass clanking against the metal sides of the sink was oddly comforting—come what may, it was business as usual here at Sardi’s.
“I believe you!” Lee said, laughing.
“Please tell us,” Kathy begged.
“Okay,” Jan agreed, winking at her. “I tell your friend because she so pretty. In Croatia there is a saying: No friend is really gone if they live on in your memory.”
The couple at the end of the bar raised their glasses in a toast.
“Here’s to absent friends,” said the man in the tux.
“May they live on in our memories,” Kathy said, raising her glass in response.
One by one, everyone at the bar picked up whatever they were drinking and lifted their glasses.
“To absent friends,” Lee murmured.
“May they rest in peace,” said the blond woman.
Everyone bowed their heads—and then, as reverently as if they were sipping a communion wine, they all drank.
“To absent friends,” said Jan quietly. “Gone, but never forgotten.”
Amen.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Joselin Rosario was surprised to see the lights already on when she arrived at the New York Blood Center on East Sixty-second Street Thursday morning at a little after eight. She was early, as usual. They wouldn’t open their doors to the public until nine o’clock, but Joselin liked time to herself to enjoy her coffee and read the paper—time she rarely had at home, with three kids, her mother, a dog, and a husband around. Leaving their Washington Heights apartment early for work was something she did for herself; that hour each day was her time. It was like Oprah said—you had to take care of yourself first before taking care of everyone else around you—and Joselin had lived her whole life taking care of other people. She had decided it was about time she did a few things for herself—starting with an hour alone every day.
Madre mia, she thought, who could be here at this hour? No one was in the front office, so she put her coffee down on the desk and went through to the back room, with its rows of specially fitted hospital beds for the donors to give blood. That was empty too, the line of beds waiting to be filled by the steady stream of volunteers coming through each day. Ever since 9/11 they had been busier than usual, and had to hire two new employees.
Joselin walked through to the small laboratory in the very back of the facility where the blood was stored and tested for contamination. People were required to fill out a form, but sometimes they lied about key information, like whether or not they were HIV positive. Joselin liked to think the best of people, and she tried to convince herself that maybe some of them just forgot—but how could you possibly forget something like whether or not you had AIDS?
She heard sounds coming from the laboratory. It sounded like someone was running one of the machines that separated the red blood cells from their platelets.
“Hello?” she called out. “Who’s there?”
As she reached the door to the lab, she came face-to-face with a man—or rather, with his chin. Joselin was only five foot three, and he was well over six feet.
“Hello,” he said cheerfully, standing in the doorway and blocking her from entering the lab. “I’m your new assistant.”
“H-hello,” she replied, confused. He was lanky and very pale, with slicked-back dark hair and long, thin hands. He was conservatively dressed, in clothes that looked like they came from a vintage thrift store: pinstriped trousers, lace-up shoes, and a starched white shirt.
“They sent me down from White Plains,” he explained, holding up a piece of paper. “This is my transfer form.” His voice was odd, formal—sort of British sounding—but something about it struck her as fake.
She frowned. “I didn’t hear anything about that.”
“Isn’t that just like a bureaucracy?” he said, shaking his head. “Well, here I am, so I guess you’re stuck with me. You’re Joselin Rosario, right?”
She nodded. “How did you—”
“They told me at White Plains I’d be reporting to you. I’m the new phlebotomist.” He smiled, but only with his mouth. There was something lean and hungry in his green eyes.
“Okay,” she said. She had put in a request for a new lab technician, but was surprised it had been granted so quickly. She was used to weeks of wading through bureaucratic red tape. “You can—uh,” she said, looking over his shoulder, “were you using the platelet machine just now? I thought I heard it running.”
“No,” he replied, eyes wide, his whole body expressing his innocence. But Joselin had three children under the age of ten, and she was used to ferreting out liars. Her spine tingled; she had a peculiar sensation that something about this young man was not what it appeared to be. White Plains or not, she would have to watch him very carefully.
