CHAPTER ONE

 

 

It wasn't the weather, or the city, or the cars passing that struck Henry. It was how, at 3:00 a.m., everything seemed so black and white. It was 1955. His life was about to change, and there would forever be shades of gray.

The city seemed uninterested in the goings-on of a single detective who was wandering home after ringing in the New Year. All around, people were out smiling and kissing, and more than a few stumbling. It was two more blocks until he reached his apartment, alone. He had a house but didn't want to drive, which is why he kept the tiny apartment. It was nice to be able to stay in the city if the need arose...or the drinks were flowing. The life of a private detective wasn't glamorous; most days were spent chasing deadbeats, watching cheaters, or sitting alone in an office wondering how one ended up there.

Henry got to his place and stumbled through the front door - not quite hitting the floor but needing to put a hand down. He was several sheets to the wind and couldn't remember the blonde's name. The one at the bar with the great smile and huge...

He tossed his hat in the direction of the hat tree - he was nowhere close to it - and staggered to the kitchen table. A bottle of vodka was sitting there, waiting for him. Being a thinker, Henry had placed it there before heading out to celebrate the New Year, knowing it would welcome him home if he made it back in one piece. He had forgotten a glass, so he took a small pull from the bottle. The warm glow of a New Year and the thought of the blonde's midnight kiss made him smile. He just wished he knew her name or where she had gone.

Some detective, he thought, you can't even keep track of a dame you were kissing. It might have been the sailor at the end of the bar. He had been giving her looks. Case closed, he concluded. Not because he was sure but because he didn't care. He decided he should go to bed but, while he was getting up the energy to go to the bedroom, passed out at the table.

***

In a flat in Brooklyn, a dark-haired woman sat alone. She couldn't believe it. Her frantic worrying and pacing hadn't helped, so she tried several hours of tears to no avail. Now she just sat in her kitchen, legs pulled up to her chest, alone with her fears. She looked at the clock; it was 3:37 am.

On the table next to a plate of fresh-baked cookies was a pad with an address on it. The name of the detective she had found in the phone book was underlined three times. She had planned to go visit him on the third, which would be Monday, but the anguish had become unbearable. She decided she could go into the city in a few hours and leave a note for him. It wouldn't really speed things up, but she needed to do something. She was tired and ended up writing the note, but "Dear Henry" was as far as she got before her head was resting by the cookies.