Tom put his arm around Marian's shoulders. “You're so cold,” he said. “Come on.” Marian didn't think she could move. But she was surprised and grateful to find that her immobility could not withstand Tom's decision that they should walk.
They stepped over tree roots that had years ago tilted the sidewalks up. They turned left at this corner and right at that, and now Marian saw that the house at the end of the block was Tom's. Tom's new house. No, that was silly. Tom had lived here for thirteen years.
With his arm still around Marian, Tom took out his keys. They jingled as he unlocked the door, and they clinked when he dropped them on the shelf. He stepped aside for her to go before him, pressing his hand lightly on her back to guide her to the kitchen. “I'll make coffee,” he said. “Then I'll take you home.”
“I can take the ferry.” It was a long drive to her loft from here. Especially now, with so many streets and the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel still closed. The bridge, the expressway, another bridge, north on the East Side, across Manhattan, south on the West Side. Why should Tom have to do that? The ferry, which she could take alone, was much more direct.
Tom's mouth turned up at the corner. “Not in your condition.”
I'm in a condition? Marian was surprised. Had she had too much to drink? Could that explain the feeling she had that the ground was shifting, that dark, unexplained things were happening just beyond where she could see?
She watched Tom as he reached into the cabinet for the can of coffee, watched him spoon grounds into the basket. She loved the smell of ground coffee. She inhaled deeply; he looked up and caught her at it, and they both smiled. Why had Tom never remarried? Marian wondered while he ran water into the pot, while he poured it right out again into the machine. Or why hadn't Vicky? Or Marian's dad? Or, for that matter, after Jimmy left her, why hadn't she ever married at all? Why the crowded days, the busy evenings, the travel and concerts and meals and all the young men, no house, no garden, no pets, no children, nothing of the life she'd been sure she'd have when she was lying awake in the basement apartment in the Cooleys' house and listening to the beat of Jimmy's heart?
The coffeemaker began to gurgle.
Tom took two mugs from the drainboard, from the refrigerator a quart of milk. The milk was for her: Tom always remembered things about you. Steam rose from the coffee as he poured it from the pot. He glanced at her and smiled again, that smile that said every smart thing Tom Molloy did was partly yours and that seeing you was the best thing that had happened to him all day.
Marian smiled back.
How blue his eyes were.
LAURA'S STORY
Chapter 12
Angelo Zannoni, leaning on his balcony rail, turned to Laura. “You want some tea?”
Mentally she shook herself. She'd been, she realized, mesmerized by the lights sparkling on the water, by the clear air. Boats came and went, stars stood still. From this balcony everything seemed so ordered, so predictable. The universe unfolding. As long as you couldn't see over the treetops to the tip of Manhattan.
Or hear the echoing silence of Harry's apartment.
“No. No, thank you. I don't want to take up any more of your time.” She bent for her tape recorder, dropped her notebook into her bag.
“You see a lot of things waiting for me to do?” Zannoni didn't pause for her to answer but pulled open the sliding glass and waited for her to pass into the nearly bare living room. Laura glanced into the kitchen as he walked her to the door. Vacant countertops, no pots or pans or canisters. A kettle on the stove. A single white dish towel folded over the oven door handle. She found herself wishing for a quick peek into the bedroom. She had a mental picture of scarlet draperies, bowls of rose petals, lush nudes reclining in massive gold-framed oil paintings.
And she could hear Harry's delighted laugh at the absurdity of her vision.
And was thrilled at the sound.
Luckily, Reporter-Laura was still paying attention to work. At the door, about to shake Zannoni's hand and say thanks and goodbye, something occurred to her. “Can I ask you one more thing? You said you talked to the detective who knew the Molloys and the Spanos best. Who was that?”
Zannoni shook his head, as though refusing an answer; but he stopped, said, “Oh, what the hell,” and said, “Charlie Rosoff. Jewish, see?”
Laura didn't see.
“Not Irish, not Italian. It wasn't like the goombahs or the micks trusted Rosoff. But at least they all knew Charlie didn't belong to the other guys.”
“Can I find him?”
A brief look, then, “He's brass now. At Police Plaza.”
Laura whipped out her cell phone as soon as she left Fitzgerald Drive behind. The newsroom number was on her speed dial, but she had to punch in the letters of Jesselson's name because she didn't know his extension. Oh, Hugh, she pleaded, be working late. Half a ring, then, “Jesselson.”
Thank God. “Hugh, it's Laura.”
“Hey.” It seemed to her that was a pleased “Hey,” but immediately on its heels was “What's up?”
“A cop named Charlie Rosoff?”