CHAPTER NINE
Lee pushed the door open to Chuck’s office. Resting on the desk was a pair of expensive black high heels. Attached to the shoes was a pair of equally expensive legs, and at the other end of the legs was Susan Beaumont Morton.
“Why, hello, sugar,” she said, putting down the fashion magazine she was reading and stretching her long, meticulously toned body. “Fancy meetin’ you here.”
There was nothing fancy about it. If he had to bet on it, Lee would have put money on her knowing he was due to arrive, and arranging to be there at the same time. Susan Beaumont Morton was not a woman who left things to chance. If something (or someone) couldn’t be controlled, she considered it worthless—or, in the case of people, dangerous. Her need to control the people in her life was ingrained, inescapable, and inexorable. She was a psychic whirlpool, pulling helpless sailors into her deep waters—and they were deep waters, as Lee knew from personal experience. He was reminded of Ulysses, who in his long voyage was forced to choose between a whirlpool and a six-headed monster called Scylla.
Lee decided to give Susan a wide berth, and turned to leave, mumbling some excuse about needing to make a phone call. But as he stepped into the hallway, he was met with Scylla—in the person of Hildegard Elena Krieger von Boehm. He tried to remember what Ulysses had done, and winced at the answer: he had chosen the monster, sacrificing six members of his crew to avoid losing his entire ship to the whirlpool. Well, he thought, if it was good enough for Ulysses, it’s good enough for me.
He chose Scylla.
“Hello,” he said, giving Elena Krieger a wide smile, “what brings you here?”
To his relief, Scylla wasn’t snapping today.
“The same thing as you,” she said, looking bemused and a bit wounded. “I’m working on the case.”
“Oh, great,” he answered, hoping he sounded believable. “Terrific.”
Elena Krieger frowned and brushed back a strand of her thick red mane. “I don’t see what’s good about it. A young woman has been horribly murdered.”
“Uh, no—I meant I’m glad you’re on the case.” He looked back over his shoulder. Inside the office, Susan had gotten to her feet and was headed in his direction. “I’ve got to find Chuck,” he muttered, and tried to step around Krieger, but she placed her imposing body in his way.
“I’d like you to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind,” Krieger said, looking him up and down. Lee felt his face flushing, and looked away to avoid her stare.
She was built like an Amazon, almost six feet tall, with equally impressive hips and shoulders—powerful and undeniably sexual. If you were a man meeting Elena Krieger for the first time, it was hard not to imagine what she was like in bed—and equally hard not to imagine the bruises the next day. It was easy to see how she had earned the nickname the Valkyrie, as some of the cops called her behind her back.
Sexuality flowed from her like sap from a tree: uncal-culated, natural, and unforced. But Susan Morton was a different story. She was a concoction, a carefully measured blond confection made up of equal parts molasses and vinegar, syrupy and sharp. She sauntered up behind him and placed a cool hand on his shoulder. If Elena Krieger was all fire, Susan Morton was dry ice. He could feel the cold burn on his skin through the layer of fabric.
“What’s the hurry?” she said. “Chuck will be back soon, I’m sure.”
Krieger turned her gaze on Susan, the air between them crackling with the force of her contempt. “You are his—wife?” She said the word with the same inflection as if she had said “whore.”
Susan returned her stare before answering. “Yes. I’m Susan Beaumont Morton.”
Lee wasn’t sure why she emphasized the middle name—to challenge Krieger with the fact that it was French? Or to let her know that she had an identity of her own?
“You must be Elena Krieger,” Susan continued, rolling the r unnecessarily. “I’ve heard so much about you.” She managed to make the comment sound like a challenge at best, and at worst, an insult.
Elena Krieger was up to the challenge. “I’m sure you have,” she replied with a superior smile that was dangerously close to a smirk. She turned to Lee, dismissing Susan with a twist of her powerful shoulders. “Is there somewhere we can go to talk about the case?”
The implication was clear: the office was contaminated with the unwanted presence of Susan Morton.
