of ethics was quashed at the editorial level. In other words, no reporter who expected to be paid for his efforts would waste time on that story.
“We’ll weather this,” he was explaining. “It’s professionally embarrassing, but muckrakers like this”—he swatted at the paper again—“ultimately will not destroy the work we do. In a matter of months, it will blow over.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “What about Fred?”
Alistair shook his head. “Nothing new. He hasn’t regained consciousness since Sunday night. He may never do so; apparently with each day that passes, his chances of recovery grow slimmer.” He thought for a moment. “It’s strange. I don’t harbor the same anger toward him that I do Horace. I suppose it’s because Fred was less calculated in his intent. He jumped at the opportunity to steal when it presented itself, but he didn’t seek it out.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure I agree.” I returned the newspapers to the coffee table. “But tell me, what bothers you more: their betrayal, or your not having seen it?”
Alistair’s response was immediate. “It was being caught unawares that stings most deeply. I suppose the experience offers a valuable reminder of how truly difficult it is ever to know and understand another person.”
We were silent.
“Isabella, I have a gift for you.” I reached my hand into my pocket and pulled out the ruby and gold earring we had found at Horace’s apartment. “It’s yours, I believe,” I added gently.
She took it and looked at me in amazement. “How did you—I mean where?”
“We found it at Horace’s apartment. It’s what tipped us off that you had to be nearby.”
Her fingers closed around it and she murmured something to herself. It sounded like “for luck.”
“Excuse me?” I asked.
For the briefest of moments, her expression was one of intense sadness. But then she smiled and spoke with an air of nostalgia. “Teddy gave these to me when we were first married. For good luck, because red is the color of happiness and good fortune.”
“Perhaps he was right,” I said lightly. “You survived a very close call Sunday night.”
Alistair looked at his watch. “We should go.”
“Of course,” I replied. Alistair and I planned to attend a memorial service that morning for Stella Gibson.
Isabella gave me her hand, pressing it into mine warmly. “Simon, you must keep in touch. Perhaps you’ll come to see us? You could even join us for Thanksgiving.”
As she waited for my response, I noticed Alistair looking at us oddly. Embarrassed, I stammered some sort of noncommittal reply before making an awkward exit.
She was a widow of not two years—and Alistair’s only son’s widow at that. It would be unseemly to strike up too close a friendship with her. And yet as I thought of her deep brown eyes and infectious smile, I was well aware of how easy that would be to do.
The sky outside was starkly gray with the promise of snow—the season’s first. As I walked with Alistair down Central Park West, he began to speak in fits and starts. His basic point was to ask whether I would join him at his research center. “I have a couple of openings now,” he said with a rueful smile, “and you could finish your degree.”
It was a generous offer, and for a moment I was tempted by the thoughts of what I’d once wanted—a college diploma, then on to a law degree. But my answer came with sudden clarity, for those dreams had long passed. It wasn’t that I was too old, though at thirty I was no longer young by the standards of the day. But time and experience had changed me. There was no going back to the man I once was, even if I wanted to.
Alistair seemed to understand, though he still handed me a bag containing three books.
“What’s this?” I didn’t look as we continued to walk.
“Three books you should read: a translation of Enrico Ferri’s Criminal Sociology, W. D. Morrison’s Crime and Its Causes, and Hans Gross’s Manual for Examining Justice.”
Hans Gross had been Alistair’s former mentor, I recalled.
“I don’t think further reading will change my mind,” I answered him as I accepted the books.
“That’s not why I’m lending them to you,” Alistair said, stopping to allow a carriage to pass before we crossed Columbus Circle. “You have a gift for reading people and understanding their behavior. If I didn’t know it before, I saw it clearly Sunday night when you managed both Fred and Horace. I know you’ll say it’s