Four

I scanned Justine’s computer files for any more threats. I found nothing. But knowing Justine, if there were more, she either deleted them or printed them off to stick in her files.

Her paper filing system was as haphazard as her computer filing system, but at least it should be alphabetical. I opened the creaky wooden file cabinet and tucked in, found the H’s, searched through the H folders, and Harlow was not there. Might she have used Jean? I examined the J’s. Nothing about Jean.

What the hell?

How about T for threats?

D for death?

No success.

I sat down in her desk chair, considering emptying the file cabinet and launching an all-out hunt. No death threat file was one thing, but the Harlow research files? Research on her work in progress? There should be scads of material. I’d delivered some of it myself. Where was it?

My cell phone’s beep interrupted my thoughts. I could barely make out the caller ID on my shattered screen.

“Hey Kate,” I answered.

“How are you feeling? Better?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Something’s off. I can’t find any Harlow files, and it’s just a mess.”

“Have you eaten anything?” Kate asked after a beat.

“No, but I’ve had plenty of coffee. My brain is functioning, thank you very much.”

“Let’s have lunch and then we’ll talk. You never do well on an empty stomach. Who does?” Kate said and laughed a bit.

“Okay.” I was suddenly famished, as if the mention of food reminded my stomach of its emptiness. A late lunch might be just what I needed. “Where do you want to meet?”

∞

I spotted her right away, standing on the sidewalk in her canary-yellow pantsuit. I smiled warily. Kate’s eyes swept up and down, taking me in. “We should duck into the bathroom. You need some cold water and a touch-up. Or something.”

We walked into Petey’s Pub, a darkened bar, wood-paneled, brass sconces with kelly green shades, and found the ladies’ room, where Kate preened over my face with her makeup. It was like applying a tiny band-aid over a gaping bullet wound.

Kate was unaware that one of the busiest cop bars was next to this place. Okay, maybe I did know too much about the local cops. Some women like kinky sex, some prefer grand romantic gestures or dark, swarthy men. Me? I liked cops. Almost every man I’d ever dated was a cop. Of course, I’d dated a few others, but I always preferred the cops. Still, Kate made too much of it.

Kate sighed. “It’s the best I can do. Your mom was right about you. You can’t hide when you don’t feel well. Even with those gorgeous blue eyes of yours.”

I blanched at the mention of my mom, who I’d left passed out on the couch yesterday and hadn’t called back. Most of the time, I tried to sober her up before I ventured into the city. But when Justine called, her urgent tone had prompted me to leave the house in a rush.

“Get here as soon as possible,” she’d said. “And don’t tell anybody where you’re going. Do you understand?”

Justine could be a little dramatic. “I’m a drama queen. I admit it. So what?”

“Now, let’s find a seat,” Kate said, dropping her eyeliner into her bag and leaning on the chipped Formica counter “My feet are killing me.”

“Welcome to the sisterhood,” I said, and grinned as we walked off in search of seats.

I ordered a beer with a burger and Kate ordered a salad and wine. I had to admit, the food was doing me good. My mind cleared even more from yesterday. I was convinced something was wrong. “I think the police are right. Someone killed Justine.”

“You said that, but what would the motive be?” Kate emptied her wine glass with one more swallow. “She was ancient. Didn’t owe anybody any money. Wasn’t involved in shady enterprises.”

“Can I get you ladies anything else?” the bartender asked. A large man with a rough face, a crooked broken nose, and botched plastic surgery, he moved like every step hurt. I imagined he was a fighter. Everybody in New York City had a day job while chasing their dreams. Acting. Writing. Fighting?

“I don’t think so. Let’s settle up,” Kate said, then turned to me. “I know you had a weird day yesterday. Do me a favor and get some rest. Don’t go off on some research junket and stay up for days.”

“Not likely,” I said. Kate understood me. I functioned most of the time with my Lyme. Sometimes it overcame me. But when I was on task, I was single-minded. Research was my jam. “Back to Justine. Something was very off. She also talked about Jean Harlow kooks.”

Kate shook her head. “Don’t try to make sense of this. Remember, she was either in the middle of a heart attack or drugged. The blood might not have been getting to her brain. She may have been hallucinating.”

