Small Town

They looked at each other, and he took a step backward, as if someone had struck him a blow in the chest. He said, “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

“What makes you say that, John?”

“That’s why you’re here. What happened to her? What did she do, go out looking for somebody else?”

“Why would she do that, John?”

“Because she was still horny, I guess.”

“What did you do, John? Turn the lady down? Had a glass of her Wild Turkey and decided you didn’t want to get naked with her after all?”

“The chemistry wasn’t right.”

“So you kept your clothes on?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You took them off?”

He stood still for a long moment. They were asking more questions but he had stopped listening. He turned from them, walked to his desk.

“John?”

“I want to make a phone call,” he said. “I have a right to make a phone call, don’t I?”

“You’re not under arrest, John,” Slaughter said, and Reade told him it was his phone, and of course he had the right to use it. But if he could answer a few questions first maybe they could get this all cleared up and then he could make all the calls he wanted.

Yeah, right. He dialed, and Nancy put him through to Roz. “I need a lawyer,” he said. “I’ve got a couple of cops here, and I think I’m a suspect in the murder of a woman I met the other night.” He looked across the desk at them. “Is that right? Am I a suspect?”

They didn’t respond, but that was as good as if they had.

He talked for a minute or two, then replaced the receiver. “No more questions,” he said. “I’m done talking until my lawyer gets here.”

“Was that your lawyer just now, John?”

He didn’t have a lawyer. The last lawyer he’d used was the moron who represented him in the divorce, and he’d since heard the guy was ill with something, and could only hope he’d died of it. He needed a criminal lawyer, and he didn’t know any, had never had need of one. And Roz wasn’t a lawyer, she was a literary agent, but she’d know what to do and whom to call.

He didn’t say any of this, however. He sat at his desk, and they continued to ask questions, but he’d answered as many questions as he was going to.

And, now that he’d stopped saying anything, one of them, Slaughter or Reade, took a card from his wallet and read him his Miranda rights. Now that he’d finally elected to remain silent, now that he’d finally called for an attorney, they told him it was his right to do so.

He had the feeling he’d already said a lot more than he should have.

four

L’Aiglon d’Or was on Fifty-fifth between Park and Madison, and had been there for decades. A classic French restaurant, it had long since ceased to be trendy, and the right side of the menu guaranteed that it would never be a bargain. The great majority of its patrons had been coming for years, cherishing the superb cuisine, the restrained yet elegant decor, and the unobtrusively impeccable service. The tables, set luxuriously far apart, were hardly ever all taken, nor were there often more than two or three of them vacant. This, in fact, was very much as the proprietor preferred it. A Belgian from Bruges, who most people assumed was French, he wanted to make a good profit, but hated to turn anyone away. “The man who cannot get a table one week,” he had said more than once, “will not come back the next week.”

In response, one customer quoted Yogi Berra — Nobody goes there anymore, it’s too crowded. The proprietor nodded in agreement. “Précisément,” he said. “If it is too crowded, no one comes.”

Francis Buckram saw he was a few minutes early and had the cab drop him at the corner. He found things to look at in a couple of Madison Avenue shop windows, and contrived to make his entrance at 8:05.

They were waiting for him at the table, three middle-aged men in dark suits and ties. Buckram, wearing a blazer and tan slacks, wondered if he should have chosen a suit himself. His clothes had nothing to apologize for, the blazer was by Turnbull & Asser, the slacks were Armani, the brown wing tips were Allen Edmonds, and he knew he wore the clothes well, but did they lack the gravitas the meeting required?

No, he decided, that was the point. The meeting was their idea, and he wasn’t coming hat in hand. Insouciance was the ticket, not gravitas.

Fancy words for a cop.