In the Shadow of Gotham - By Stefanie Pintoff Page 0,94
roughly the same amount that was requested here.” I indicated one of the missing sums Isabella had referenced. “It’s an odd coincidence that she possessed in cash the same amount that she recently questioned in that accounting. Maybe she was killed for money. But not her own money—Alistair’s money.”
None of us knew the answer. Abigail Wingate, after all, had been convinced the money belonged to her aunt. But I was relieved that we were finally doing solid detective work, following up each lead to make sure we understood every aspect of Sarah’s life as thoroughly as possible. I felt we were inching closer to building a case as we reviewed each detail of her life.
One question nagged at me: Where was the Fromley connection in all this? For I did not forget—no, not for a moment—that the perpetrator we sought was linked both to Sarah Wingate and Fromley.
“And now,” Alistair said, beginning to gather his things, “I do apologize, friends, but I must be off. I have tickets to see Wonderland, the new musical at the Majestic.” He put down money on the table that more than sufficiently covered our dinner. “Ziele, would you mind accompanying Isabella home? I’ll see you in the morning at Bethesda Fountain in Central Park.”
“We’re near Ferrara’s, one of my favorite coffeehouses. Would you like to stop by before I take you home?” I asked her.
“That sounds lovely, Simon,” she said.
“It’s just four blocks up on Grand Street between Mott and Mulberry. They have the best coffee in the city.”
As we walked up Mott, the lanterns and jostling crowds of Chinatown yielded to Little Italy with its multitude of restaurants and music. We passed one restaurant where the strains of a violin playing “O mio babbino caro” swelled into the street. We reached Ferrara’s Bakery and Café before I knew it, and after surveying glass shelves filled with cookies, pastries, and other delectable confections, we took a table by the front window where we could watch pedestrians go by. I ordered an espresso, Isabella preferred tea, and we decided to share a large cannoli. Her brown eyes drifted behind the counter over to the espresso machine that puffed, gurgled, and then shot steam straight up in the air.
Noting her interest, I said, “No one makes espresso like they do here. I think Ferrara’s was first in the city to acquire an espresso maker. There’s an art to making a good cup; the ground beans and steam must be managed perfectly.”
“You must be careful, or you’ll become a gourmand like Alistair,” she said, laughing.
“For food, never. But coffee—well, good coffee is my weakness.”
The waiter brought our order, and Isabella gazed into the concentrated shot of dark coffee.
“You’ll be up all night,” she warned.
“I’m up most nights during an investigation, anyway,” I said lightly. Sleep came, when it came at all, in intermittent spells. However much my body might crave rest, my mind refused to unwind.
“Do you have family here?” she asked.
“Not anymore,” I said, tasting the cannoli. “I’m all that’s left.” I explained how my mother had died last winter, and my sister had long since married and moved away. I did not bother mentioning my long-absent father; he could be dead, too, for all I knew.
“And no sweetheart or Mrs. Ziele with whom to spend your Saturday night?” she asked. Her voice was light, teasing. “I’m assuming there’s not, or you would not be spending the evening with Alistair and me.”
“There was.” I drained my espresso shot. “She’s dead.” The words came out more harshly than I intended.
She grew somber. “I’m sorry.” Then she paused. “What was she like?”
So I told her about Hannah. I told her about Hannah’s quick wit and infectious sense of humor. How on warm summer nights, we had sat and talked for hours on her building’s narrow stoop—and how she’d seemed to understand everything about me. And how I had planned to marry her and take her away from the Lower East Side, as soon as I’d graduated Columbia and become a lawyer. But none of that had happened. First, my father had deserted our family after a night of uncontrolled gambling, dashing my own dreams of finishing college. And then, shortly after I had been promoted to detective and begun to save enough to think of marriage, Hannah had been taken from me during the horror of the Slocum disaster.
“People say, of course, that the grief becomes easier with time. It has.” I looked at her soberly. “What I