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?”
“Assistant Commissioner. Operations.”
“Hard to see?”
“Normally, doesn't have to be. Relies on his personality. Real people repellent.”
“What do you mean ‘normally'?”
“Not normal down there, now.”
“Will I have trouble getting to him?”
“Maybe.”
“Can you help?” She was doing it, too, Laura realized: talking as though each word came with a price tag.
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe. How come?”
“Your man Zannoni gave me his name. Rosoff was in the Staten Island precinct in 'seventy-nine when the Molloy shooting happened.”
“I'll call. Your number?”
She gave Jesselson her cell phone number. The phone rang again before she'd reached Main Street.
“He's pissed, but he'll see you.”
“Why's he pissed?”
“About to go home. And no love between cops and firefighters, but nobody likes what we're saying about McCaffery.”
“Why's he seeing me?”
“Told him you're wacko. Said you'd print lies if he didn't.”
One Police Plaza was a glass-and-red-brick slab near City Hall, a building that tried to impress by height inside and out, by complicated interior brickwork that she supposed was art, by echoing hard surfaces and a totally unintelligible circulation system that she supposed was security. She showed her ID and had her bag inspected at three different desks, went through two metal detectors, and was led from the ninth-floor elevator to a door with “Assistant Commissioner Charles Rosoff” gold-leafed on it, by a stony-faced policewoman who looked as if she'd just as soon shoot Laura as take her a step farther.
Rosoff was a scowling, balding man with huge hands. He didn't stand when she came in, just looked at his watch and growled, “Fifteen minutes.” The policewoman shut the door behind them.
“I appreciate—”
“Don't bother. The only reason I stayed, Jesselson says you're a fly-off-the-handle broad with a bug up your—a bee in your bonnet about the Jack Molloy shooting, from back in the goddamn Dark Ages.” Gee, thanks, Hugh, Laura thought. “He said you didn't get the straight shit, you'd make it up. You do that, the department might sue your rag, and your own personal ass, except we're a little busy right now. In case you haven't noticed, Miss”—he glanced at a pad in front of him—“Stone—Miss Stone, there's a war on at the moment, and we're in the front lines. No one gives a fart about what happened on Staten Island a thousand years ago. Now you have fourteen minutes.”
He sat back with another glance at his watch.
Laura sat without invitation. Around here a man with a wooden leg might not be invited to sit. She didn't take out a recorder; there'd be no point in even asking. She switched both of them on in her bag while she reached for her pad and pen, began speaking before she'd pulled those out, so Rosoff couldn't start again and chew up the rest of her time. “Just a few questions.” She caught the sharp icy edge in her voice. Laura Stone, a fly-off-the-handle