“True,” I said and drank my last bit of beer. I just wanted it to all go away.

“Okay,” Kate said. “So if she was threatened and killed by the same person, the cops will find them. It’s out of your hands. It shouldn’t matter to you.”

“It does!” I almost yelled, then quieted. “I want to see justice for her. Besides, nine chances out of ten I’m going to finish the Harlow book. I need to know why she was threatened.”

Kate leaned closer to me and cupped my hand in hers. “You need to talk and think about something else. Seriously. Let’s get your mind off of all this.” She paused. “Let’s talk about your mom or Cloister gossip or cops. Yeah, cops.”

“What? Why?” But I was already smiling.

“I’ve got five hundred bucks that says you can’t stay away from cops for a month,” she said with an ornery grin.

“What do you mean, stay away?”

“Don’t sleep with any cops for four weeks. Bet you can’t do it.”

“Of course I can. What’s this about?”

I half expected Kate to go off on me. Instead, she quieted. “Because, my friend, you’re searching for your father and you’re never going to find him in the arms of a guy who just happens to be a cop.”

“Are you a shrink now?” I said. Why did she have to bring up my cop father? A man I barely remembered. A man who’d disappeared when I was six years old and who we now presumed dead. If his disappearance was influencing me at all, it would be just the opposite. I should hate cops. At times, I wish I did.

The bartender’s back was turned to us as he fussed with the cash register. A grizzled, blond, surfer-dude-looking guy sidled up to Kate and studied her. Overtly. His eyes swept along the length of her several times. She ignored him, leaning closer to me.

I glared at her. I enjoyed men, and if they happened to be cops, so what? It wasn’t as if all my dates were one night stands, but even if they were, I failed to see Kate’s issue with it. She’d had plenty, both before and after her transition, and with both men and women.

Leather-clad men with amplifiers and instruments gathered near a corner platform as the crowd thickened and the lights dimmed. Several women dressed in the shortest skirts I’ve ever seen grouped in a circle near the band.

Kate continued. “Prove to yourself you don’t have a daddy issue. Don’t sleep with any cops for at least a month.”

“I can do it,” I said. Still, the bittersweet burn of humiliation waved through me. I didn’t know why.

The bartender gimped up to the bar and placed the bill down. Kate stretched for it. The man next to her ordered a beer. “Can I buy you ladies a drink?” he said.

“No thanks,” Kate quipped and turned even further toward me. She plunked her red-leather bag on the table and slipped her hand inside for her credit card. “Are we on?”

“Hell yes, you’re on!” I dug into my bag and searched for Justine’s keys. The easiest five hundred dollars I would ever earn, and man, I could use the money. I still owed thousands on my last hospital stay. And I just lost my job.

“Are you two sure I can’t buy you a drink?” the man asked again.

Kate stood and towered over him. “We said no, okay? Back off.”

“What a bitch,” the man grumbled into his beer.

“What did you call me?” Her voice rose as she shoved aside her bar stool. Kate was a deep-voiced woman, and when she was pissed, it deepened more.

“Hey, hey, hey!” the bartender said, nodding his head toward the door. “If you ladies are leaving, it’s best you go now.”

Kate pulled her bag to her shoulder and waltzed off with me trailing her. “What an asshole. The world is full of them, isn’t it?” She turned to hug me. “I’ve got to run. Late meeting with Japanese buyers. Where are you off to?”

“I’m heading to the police station, remember?”

She laughed and pointed her finger at me. “Remember our bet!”

“How could I forget?” I said as she sashayed off to talk fashion with the Japanese.

My gaze dropped to my red sneakers. Feet, don’t fail me now.

Thirteen short blocks was nothing back in the day, before my diagnosis, when I lived in the East Village with three roommates and a closet-sized bedroom. After retreating to my childhood home on Cloister Island, and several hospital stays, my Lyme was now manageable. Today, I’d stop and rest every few blocks as a precaution.

I edged along the Central Park sidewalk, glimpsing the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir, trees and flowers in bloom, sunlight streaming through thick brush. It might have been the perfect spring day, except for the word “murder” fresh on my mind.