In the Shadow of Gotham - By Stefanie Pintoff Page 0,42

you recommend,” I said absently as I perused a menu of sauerbraten and wild game.

The strains of a Strauss string quartet sounded over the general din of restaurant noise. The musicians performed in the back of the restaurant, and we could not see them from our vantage point. Apparently the practice of offering live music to diners had caught on, even this far north of the Bowery. I was not a fan of it at the Fortune Club, but here the classical tones calmed my frayed nerves

“Prosit!” Alistair raised his glass after the waiter brought two oversized steins of pale ale to our table.

I reluctantly raised mine to join his, although I was not in the mood for toasting with Fromley on the loose.

“Say,” Alistair said, looking at me reflectively as his fingers traced the green and brown painted coat of arms on his stein. “Ziele is a German name, isn’t it?”

“Originally it was German, I suppose. I’ve been told the spelling has been corrupted over time.” I deliberately sidestepped the intent of his question.

“But you are German? Obviously your family settled in the Lower East Side, which I know to be heavily German.” Alistair’s curiosity was not easily deflected.

“My family was German, and Russian, and even French Canadian. But I am American,” I said emphatically. On no account did I want Alistair delving into my own past; he had already learned more at the Fortune Club than I would have liked.

“You don’t quite trust me, do you, Ziele?” Alistair said with a hint of amusement. “No, no.” He waved off my feeble protests. “You are trying to be polite. I can tell that you don’t. And I’m not offended. I suppose it is natural in a detective—a good detective, anyway—to develop a healthy sense of skepticism.”

I was saved from inventing a response by the arrival of our food. Our waiter placed a steaming plate of Wiener schnitzel in front of Alistair. I had chosen the sauerbraten, which, despite my initial reservations, looked delicious.

I changed the topic some minutes later, after giving Alistair a chance to begin enjoying his meal. “Where do you suggest we go from here, Alistair?” I asked. “We have spoken with Michael Fromley’s family; they have no idea where he is. He’s been seen in the Bowery, but no one there can offer a specific address, either. But someone must know something. The man lives somewhere, he eats someplace, he buys coffee and a morning paper—” I stopped myself as I felt my frustration building.

“I’m at a loss, just like you, Ziele,” he said. “I’m not hiding anything.”

“But he was central to your research,” I said. “I would think during your time with him, you would have learned everything about him: who his friends were; what he ate for breakfast; what time he went to bed.”

“No, Ziele. You’re thinking like a detective, not like a criminologist,” he explained. “My goal was to learn everything about how he thought and how he made decisions about his behavior.” Alistair emphasized those words, enunciating them too clearly. “He had no friends to speak of, and I could not have cared less about his daily habits.”

Alistair regarded me for a moment as though we were speaking two different languages—and perhaps we were. “But I am trying to think of these things now, in order to help you,” he offered lamely.

“I need you to think harder,” I said. “And to review your files, this time to search for any reference to the minutiae of Fromley’s life. You may have noted something that, at the time, was unimportant to your research but could now prove important as a means of locating him.”

“All right,” Alistair agreed, seeming somewhat surprised. “We can return to the research center after dinner and I will search. But first, old boy, you’ve got to try their apple strudel. It’s exquisite, especially paired with their Rheinlander coffee or perhaps a Brandy Alexander.”

I resigned myself to following this suggestion, for clearly Alistair did not share my own sense of urgency about the case. I could have argued with him, but I had the sense that he would be more helpful in our search if he first satisfied his discriminating palate.

CHAPTER 10

With the day nearly ended and my energy completely sapped, only sheer determination kept me alert as we headed back uptown. We continued to work at Alistair’s offices until near ten o’clock, comparing notes and discussing our options. It had been a strenuous day. I always found interviews to be