watch. It was only eight-thirty and he needed something to do. Now was his chance to show some initiative, come up with some good ideas of his own, stop depending on Auntie Lil for instructions. He began by dressing carefully in a casual yet authoritative sweater-and-flannel-slacks combination, then added a tie. He carefully smoothed his entire outfit twice with a sable clothes brush purchased on a visit to London seven years before. Those British really knew how to take care of their clothes. Decades of butlerism had refined it into an art. He keenly admired their precision.
Properly decked out, T.S. paused in front of the mirror. It was time for action. But no idea came and, in the end, he simply went downstairs to the corner newsstand. He purchased a copy of New York Newsday (having read the Times hours before) and settled in at a nearby coffee shop. He alternated between flipping through page after page of mayhem, horror, poverty and politics and watching frantic businessmen and grumpy businesswomen rush past the window, headed for a world he was no longer a part of.
It depressed him. He wondered what Lilah was doing today. She'd said something about helping to make arrangements for a charity auction, which probably involved hobnobbing with retired gentlemen of far greater means than himself. That depressed him even more. He returned to reading the newspaper and discovered, to his irritation, that his favorite local columnist, Margo McGregor, was on vacation. A vacation in September… she certainly had her nerve. If she'd worked for him, there'd have been none of that nonsense. He tapped the ink-smudged pages in aggravation, but there was no denying it. He missed the photo they always ran of her, right above her column.
Although well into her thirties, Margo McGregor looked exactly like the little girl that every boy had loved in second grade. At least he knew he would have, if only they'd allowed girls in his prep school class. Margo McGregor was petite, with a small moon face and shiny black hair combed flat against her scalp. The thin glossy strands fell straight down to just above her shoulders where they flipped absurdly up in a single neat wave. She had a pug nose, round sparkling eyes and a tiny, pursed mouth that the photographer had captured at the tail end of a sardonic smile. How such a delicate creature could be one of New York's most sarcastic investigative reporters was beyond him, but T.S. loved the unlikely juxtaposition of her physical innocence and extreme cynicism. The paper regularly advertised her as "the wittiest and most insightful columnist in New York." Which was a nice way of saying she was a smartass.
Oh, well, perhaps she would be back in print next week. He flipped the page and read about a snafu at the main post office, then stopped. He'd had an idea. Just like that. Emily must have gotten some sort of Social Security check from the government. Unless she had arranged for direct deposit, damn the convenience. But surely she'd have received a letter or two in her time. Or junk mail. Nothing could stop junk mail. If she'd so much as sneezed, she was on someone's list.
He slid off his stool, left an exactly correct tip—which would certainly not surprise the waitress—and headed for the door. If Auntie Lil could lurk about the streets of Hell's Kitchen, so could he.
Auntie Lil's idea of rising early was rolling out of bed just before the soap operas began. She managed it earlier than usual once again, thanks to an automatic timer on her coffee machine that sent an irresistible aroma throughout her apartment at exactly ten o'clock sharp. Unable to speak without a minimum of caffeine in her system, she downed several cups and dialed Detective George Santos.
Four officers and one public-relations liaison later, she was told that Detective Santos was not in yet and would she care to leave a message?
"Yes," she announced crisply. "Write this down." Satisfied with the rustling that met her command, she continued. "Lillian Hubbert called to ask, 'Have you found The Eagle?' Also, dead woman lived at 326 West Forty-Sixth Street on the sixth floor. Owner of Delicious Deli can confirm. Please investigate immediately.'" She demanded that her message be read back and, except for the part about whether Detective Santos had found her beagle, the obedient officer had approximated her intent.
Next she called Herbert Wong and Theodore to reiterate instructions. To her intense