you repeat to Detective Mishkin what you told me?” he said, wanting to get back on point.
“I assumed that was why you were here,” she said. She drew a deep breath, as if she might be planning to tell her entire story without inhaling. “Mrs. Metzger, who lives in the building next door, is visiting her daughter in Minneapolis,” she said, “and I went to her apartment to feed Lewis, because that’s our agreement.
“Lewis a cat or dog?” Harold asked.
“Fish.”
“Uh.”
“I look after Lewis,” Pansy continued, “and when I’m gone for any length of time Mrs. Metzger waters my plants.”
Harold looked around and saw some scraggly-looking geraniums, along with flowers he didn’t recognize, in plastic pots and trays.
“Anyway,” Pansy continued, “I was on my way back here and I took the stairs, like I do sometimes for the exercise. When I was on the landing near Deena’s apartment, I glanced down the hall and saw a woman walking away from her door, toward the elevator.”
“Had she just left Deena’s apartment?” Harold asked.
Sal gave him a look that meant No prompting.
“I couldn’t say for sure,” Pansy said. “But she might have.”
“Could you describe her?” Sal was pretending to take notes. It wasn’t necessary. So far, the stories matched up okay.
“Actually, I couldn’t. She was facing away from me both times.”
“ Both times?”
“Yes. I’d seen her once before, on the street, when she hurried to get into a cab at the corner. I recognized her light blue raincoat and umbrella.”
Here was something new. In the corner of his vision, Sal saw Harold jot it down on his notepad. “Had she come out of Deena Vess’s building that time?”
“I can’t be positive.”
“But you’re sure it was the same woman?”
“Yes. She passed right by me on the sidewalk, but it was fast, and I’d been looking the other way. Besides the coat and umbrella, there was something distinctive about her. Something that didn’t seem right. Maybe it was because for some reason she seemed too old to be one of Deena’s friends. I imagined her as almost middle-aged. And she moved with a kind of confidence.”
“If we showed you photographs…” Harold said.
“I honestly don’t think I could identify her. She might be in her forties. Indeterminate hair color. There was nothing distinctive about her walk. And I never did actually get a good look at her face.”
“But you were close to her for a while.”
“Only for a moment, when she stepped on my toes. And on this foot, as luck would have it.” Pansy held up her bare right foot. “I was in too much pain, and looking at my poor, poor toe instead of noticing what was going on around me. The woman apologized but didn’t slow down and was walking away when I looked up to tell her that was okay, that I walked on that foot all the time.”
“Anything memorable about her voice?” Sal asked.
“Not really. A little deep and throaty. It could be she’s a smoker.”
“What about scents?” Harold asked.
“Pardon?”
“Did she smell any particular way? You know, like perfume, tobacco?”
“Not that I can recall.”
“Was this other encounter also the day of the murder?” Sal asked.
“No, I’d say about a week earlier. That’s why I didn’t remember it right away.” She sat down in a beige chair with wooden arms and tucked her trim legs beneath her. Sal wished his legs were still that limber. Well, actually they never had been.
He looked at Harold, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. They had no more questions. That is, about the case.
“Why?” Sal asked.
She appeared puzzled.
“Why were you turning New Yorker magazine pages with your bare toes?”
“To make my toes more dexterous.”
“And to get to the next cartoon,” Harold said.
“That, too.”
“That doesn’t exactly answer my question,” Sal said.
“True.” Pansy smiled. “I’ve gone back to school to major in anthropology. I was wondering what it might be like to learn to use our feet the way our primal ancestors might very well have done. When you get in the habit of using them like hands, you’d be surprised how natural it comes to feel.”
“Our primal ancestors wouldn’t have understood those cartoons,” Sal said. He didn’t understand some of them himself.
“Oh, you might be surprised. Many of the cartoons don’t require language in order to be understood. “
“That they might have understood the cartoons isn’t her point,” Harold said quickly. Kind of testily, Sal thought. How men must love rescuing or defending poor little Pansy. How she must manipulate them.
“And the point is?”
“Empathy,” Pansy said. “I want to experience at least some inkling of how our ancestors must have thought while performing delicate tasks with their feet. What they must have felt.” She smiled and shook her head. “I guess you think that’s crazy.”
“No,” Sal said, wondering how many of their primal ancestors had subscribed to the New Yorker.
“We do that ourselves in our work,” Harold said. “We try to empathize and figure out why some of them killed. Why some are still killing.”
“That could be dangerous,” Pansy said. “We have roots that might be deeper than we know, and set in soil that would terrify us.”
“That’s why empathizing is as far as we go,” Harold said. “That’s the key difference between us and the people we’re trying to find and stop.”
Pansy aimed her warm glow at him, obviously pleased. “You are a very perceptive man.”
“It’s my job,” Harold said. “It makes me that way.”
Sal thought he might retch.
“Can you stay for some tea or coffee?” Pansy asked. “Both of you.” But she was looking at Harold.
“Thanks,” Sal said, “but we’ve got more calls to make.”
“Another time?”
“If you think of something pertaining to the case,” Sal said. “Call me. Leave a message if you have to, and I’ll get back to you. You have my card.”
Pansy followed them to the door and watched them for a while before moving back out of sight and locking herself into her apartment.
On their way down in the elevator, Harold said, “I wonder what else she can do with her toes.”
“That woman might be twenty years younger than you, Harold. Harold?”
“Sorry. I was empathizing.”
Jerry Lido, Q amp;A’s resident computer genius, came over to Quinn’s desk, shaking his head. If it could be traced anywhere on the Internet, Lido could find it. He seemed to possess some kind of innate
GPS
“Whaddya got?” Quinn said, looking up and noticing the expression on Lido’s face. He knew Lido had stayed
