the side of a commercial building near the river on one of the shortest streets in Greenwich Village. The half- furnished rooms formed a sort of flipped L shape around a small courtyard with a high fence. The kitchen, utility room, and maid’s quarters were on the short segment, with a master suite on the long segment, along with a living room, dining area, and guestroom. The eccentric space was much too big for one person, yet the rent he quoted was quite reasonable.
“What’s the catch?” she had asked suspiciously.
“I have to live here, too,” he confessed. “It belongs to my godmother. Some of the furniture has been in her family for four generations, and I seem to be the only person she’ll rent the house to. I’ll live in the maid’s quarters and I
That had not proved even remotely true, but Sigrid found that he was less intrusive than she had feared, and there were times that she was even grateful he was there. When Nauman’s death sent her into a deep depression, Roman’s constant presence and determined badgering had helped bring her out of it.
He had a magpie curiosity about everything that crossed his path and was entranced to learn she was a homicide detective, because he wanted to write mystery novels and thought she would be a handy resource. She could not convince him that most of her cases were open and shut and came with very little mystery attached. All the same, she could and did clarify points of police procedure for him, and she was quite touched when he dedicated his first book to her.
He had now written four books, and they were moderately successful. None had made the
Buying this house was her only big indulgence after Nauman’s death, and his robe still hung in her closet. It no longer held the scent of his mellow pipe tobacco or aftershave, but merely touching it once in a while comforted her in ways she would not try to analyze.
There was a snow shovel in the utility room, and by the time she had cleared a short path out to the newspaper and made sure the gate could be opened, Roman had sauteed peppers, onions, and tomatoes for his own omelet and was ready to lay the plain cheese one on her plate.
She shook the snowflakes from her coat, slipped off her boots, and joined him. However, instead of lingering over the paper and a third cup of coffee as was usual on Sunday mornings, she ate quickly and told Roman that she would be going in to work.
“But it’s still snowing.” He gestured first to the window and then to the tiny television screen that hung under one of the cabinets. The sound was off, but they saw a reporter standing in Central Park. Falling snow frosted her bare head. Behind her, skiers and sledders were happily frolicking in the deep drifts. “Most of the crosstown streets are blocked. People are skiing from their apartment buildings straight over to the parks. They’re asking people not to drive. Cars are skidding into each other everywhere.”
“Our street may not be plowed,” she said as she put her plate in the sink, “but I’m sure West or Sixth will be passable. I’ll have a car pick me up.”
Roman looked at her with sudden eagerness. “You
“I doubt it. And it’s not that interesting except that the murder weapon is probably a little bronze model my grandmother sent up for Mother.” Knowing that he would not leave it alone until she defused his interest, she gave him a bare-bones synopsis of last night and then went down to her room to dress.
9:15 and Grandmother Lattimore had always been an early riser, so she dialed the 919 area code. After two rings, a soft Southern voice answered, “Lattimore residence.”
“May I speak to Mrs. Lattimore?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said the unfamiliar voice. “Mrs. Lattimore is sleeping. May I take a message?”
Surprised, Sigrid identified herself. “Grandmother’s not sick, is she?”
“She said she was just a little tired, ma’am, but I’m sure she’ll be awake soon.”
“Tell her I’ll call back this afternoon after church.” Her grandmother might be past ninety, but she had an iron will and Sigrid doubted that a little tiredness would keep her from Sunday morning services.
Moments later, she was speaking to a desk sergeant at a nearby precinct house who promised that he would have a car meet her at the corner of the closest uptown street.
At the office, Sam Hentz gave a tight smile when he saw her and held out his hand to the others, who groaned and handed over their dollar bills.
Sigrid seldom bantered with them, but their chagrined looks amused her and she paused to push back the hood of her white parka and unwrap the fleecy turquoise scarf that had protected her face from the worst of the icy wind sweeping off the Hudson when she made her way to West Street earlier.
“What?” she said. “You thought a little snow would keep me home?”
“Some of the drifts are three feet high in places,” said Urbanska.
“So how did you get in?” Sigrid asked.
The younger woman grinned. “Snowshoes. My brother sent me an old pair of his as a joke last year when we got those four inches, and I mushed over to my regular subway stop.”
“Very resourceful,” Sigrid said dryly.
If Hentz occasionally reminded her of a Doberman pinscher, Dinah Urbanska was a golden retriever—just as friendly, just as eager to please, if no longer quite as clumsy as when she first joined the department and they had all learned to keep coffee cups, laptops, and stray chairs out of her path. The sounds of broken glass or a “Jesus Christ, Urbanska!” followed by a string of curses as detectives rescued a pile of now-muddled case files from the floor were less frequent these days, but there were times when a crash from the squad room would penetrate Sigrid’s office and make her wonder yet again why Hentz, who normally kept himself slightly aloof from the others, had appointed himself her mentor. Under his tutelage, though, the klutzy young woman had become a good detective.
Sigrid hung her outerwear on a coat tree in her office, then came back into the squad room for a cup of coffee
