hugged me. She felt lighter and more fragile than when I had left her apartment, and that provoked the tears I’d been fighting since Lipscomb had first come out to meet us. I patted her awkwardly on the back, detached myself, and turned around just in time to step on Detective Edwards’ foot.
I wished it had been with my heel—the heel on these Weitzman pumps is pretty potent—but it was with my toe. He had been walking up behind me, should have zigged when I zagged, and pow . Neither of us was amused.
“Detective Edwards,” I acknowledged and made a beeline for the ladies room. I paced, I peed, I repaired my makeup as much as my blotchy cheeks and trembling hands would permit, and I checked my watch about three times before deciding that I could safely emerge. Surely he and Lipscomb were occupied with Helen or something else by now. But as I stepped back into the hall, Edwards was waiting for me.
There are times I wish I smoked. Lauren Bacall could always buy a moment to come up with the perfect scathing line by doing the whole cigarette case ritual—click, tap tap, long, soulful gaze as the match is struck, deep inhale, lazy exhale, withering line. I could’ve used one of Bacall’s cigarettes just then. Better yet, I could’ve used one of Bacall’s writers.
Edwards made the first move, which would have impressed me more if I hadn’t been dismissing it as technique. “This morning didn’t go the way I’d hoped.”
“Bagel not fresh?” I asked, almost able to taste one of those little pieces of tobacco Bacall was always lifting off her tongue with a perfectly manicured nail.
“I deserve that.” He smiled and it was pained enough to pass for sincere. “I misjudged you.”
“Is this where I excuse you because you’re only doing your job?” Even if it was sincere, the smile was not enough. Not by a long shot.
“That’d be great.”
“I’m sure it would be. Have a nice day, Detective.”
Toucheé , Leigh Brackett. I felt really good about leaving him that way. Until I told Cassady about it on the cell phone on the way back to the office. “You don’t want to burn that bridge, Molly,” she snapped.
“I’m not going to get involved with a guy who thinks I’m capable of murder. Or of sleeping with Teddy Reynolds,” I said in an effort to defend myself.
“I’m talking about having access to the police department so you can solve this crime and become a world-famous journalist,” she snapped even harder.
“You’re so supportive. One of the many reasons I love you,” I snapped back.
“I am being supportive!” she protested. “I’m thinking clearly for you since you apparently don’t have time for that today.”
Snap, snap, snap.
“What am I supposed to do, Cassady? Thank him for considering me a murder suspect?” One of the great things about Manhattan is that everybody has so much on their minds that they rarely care what’s on yours. You could have sex in the middle of the sidewalk on Sixth Avenue and people would step around you without breaking stride. But I guess my voice got a little shrill on “murder suspect” because three different people looked directly at me—one with horror and two with interest. I turned up the collar on my coat, like that was going to muffle anything else I blurted, and kept walking.
“You’re supposed to laugh off the ridiculous misunderstanding and start keeping notes in case you want me to sue him later on. Just don’t slam the door. Keep it open. You may need it.”
“You don’t need it. The door, the aggravation, any of it,” Tricia insisted when I called to get her point of view. “He’s clearly an idiot when it comes to judging people, which leads me to believe he’s not that good a detective. Therefore, he’s of no use to you on a personal or professional level, so move on.”
I didn’t answer her right away. I was thinking about what she said, but I was also watching the people stream in and out of our building.
I wished it had been with my heel—the heel on these Weitzman pumps is pretty potent—but it was with my toe. He had been walking up behind me, should have zigged when I zagged, and pow . Neither of us was amused.
“Detective Edwards,” I acknowledged and made a beeline for the ladies room. I paced, I peed, I repaired my makeup as much as my blotchy cheeks and trembling hands would permit, and I checked my watch about three times before deciding that I could safely emerge. Surely he and Lipscomb were occupied with Helen or something else by now. But as I stepped back into the hall, Edwards was waiting for me.
There are times I wish I smoked. Lauren Bacall could always buy a moment to come up with the perfect scathing line by doing the whole cigarette case ritual—click, tap tap, long, soulful gaze as the match is struck, deep inhale, lazy exhale, withering line. I could’ve used one of Bacall’s cigarettes just then. Better yet, I could’ve used one of Bacall’s writers.
Edwards made the first move, which would have impressed me more if I hadn’t been dismissing it as technique. “This morning didn’t go the way I’d hoped.”
“Bagel not fresh?” I asked, almost able to taste one of those little pieces of tobacco Bacall was always lifting off her tongue with a perfectly manicured nail.
“I deserve that.” He smiled and it was pained enough to pass for sincere. “I misjudged you.”
“Is this where I excuse you because you’re only doing your job?” Even if it was sincere, the smile was not enough. Not by a long shot.
“That’d be great.”
“I’m sure it would be. Have a nice day, Detective.”
Toucheé , Leigh Brackett. I felt really good about leaving him that way. Until I told Cassady about it on the cell phone on the way back to the office. “You don’t want to burn that bridge, Molly,” she snapped.
“I’m not going to get involved with a guy who thinks I’m capable of murder. Or of sleeping with Teddy Reynolds,” I said in an effort to defend myself.
“I’m talking about having access to the police department so you can solve this crime and become a world-famous journalist,” she snapped even harder.
“You’re so supportive. One of the many reasons I love you,” I snapped back.
“I am being supportive!” she protested. “I’m thinking clearly for you since you apparently don’t have time for that today.”
Snap, snap, snap.
“What am I supposed to do, Cassady? Thank him for considering me a murder suspect?” One of the great things about Manhattan is that everybody has so much on their minds that they rarely care what’s on yours. You could have sex in the middle of the sidewalk on Sixth Avenue and people would step around you without breaking stride. But I guess my voice got a little shrill on “murder suspect” because three different people looked directly at me—one with horror and two with interest. I turned up the collar on my coat, like that was going to muffle anything else I blurted, and kept walking.
“You’re supposed to laugh off the ridiculous misunderstanding and start keeping notes in case you want me to sue him later on. Just don’t slam the door. Keep it open. You may need it.”
“You don’t need it. The door, the aggravation, any of it,” Tricia insisted when I called to get her point of view. “He’s clearly an idiot when it comes to judging people, which leads me to believe he’s not that good a detective. Therefore, he’s of no use to you on a personal or professional level, so move on.”
I didn’t answer her right away. I was thinking about what she said, but I was also watching the people stream in and out of our building.
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