“I don’t want your apology. Where is my mother?”
“She is either at Police Headquarters or the District Attorney’s office, depending on where they took her. I don’t know. She is, or soon will be, charged with murder. Mr. Wolfe did most of it of course, but I had a hand in it. For that I don’t apologize. You know damn well she’s a malicious and dangerous woman — look at her framing Pompa — and while I appreciate the fact that she’s your mother, she is not mine. So much for her. You are another matter. What do you want me to do? Anything?”
“No.”
She hadn’t batted an eyelash, nor turned pale, nor let a lip quiver, but the expression of her eyes was plenty.
“What I mean,” I told her, “I got you down here, and you’re here alone now, and I would like to do anything at all that will help. Phone somebody, drive you somewhere, get a taxi, send your things to you later—”
“No.”
“Okay. Fritz will let you out downstairs. I’ll be in the office typing, in case.”
That was the last chat I had with her for a long time, until day before yesterday, a month after her mother was sentenced by Judge Wilkinson. Day before yesterday, Tuesday afternoon, she phoned to say she had changed her mind about accepting my apology, and would I care to drive her up to Connecticut and eat dinner with her at AMBROSIA 26? Even if I hadn’t had another date I would have passed. An AMBROSIA may be perfectly okay as a source of income, but with the crowd and the noise it is no place to make any progress in human relations.