of a particular block, it’s better to do it on a day where we won’t have to worry about the city’s pick-up times — it’s been known to fluctuate from early morning to after dark.”
It sounded like a reasonable answer. Quinn couldn’t fault him for that. I wanted to ask him about Sahara, but since it had happened just this morning, I thought it might be better to wait.
Wandering over to his bookshelf, I skimmed the spines. “Oh, I see you have a big book on the New York subway stations here.”
He nodded. “I’m a fan of that restoration project. It was massive. All that gorgeous mosaic tile work.”
“Have you been in the Union Square station?” I asked as casually as possible.
“Sure.”
“Isn’t that the one where that poor woman jumped to her death at the beginning of the month?”
I watched him carefully. He looked away without expression. “Yeah. I’m sorry to say I knew Valerie. That was her name. Valerie Lathem.”
“I’m sorry, too. Were you good friends?”
“We dated a couple of weeks. She and I kind of mutually agreed we weren’t right for each other, and we said we’d remain friends. She booked my travel. Worked at an agency.”
“I’m sorry, Bruce.”
“I hated reading about what happened in the papers. Felt bad for her family.”
“Was she…depressed…or anything…when you two broke up?”
“Not at all. In fact, she even suggested I try her on-line dating service, SinglesNYC.”
I blinked in surprise. Valerie Lathem had sent Bruce to SinglesNYC? That’s how he must have hooked up with Inga. I filed that little piece of information away.
“She had everything to live for,” Bruce continued. “I don’t know why she…did what she did.”
I nodded. “Do you think it’s possible it wasn’t a suicide then?”
“What do you mean? Like an accident?”
“Or…something else. Could someone have wanted to hurt her?”
Bruce’s brow wrinkled. “What makes you say a thing like that?”
“Uh…just…I don’t know…. I guess I thought may be it didn’t add up. Young woman, just promoted, beautiful…”
“Those things are true about Valerie…but, to be honest, she didn’t strike me as having the kind of personality that would make someone want to push her onto subway tracks. She wasn’t a party girl per se, either…although she was a little naive. I’m sorry to say anything negative about her, but if you’re fishing as to why we decided to part ways, it had to do with the fact that her job ended at five o’clock, and my job never ended. You know how it is to run a business, right?”
“Sure.”
“Well, she didn’t. She wanted the kind of guy who’d be at the happy hour down the street at five fifteen every night. A guy who could jet off to the islands on a spur of the moment low-fare deal. I wasn’t that guy.”
I observed Bruce carefully as he spoke. He didn’t seem angry or guilty or disturbed as much as melancholy about the whole thing. He didn’t seem very evasive, either.
Okay, I thought, one down, two to go.
(And I still intended to follow up with him on the one time he
I noticed there was an oak desk beside the drawing board. It was a roll-top, and it had been rolled completely down.
“Thanks for telling me about Valerie,” I said. “I’d really like to know more about you.”
Bruce nodded. “Likewise.”
I moved toward the roll-top desk. “This is a nice piece.”
“Thanks, unfortunately, the rolling cover sticks sometimes. But I like the look of it. I keep my laptop under there.”
“A computer?”
Detective Mike Quinn’s voice suddenly boomed in my head:
I cleared my throat. “Do you have a printer?”
“A computer printer? Yeah, sure. But the printer under that roll-top won’t impress you, its just a dinky thing I use for personal correspondence. I know what you want to see — the way I design digitally, right?”
“Uh…right.”
“Well, I can show off some of my fantastic software in a few weeks. But at the moment all my work equipment is in storage while my offices are moving from Westchester to Chelsea. Tonight, I’m afraid, it’s not part of your Federal house tour.”
Bruce took my hand and pulled me back out of the room. “Come on, our dinner’s going to get cold. You must be hungry by now.”
“Sure,” I said, letting him take me back downstairs.
What else could I do? I couldn’t force the issue of looking at his computer printer.
I would just have to figure out some other way of getting myself back into Bruce Bowman’s bedroom.
Fifteen
“…But for me, the divorce wasn’t as ugly as the last few years of the marriage itself, know what I mean?” asked Bruce.
I nodded, swallowing a succulent forkful of pork loin. “I can relate.”
We were finishing an amazing dinner of braised fennel salad, pumpkin lune (little ravioli “moons” with butter), and pork loin alla porchetta with mirto (Italian for myrtle, which added a delightful and surprising herbal bite to the dish).
Bruce had picked up the basket from Babbo, the Washington Square restaurant where he’d made reservations the night I’d made dinner instead. As an expensive, celebrated gourmet restaurant, Babbo was not your average “take out” place, but Bruce had apparently consulted on some restoration work for the owners, and they always treated him well.
“Your ex give you any problems this week?” he asked.
“No. When Matt’s in the city — and these days, it’s rare — he stays out of my way and I stay out of his. The night you came to dinner, I’m sorry to say, was the exception.”
“What a disaster.” Bruce laughed. “I have to be honest, that’s the only reason you’re drinking the same wine. I’m usually not so boring that I’d drag out two bottles of the Echezeaux in the same week. But you’d seemed so excited about it before Matt showed — ”
“ — and rudely drank most of the bottle.”
“I wasn’t going to go there.”
“Go there, be my guest. I’ve got a catalog of Matt’s flaws filed away somewhere in storage.”
Bruce smiled. “That’s a loaded comment, you know? I mean, you must be starting the list on me by now.”
“On you? Oh, sure. Let’s see…you’re too darned thoughtful and generous. I hate that about a guy. And you’re too nice to my daughter, too. You’re also too hard working, funny, intelligent, and talented…and let’s not forget you have way too much good taste, not to mention that superior…exterior.” It was my turn to cock an eyebrow. (And keep the whole murder suspect thing to myself, of course.
“You know, Clare, with me, flattery will get you everywhere.”
He moved his hand to the back of my neck and gently pulled me close. I let him. The incredible wine had relaxed me and he just looked too good in that black fisherman’s sweater not to taste. His mouth was warm and soft and I could smell the myrtle from the pork loin and the subtle, sophisticated mix of blackberry, violets, and coffee from the Grand Cru Burgundy.
“Mmmm…” he said as we parted. “Full-bodied, elegant, and complex…”
