basis—”
“You are?!” His smile widened, lighting up his incredible eyes like neon in Times Square. “Oh my God, that’s amazing.”
A snort escaped before I could stifle my ridicule. “Hardly.”
“No, I mean, my next book deals with a 911 operator involved in a murder spree. I don’t suppose you’d let me interview you, would you? I have a ton of questions.”
“Umm…maybe some other time.” I bounced Luke, who grabbed a hank of my hair and tried to stuff it, along with his fist, into his mouth. “I have to get this little guy home and fed before he eats me bald.”
“Please. We could have a cup of coffee right here in the café downstairs, if that works for you. Just a few minutes would be a great start. And then if I could maybe email you at another time, you wouldn’t be inconvenienced too much, would you?”
Email. Yeah, right. I wondered what he would think if he knew I didn’t use email. Or social media at all. Who had the time? Or the money? We didn’t even have Internet in the house.
“I’d be really grateful,” he pressed. “And I’d give you an acknowledgement in the book.”
An acknowledgement. Okay, I admit. That sounded too cool to pass up. Who’d turn down the opportunity to have their name in a book ?
“I could even name a character after you if you want. What’s your name?”
“Emily.” I was softening, and he must have sensed it.
“Ten minutes, Emily? Please?”
“Okay. But only ten minutes.” I had to get Luke to daycare and be at work by twelve o’clock.
“Great. Thank you. I really appreciate this.”
We walked together to the stairs and descended, with him happily chatting about his latest project—his wip, he called it—which centered on a dispatcher who suspects her boss is a serial killer. “I just need some help with authenticity on the details of a police precinct,” he said. “Things like, do you still tape 911 calls or are they on computer discs or what. And is there a special room where you replay those tapes? And how long does it take between the time a cop requests a certain recording and he gets to hear it?”
He continued rattling off questions, never giving me a chance to answer, as we strode to the newly renovated lower level. At the bottom of the stairs, near the exit doors, the café gleamed with white columns and glass cases of pastries. On a nearby counter, a trio of thermal carafes held coffee, hot water for tea or cocoa, and decaf. Beside them, a tower of Styrofoam cups waited to be filled. Sugar packets, stirrers, and non-dairy creamer sat in wicker baskets. I poured a cup of decaf and added an envelope of powdered creamer, then stirred the mixture. Once it melded into a sickly taupe color, I reached for the coffee, but he touched my hand, stopping me in mid-grasp. An electric shock from his fingers jolted my nerve endings. What on earth was going on with me?
“Here,” he said, taking my cup. “You’ve got the little guy.”
My reaction to him addled my brain, but I managed to smile. “Thanks.” Walking ahead, I found an empty bistro table beside the magazine rack and sat in one of the two chairs. Luke nodded off on my shoulder, so I propped him up against my neck to make us both more comfortable.
“This is great,” Ambrose Chase said, taking the seat across from Luke and me. “I won’t keep you long, promise. I can see you’ve got your hands full. How old is he?”
I nuzzled my son’s head, inhaling his unique toddler smell of baby shampoo and arrowroot cookies. “Eighteen months.”
“Sweet. What’s his name?”
“Luke.”
“Luke. And do you and Luke have a last name?”
“Handler.”
“Emily Handler.” After a sip from his cup, he remarked, “Good name. Strong. Perfect for a fictional character who’s about to save the city from a vicious killer.”
I smiled again. How could I not? I, Emily Handler, was about to be immortalized in fiction. A chill zipped down my spine. What if the book sucked?
“You are?!” His smile widened, lighting up his incredible eyes like neon in Times Square. “Oh my God, that’s amazing.”
A snort escaped before I could stifle my ridicule. “Hardly.”
“No, I mean, my next book deals with a 911 operator involved in a murder spree. I don’t suppose you’d let me interview you, would you? I have a ton of questions.”
“Umm…maybe some other time.” I bounced Luke, who grabbed a hank of my hair and tried to stuff it, along with his fist, into his mouth. “I have to get this little guy home and fed before he eats me bald.”
“Please. We could have a cup of coffee right here in the café downstairs, if that works for you. Just a few minutes would be a great start. And then if I could maybe email you at another time, you wouldn’t be inconvenienced too much, would you?”
Email. Yeah, right. I wondered what he would think if he knew I didn’t use email. Or social media at all. Who had the time? Or the money? We didn’t even have Internet in the house.
“I’d be really grateful,” he pressed. “And I’d give you an acknowledgement in the book.”
An acknowledgement. Okay, I admit. That sounded too cool to pass up. Who’d turn down the opportunity to have their name in a book ?
“I could even name a character after you if you want. What’s your name?”
“Emily.” I was softening, and he must have sensed it.
“Ten minutes, Emily? Please?”
“Okay. But only ten minutes.” I had to get Luke to daycare and be at work by twelve o’clock.
“Great. Thank you. I really appreciate this.”
We walked together to the stairs and descended, with him happily chatting about his latest project—his wip, he called it—which centered on a dispatcher who suspects her boss is a serial killer. “I just need some help with authenticity on the details of a police precinct,” he said. “Things like, do you still tape 911 calls or are they on computer discs or what. And is there a special room where you replay those tapes? And how long does it take between the time a cop requests a certain recording and he gets to hear it?”
He continued rattling off questions, never giving me a chance to answer, as we strode to the newly renovated lower level. At the bottom of the stairs, near the exit doors, the café gleamed with white columns and glass cases of pastries. On a nearby counter, a trio of thermal carafes held coffee, hot water for tea or cocoa, and decaf. Beside them, a tower of Styrofoam cups waited to be filled. Sugar packets, stirrers, and non-dairy creamer sat in wicker baskets. I poured a cup of decaf and added an envelope of powdered creamer, then stirred the mixture. Once it melded into a sickly taupe color, I reached for the coffee, but he touched my hand, stopping me in mid-grasp. An electric shock from his fingers jolted my nerve endings. What on earth was going on with me?
“Here,” he said, taking my cup. “You’ve got the little guy.”
My reaction to him addled my brain, but I managed to smile. “Thanks.” Walking ahead, I found an empty bistro table beside the magazine rack and sat in one of the two chairs. Luke nodded off on my shoulder, so I propped him up against my neck to make us both more comfortable.
“This is great,” Ambrose Chase said, taking the seat across from Luke and me. “I won’t keep you long, promise. I can see you’ve got your hands full. How old is he?”
I nuzzled my son’s head, inhaling his unique toddler smell of baby shampoo and arrowroot cookies. “Eighteen months.”
“Sweet. What’s his name?”
“Luke.”
“Luke. And do you and Luke have a last name?”
“Handler.”
“Emily Handler.” After a sip from his cup, he remarked, “Good name. Strong. Perfect for a fictional character who’s about to save the city from a vicious killer.”
I smiled again. How could I not? I, Emily Handler, was about to be immortalized in fiction. A chill zipped down my spine. What if the book sucked?
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