Melancholy Baby

44

I came home from Dr. Silverman’s with my head resonating inarticulately. Sarah was watching television at the far end of the loft, smoking cigarettes and drinking Coke. Someday, I’d have to discuss smoking in my home, but today was not the time. There was a message on my answering machine to call Detective Second-Grade Eugene Corsetti, Manhattan homicide. I sat on my bed and hugged Rosie until she rebelled, then I called Detective Corsetti.

“Thanks for calling back,” he said. “Just routine. I got a homicide down here, and the vic had your business card in his wallet.”

“Who’s the victim,” I said.

A part of me already knew what Corsetti would say.

“Lawyer, fella named Peter Franklin.”

“I know him,” I said.

“Can you tell me what your relationship was?”

“How did he die?” I said.

“Your relationship to the victim?”

“If you have my card, you know I’m a private detective,” I said.

“I do,” Corsetti said.

“He was connected sort of indirectly to a case I’m working on.”

“How so,” Corsetti said.

I thought how to phrase it.

“Oh, God,” I said. “I’ll come down there.”

“We can probably do this by phone,” Corsetti said.

“No, it’s complicated. And maybe you can help me, too.”

“For the record,” Corsetti said. “Were you in New York last night, between about six p.m. and midnight?”

“I was here,” I said. “Having dinner with a young woman and a male friend at the male friend’s restaurant.”

“Could I get phone numbers?”

“The young woman is here,” I said. “I’ll put her on. The man’s name is Spike, and I’ll give you the restaurant phone number.”

“What’s Spike’s last name?”

I told him and then I put Sarah on and she confirmed.

Back on the phone, I said to Corsetti, “How did he die?”

“I’ll check with the restaurant, but you sound okay to me.”

“Damn it,” I said. “How did he die?”

“He was executed,” Corsetti said. “Shot once in the chest that put him down, and once in the head. Perp pressed the muzzle right against his forehead.”

“I’ll drive down in the morning. Can I see you, say, at one?”

“Sure,” he said. “You don’t have to come to the station. I’ll meet you someplace.”

“Saint Regis Hotel?” I said. “In the lobby?”

Corsetti whistled softly.

“Pretty snazzy for a shoofly,” Corsetti said.

“I’m a pretty snazzy shoofly,” I said.

“Besides looking for someone snazzy,” Corsetti said, “how do I recognize you?”

“Five-seven, one hundred thirty pounds, blond hair, late thirties.”

“What’ll you be wearing?” Corsetti said.

“Tomorrow?” I said. “How do I know what I’ll be wearing tomorrow?”

“Dumb question,” Corsetti said, and hung up.