The Night, The Day by Andrew Kane Page B

and lived. “And what did you learn?”
    “A lot, actually. It was easy. As I said, you’re pretty well known. I should have recognized your name right away. I do read the New York Times Book Review.”
    “So, if you didn’t recognize my name, how exactly did you find all this out?”
    “A phone call.”
    “To whom?” He had to admit, he enjoyed the way she made him probe, and he knew she liked it too.
    “Well, I used a little trickery, but I suppose it’s okay.”
    “Trickery?”
    “The state psychological society. I phoned them and told some very nice, chatty old lady that I was looking for a psychologist and had received your name from my doctor. I was calling to make sure you were legit. Without even looking you up, she just started laughing and said, ‘Oh, Dr. Rosen is quite renowned,’ and all that. I thanked her. She wished me well in therapy.”
    Martin was impressed and somewhat uneasy.
    “You’re upset?” she asked.
    “I wouldn’t go as far to say that I’m upset , but you could have asked me .”
    “You’re right, I should have. It was a violation of your privacy, I’m sorry.”
    “It’s okay,” he said, his tone softening. “It’s public information anyway, and I suppose a single woman in New York these days has to take every precaution.”
    “It’s no excuse, but thanks for understanding.”
    Silence.
    “So, how does it feel to be a best-selling author?” she asked.
    “That would take an entire night and then some to describe.”
    “I’m not going anywhere, are you?”
    I suppose not, he mused, sipping what remained of his Scotch.
    She listened attentively as he complained about the grind, the speaking engagements, signings, et cetera. With the exception of his recent gig in Chicago, he had managed to keep it all local so he could be home with Elizabeth. And of course, there was his practice, his concern that the time and energy demanded by his celebrity was detracting from the quality of his work with patients.
    “You’re very dedicated,” she observed.
    “I try to do a decent job.”
    “Do you enjoy it?”
    “Sometimes. Now, what about you?”
    “What about me?”
    “Do you like working in PR?”
    “Sometimes.”
    He smiled.
    “It’s very competitive,” she said. “Stressful, and hard for a woman to get ahead. I guess it’s like everything else.”
    “I’ll bet you do okay for yourself.”
    “I work hard.”
    “Any interesting accounts?”
    “Not really. A few household appliance companies, charitable organizations and things like that.”
    “I’ve read that your firm does a lot of work for the Israeli government.”
    “Yes,” she responded. “Jacob Lipton, as you know, is a Holocaust survivor, and quite committed to helping Israel. They do seem to need good PR these days, but I’m not involved in any of that.”
    He detected a slight tension in her voice. “Everything okay?”
    “Yes,” she said. “I just get a little uptight when I think about work. It really is a pressure cooker, you know?”
    “Household appliances and charitable organizations?”
    “You would be surprised. In PR, everything is high stress.”
    Martin left it alone. The last thing he wanted was to make her uncomfortable.
    The waiter brought their entrees.

    Dan Gifford sipped his decaf, marveling at how the world was changing. Sitting in Starbucks on Austin Street in the heart of Queens, adjacent to the new Barnes & Noble superstore, watching the people, he appreciated the recent innovation of cafes in bookstores and wondered what was coming next. He also wondered where Bobby Marcus was. The cop was already twenty minutes late for their meeting.
    A young woman smiled at him from another table. She was definitely cute, and in his previous life, he would have managed all the right moves. But these were sober days, demanding what Dr. Rosen had coined “sober behavior.” This girl would be easy, like a drink. Getting his wife and kid back was another story. He smiled politely