— Mrs. McNiff?
— Miss McNiff, she says.
— Nice to meet you. I’m Detective Watson. May I sit down?
— Of course.
She takes a manila envelope from her bag and lays it on the low table before Ali.
— I used gloves when I picked it up, Officer, so it—
— Thank you.
He puts his gloves on again and slides the yellow pad out of the envelope. The top page is blank. He holds it up to the light. And sees indents in the paper. Thinking: You dumb son of a bitch.
— Excuse me, ma’am.
He rises again. The dog’s eyes follow him. The old man doesn’t turn his head. Ali walks to the desk at the rear of the lobby. The night clerk looks up.
— Excuse me, brother, Ali says. Do you have a pencil?
— Sure thing.
The clerk fumbles under the counter, comes up with a yellow Eberhard Faber pencil.
— Thank you, Ali says.
He moves a few feet away and starts lightly rubbing the side of the lead point across the paper. Words emerge. Repeated four times. Like a chant. He shakes his head, turns back to the night clerk, and hands him the pencil.
— Thank you, Ali says.
He walks back to the woman.
— Thank you very much, Miss McNiff. This might be very helpful.
— Hey, you never know.
— Can I help you get home?
— Oh, I live way out in Bay Ridge.
— Wait here, if you can. We’ll have a squad car take you home.
— Oh, that’s okay. Not necessary. This weather, the subway’s faster.
She stands as Ali writes down her name, address, and phone number, away out there in area code 718. He thanks her again and rushes out the hotel door.
8:15 p.m. Beverly Starr. VIP Room, Aladdin’s Lamp.
She thought she’d be gone by now. But here she is in this soundproofed room up a flight of stairs from the main floor. The only evidence of the place outside the door is the physical thumping of a bass line. They had waited for a while to start the night until all the invited guests could arrive in the awful weather. Beverly went up the stairs with them, glancing at her painting of the homeless to the left of the door. Inside, the door finally closed, Stan Seifert had them all take ten seconds to remember a woman he said had done so much for this city and its less fortunate people. Cynthia Harding. Many seemed to know her, and bowed their heads. A few even looked teary. Beverly used the shutters of her eyes to record them. And stood through a politely furious speech by an advocate for the homeless. Someone must have warned the speaker: Don’t mention Goldman Sachs or AIG or Lehman Brothers. And Beverly thought: They must be hoping for contributions fueled by guilt.
Then Stan Seifert made one of those eloquent pleas for the homeless fund. He mentioned the homeless men right across the street from where they all were gathered. He reminded the group that there were far more in the outer boroughs. He applauded the gathering for their decency and for braving the fierce weather. They applauded themselves. Seifert gave special thanks to Beverly Starr for the gift of her painting. The crowd clapped with what she chose to believe was enthusiasm. Finally, he reminded them that the result of the silent auction of Beverly’s painting would be announced in fifteen or twenty minutes.
A few people began moving to the door. Those who had made no bid. Each time the door opened they could hear the pounding music. Beverly wanted to leave too, but Seifert said, Please, no, we want a photograph of you with the winner.
So she waits. Looks for great faces. Blinks.
8:20 p.m. Josh Thompson. Across the street from Aladdin’s Lamp.
He’s against a wall, out of the falling snow, looking at the gathering crowd outside Aladdin’s Lamp. Cold. Thinking: That Old Guy was right. Told me to stay away from here. The cobblestones making cars skid and women slip and the goddamned chair go every which way. But I’m an asshole. This ain’t no mosque. It’s a disco or something. Kind of place they’d never let me in.
He has watched the place for an hour, has seen limousines arriving, and chauffeurs holding umbrellas over the heads of the passengers. The long black cars then moving around the corner, to wait for a call when their owners are ready to leave. Watched people bowing. Smiling. Even laughing. He sees guys with cameras. Snow on their shoulders. Thinks: Must be press. He sees guys dressed like characters from old movies about Arabs. Not real Arabs. Not Arabs in Baghdad or Fallujah.
He looks to his left, down to what he knows now is called the High Line. Nobody up there. Snow blowing hard. Like that storm when he was eleven, coming home from school in Norman, the wind lifting him, the snow blinding him, afraid he’d never make it home. Confused and lost. No cars. No houses. Just snow. Howling. He started to cry that afternoon.
Until his father came in the pickup and found him. And he tried to hide his tears.
And Josh was ashamed. Of his fear. Of his panic.
The way he felt after they all got hit. Together in Iraq. The explosion. Two seconds of blinding panic.
And waking up in Germany.
Now thinking: Never woulda happened they didn’t knock down the World Trade Center. Never woulda happened if we didn’t invade Iraq. Never. I’d still have Wendy. The little girl. Maybe a son too. One I’d never let get lost in a blizzard.
Under his poncho, and his blanket, he caresses the MAC-10 with a gloved hand.
Thinking: Wait.
8:31 p.m. Sam Briscoe. His loft.
He keeps searching for a book that will help him sleep. Something he has already read and therefore doesn’t engage that part of his brain that argues. Or won’t demand that he get to the end. What always happens at the end is death.
Parts of his conversation with his daughter return. Her words were cool despite her late-night anguish. Nicole was now old enough to console him, the way he had consoled her during her own nights of terrible times.
— Put all of her pictures away, Dad, she said. Wrap them up. Put them in storage. For a year, at least. But don’t leave them where you can see them.
Yes. That was smart. But not tonight. I’m too exhausted.
— Go off somewhere, she said. So your friends can’t call. Where the papers — or worse, television reporters — don’t run follow-ups and ask for your reactions. Go someplace where you once were young. Mexico. Rome. Or better, a place you never visited with Cynthia. Turkey. Ecuador.
She was right, of course. Get out of town. Now. Nothing beats murder at a good address. So they will follow this thing for at least three days. Maybe more.
— And hey: you can come here, Dad. Come to Paris. Stay with us in the guest bedroom. Go to museums. Eat in bistros. Buy books along the river. The weather is cold, but not dismal. And there are no tourists.
Paris.
Briscoe didn’t care much for Nicole’s husband. But he loved his smart, feisty daughter, Nicole. And loved too their wonderful apartment on the Avenue Émile Acollas, with its high trees and wide sidewalks. At the foot of the Champ de Mars. The fifth floor front. The tiny elevator. The entrance hall, with the youthful painting by Lew Forrest of the Seine at dawn. A wedding gift from Cynthia Harding. The three rooms along the balcony, like an elegant railroad flat. Public rooms, they called them. Living room, petit salon, dining room. Each with a door opening to the balcony and a view that included the Eiffel Tower. Like a cornball romantic movie. Or cornball majesty. Didn’t every example of the romantic include death?