But Susan was not about to be brushed aside by a redheaded Brunhilde. “I was just leaving,” she snapped. Grabbing her designer pocketbook in a single swipe, she swept from the room in a cloud of Chanel No. 19.
Lee had never liked Chanel No. 19.
“That’s better,” Krieger said loud enough so that Susan could hear. “Now we can get down to business.”
As he watched Susan’s retreating figure, Lee couldn’t help thinking this was not going to end well.
CHAPTER TEN
Samir Haddad was frightened. He was not a timid man, but lately he was frightened quite a lot of the time. Ever since that terrible day, when death rained down from the sky, everything had changed. Business was down, and people looked at him differently now. Not his regular customers—if anything, they were even kinder now—but the tourists and out of towners were skittish. When they heard his accent, sometimes they would look at him as if he were going to attack them, which was absurd.
Samir was a pacifist, and had fled Jordan to avoid the grinding politics of the Middle East; he had no allegiance with the eleven men who pledged themselves to destruction in the name of Allah. He wasn’t even a believer, though he went to mosque like a good Muslim. He knew a lot of observant Christians and Jews didn’t believe in God either, so he didn’t see anything strange in it, though he rarely admitted his lack of faith to anyone.
Samir raked a fork over the hot coals in his vendor cart and watched as the sparks sailed into the night sky, a thousand tiny red eyes scanning the darkness. He looked down Fifth Avenue at the dark line of pedestrians swarming up the sidewalk, their heads bobbing like apples in a sea of bodies, their faces wearing the protective New York expression he knew so well.
It wasn’t a shell, exactly; it was more like a persona, he thought as he opened a new package of pita bread. Except that eventually it reached all the way down inside of you and changed who you were. Maybe it was the accelerated pace of life—the constant stimulation, the unrelenting sights, sounds, smells, and noise—but it caused children to grow up faster, and adults to wither earlier. If you were up to it, Samir thought, it was hard to imagine living anywhere else; if you weren’t, it could crush you.
But lately the shell had grown thinner. People were wary, but they were also wearing their emotions more on the surface. Samir could tell when people approached him what their reaction was going to be from their body language. He had seen some stop and stare when they heard his accent—again, mostly tourists. Others actually walked away shaking their heads and glancing over their shoulder, as if he was going to
lob a grenade at them from his food cart.
He sighed and chopped the onions and chicken on the grill into finer pieces, then sprinkled them with his own concoction of lemon juice, vinegar, and spices. It wasn’t good to look idle—it was better to appear busy, even with no customers at the cart. Americans liked people who always seemed to be working. They didn’t trust you if you stood around with your hands in your pockets, especially if you had a face and voice like his.
A young man approached his cart. He had a loping, loose stride, and was dressed very neatly in a conservative suit. There was even something old-fashioned about it, with the narrow lapels and thin pinstripes on the jacket and matching trousers. Samir was very good at sizing people up—in his job, he had to be. He looked at the young man’s face, but his eyes were hidden behind curiously heavy sunglasses. Samir peered at him more closely—no, they weren’t sunglasses; they were goggles. Just as he was asking himself why a young man in a suit would be wearing something like that, the fellow pushed the goggles up on top of his head, gave a big smile, and pointed to an uncooked beef kabob.
“Can I have that, please?”
“Certainly, sir,” Samir answered, sliding it onto the hot grill.
“Oh, no—I’ll take it just like that,” the boy said, licking his lips.
Samir stared at him. He was very well-groomed. His dark hair was neatly trimmed, and his starched white shirt was immaculate. He was extremely thin, and looked to be about nineteen, though he could certainly be older. The only really odd thing about him was those goggles—they were big and green, made of thick rubber. Maybe the lad had just come from chemistry class. Samir’s son was in college, and chemistry was one of his subjects—but would he dress like this for class?
“How much?” the boy asked.
“Uh, three dollars, please,” Samir replied, handing him the uncooked meat in a brown paper bag.
“Thanks,” he replied, and pulled three dollar bills from his pocket.
“Thank you, sir,” Samir replied politely—he always treated each customer with courtesy.
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