9.

“BECAUSE I DIDN’T think. I had to get Hazel to Lenox Hill. I saw it. I just picked it up.”

Silvestri put his cardboard container of coffee on the narrow ledge of the windshield and dropped the half-eaten jelly doughnut into the cardboard box on the seat between them. He wiped his hands on his jeans, leaving white smudges.

Wetzon opened a small packet, pulled out a folded wet Wash ’n Dri, and handed it to him. “Semper paratus,” she said.

“Christalmighty, Les, you’re a pistol,” Silvestri said, wiping his sticky hands, then taking the dark blue Gucci walking shoe from her. “How do you know it’s this woman’s—”

“Peepsie Cunningham. I mean, Evelyn Cunningham.”

“Whatever her name is. How can you be so certain it was her shoe? There are a lot of ladies all over the Upper East Side who wear Gucci shoes.”

She didn’t answer him, but when he looked back at her, she didn’t waver.

“Okay, okay. Don’t look at me like that. I know when I’m losing.” He leaned across the cardboard box, kissed her lightly, and pulled back, leaving her with the sweet taste of powdered sugar on her lips and her heart playing games in her chest.

They were parked in Rockefeller Plaza behind the skating rink, near the cafe where she was meeting Peter Tormenkov for breakfast.

“And look at this, Silvestri,” she said, determined to stay on the subject of Peepsie Cunningham. She loosened her scarf and pulled off her gloves. From her carryall she took the folded newspaper and held it out to him.

“Aw, Les,” Silvestri groaned, turning back in his seat and taking up the container of coffee. “I’m off duty. I haven’t been home in two days—”

“It’ll only take a minute. Please, Silvestri.”

“You are so goddam single-minded,” he said, taking the newspaper. He read quickly, rubbing the stubble on his face. “Oh Christ,” he said, finishing the article and looking at her, his eyes cold and flat. “How come you always get involved in this crap?”

“What do you mean ‘always’?” she said, insulted. “Only once before. And that wasn’t my fault either. And you know it, Silvestri.”

“I like things simple and uncomplicated when I’m not working,” he said, thumping his hand on the steering wheel, “otherwise I can’t come down. And you—you are like a complication waiting to happen.”

She turned her back on him and stared out the steamed-up car window, seeing nothing, blinking rapidly to keep from crying.

There was a long silence while they both stared out of their separate windows.

“Oh shit, Les,” Silvestri said gruffly, at last. “I’m sorry. I’m tired. I’m grungy. I just wanted to see you, touch you.”

“I’m sorry, too. I know you’re tired. I guess I should have waited. Or handled it myself.”

“Oh no, you shouldn’t have. You had to tell me and we have to deal with it.”

He uncovered the second container in the cardboard box and held it out to her.

“What’s this?” He knew she didn’t drink Sanka and that was the only kind of decaf coffee the doughnut shops he favored served. She took it from him, their fingers touching. “Oh, fresh orange juice for forgiveness,” she said, intentionally paraphrasing Ophelia.

At least they were facing each other again.

“Okay,” he said, “let’s talk about this.”

“What do you think?”

“‘Ms. Whitman,’ I presume,” Silvestri said, looking at her, tapping the article with his fingertip.

“Yup.”

“And the Russian lady?”

“Ida something or other. A home care attendant. Hazel might know more about her.”

“And Hazel is at Lenox Hill?”

“Yes.”

“Sloppy work, not asking questions, not getting a statement from the two of you, not combing the area around the scene,” he said, more to himself than Wetzon. “You just walked away from it and no one even stopped you.” He shook his head. “Sloppy,” he said again, staring out the front windshield.

“Silvestri,” she said softly.

“You’re not drinking your orange juice,” he answered.

She put the container to her lips. It was fresh and pulpy, the way she liked it.

“Oh my,” she said, closing her eyes. “Heavenly. Almost as good as—־” She felt the flush begin in her neck moving up above the collar of her coat into her cheeks. “As chocolate. I was going to say chocolate.” She smiled at him, suddenly shy. “This is bad, Silvestri. I have to do an interview in a few minutes.”

His eyes laughed at her.

“I have to go,” she said, reluctant to leave him, or the warmth of the car, even for the short walk to the glass elevator that would take her downstairs to the underground plaza and the cafe.

“What are you going to do about the shoe?” She knotted her scarf and slipped on her gloves.

“Leave it with me. I know Eddie O’Melvany.” Silvestri’s tone was now detached, professional. “I’ll talk to him. You and Hazel will have to make statements. If it’s a clean suicide—”

“A clean suicide ...” What was a clean suicide, for godsakes?

“I’ll check it out. Then I’m going to sleep. I’m beat.”

“Do you have to go back to work after that?” she asked cautiously. She didn’t want him to think she was making plans, but as she spoke, her right arm in the black alpaca coat, moving without a thought, reached across the seat to him.

“Nope, we made an arrest this morning. I have a couple of days.” His fingers met hers, moved upward into her sleeve, and rested just above her wrist. They were leaning awkwardly across the cardboard box to touch each other. “What about tonight?” he said.

“Smith is having a party tonight. I have to go.” She hesitated. “You could come,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t want to. His fingers played lightly around her wrist.

“Don’t want to,” he said, his eyes locked with hers.

“I could leave early,” she said, trying to stay cool. The clock on his dashboard said seven-thirty. “I’m going to be late,” she whispered. “I’ll leave my key with the doorman.”

He nodded. They twined fingers briefly, then let go of each other. She stepped out of the car and closed the door, weak in the knees.