Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 105, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 640 & 641, March 1995

When mystery aficionados talk about the revolution that occurred in the late 1970s and 1980s with the emergence of the strong female sleuth, they oughtn’t to forget the work of Janice Law, whose fictional investigator Anna Peters is about as tough as they come. Ms. Law’s first Anna Peters novel (1976) was nominated for an Edgar Allan Poe Award and she has gone on to write a number of other novels and stories both in the Peters series and out. Her new story for us is somewhat off her usual track in that it is pure psychological suspense...

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The sun still lit a high, cloudless sky, but the worst of the heat had sunk into the sienna- and ocher-toned buildings, making them glow as if by some subtle, internal fire. The big courtyard of the cafe was now mostly shadowed, and, freed of the heat and glare, the Bolognese were loitering over a Campari or a glass of mineral water or ordering pretty dishes of ices and biscuits. Michael smelled the smoke of their cigarettes, exhaust from the street, and a woman’s passing perfume, all touched with that more elusive smell, the faint exhalation of old stone and old buildings. Overhead, the swifts were beginning to swoop and twitter, while fat pigeons whirred between the tables and looked for crumbs underfoot.

Michael opened his notebook and glanced again at the column of figures. He had done all right. More than all right. The astronomy faculty had liked his presentation, admired the new software, understood the documentation; he had done the translations and now he had the orders sewed up. It was a good feeling, and he was thinking how much he liked Italians in general and the Bolognese in particular when a woman’s voice asked, “Do you speak English?”

Sometimes Michael ignored these appeals. His Italian was fluent, nearly perfect; his German was passable; his French, very good; and he could manage in both Portuguese and Dutch. Sometimes he would shrug, smile sympathetically, and shake his head.

“You must be American,” said the voice. “I’ve got one of the older models. A bit slow now.”

She must have noticed his company briefcase. Michael turned to see a nicely dressed woman with faded blond hair pulled back into an untidy knot. She was wearing oversized sunglasses with very dark lenses, and Michael was reflected as a tiny figure against a vast and somber sky.

“That must be the P-ninety-six?” he asked politely. You never know when you may find a customer.

“A generation before, actually. I’ve got one of the P-eighties.” She was somewhere in late middle age, a tall, sturdy woman with the confident smile of someone used to meeting people, used to making friends, or, perhaps, like Michael, used to making useful contacts.

“Really! Bane of our existence,” Michael joked. “How can we sell new software when those old dinosaurs are still going strong?”

“Slow but sound,” she said.

“A vintage model,” Michael admitted. “For personal use. For business applications now, our new line is the only thing to consider.” He could hear himself switching into his sales mode and smiled. “But you’re not here on business.”

Her expression adjusted subtly, and Michael wondered if he’d given offense. He nodded toward the guidebook and map that lay on her table.

“Travel and business,” she said after a moment, and there was a long pause. “You could say that travel has become my business.”

A waiter approached, very bright, neat, and important like all the cafe staff, and she ordered a San Pellegrino. Her Italian was quite passable, Michael noticed.

“I look at restaurants, hotels, tourist itineraries,” she remarked. “This is only my second time in Bologna. An underrated city.”

“One of the nicest in Italy.”

“That is what I think. I think it’s ready to be an important secondary destination if presented in the right way. Much more could be done with the university area as a package of entertainment, culture, and history. But not too touristy. That’s important for the publications I write for.”

Michael smiled at her enthusiasm.

“You’re wondering why I spoke to you,” she said.

“Americans abroad usually appeal for translations.”

“You are” — she hesitated, tipped her head to one side — “thirty-six, thirty-seven?”