surer way to end up in a garbage bag at the bottom of the Hudson River than crossing Peter Miceli and told Fred so.
Max and I tried to bandy around a few theories about Ray’s murder; she had already filled Fred in on the Terri and Jackson scenario but now we had Peter to truly add to the list of viable suspects. Fred wasn’t having any of it. He remained quiet while we talked, not interested in sharing what he knew about the case. We tossed out our theory about Ray having been killed by a Miceli associate but Fred is the master of the poker face; we couldn’t tell whether or not he thought this was the case, too, or that he thought we were out of our minds. In our discussion, however, we conveniently left out the part where Max went into Terri and Jackson’s house; she hadn’t found anything anyway, so what was the point in sharing that with him?
So we focused on Peter and the whole biscotti thing. Max was barely able to keep a straight face every time I said the word. I was becoming convinced that Peter was truly out of his mind. And what could be more dangerous than being in the sights of a crazy wise guy who could have people killed at will? Or force-feed them biscotti?
We shared a pizza and a bottle of wine and they left around five. I sat at the kitchen table deciding what to do next—bath, martini, or television, my three go-to activities—when my eyes landed on the keys sitting on the place mat across from me. And then it dawned on me.
I had a key to Ray’s apartment.
In his quest for us to be completely open, amicable, and friendly, he had given me a key to his new place on Kappock Street. I didn’t want it, had almost thrown it out even, but I had to put it on my key ring because, at the time, he had refused to leave until I had done so. In time, I had forgotten about it. But now it seemed like a message from beyond the grave, so I grabbed the keys and ran out the back door.
I navigated the labyrinthine streets of Riverdale trying to discern which building could be Ray’s. I finally found it, and one of those ever-elusive city parking spots, after driving around the block five times. As I started to get out of the car, it occurred to me that I didn’t know which apartment Ray lived in, but I assumed that there was a mailbox with clearly delineated floor and apartment numbers.
Wrong. There was a surly doorman, though.
The doorman opened the door for me, taking in my disheveled appearance; in my eagerness to get over to Ray’s apartment, I hadn’t taken the time to brush my hair or put on an ensemble that even approached acceptability. My baggy jeans, T-shirt, and high-top sneakers did nothing to inspire confidence.
“Leave the menus with me,” he instructed, holding out his hand.
“What?”
“The menus. Leave them with me.” He lost patience with me when I didn’t proffer the requested menus. “Aren’t you from Shanghai City?”
“No.” Do I look Chinese?
The doorman gave me another look and then returned to his post at a circular desk. “Then what can I help you with?”
“Can you tell me which apartment Ray Stark lived in?” I asked, wiping a hand across my brow; my nervousness over pulling this off had produced a thin sheen of sweat on my forehead.
“Not unless you can tell me that you’re a member of the PD,” he said, quite impressed with his authority.
Give a guy a uniform and he automatically thinks he’s in charge, I thought. I knew better than to try to impersonate a member of the police department so I went with the truth. Wow, that was a refreshing change. I took another couple of breaths and held the keys before him. “I’m his ex-wife. I have a key.” I tried to think about something sad, willing tears to my eyes. The best I could conjure up was the feeling I get when I watch the first Rocky. Between his love for mousy Adrian and his inability to form a complete, cohesive thought, I was a sucker for his plight. I thought about Rocky in his boxing shorts and my eyes welled up. Thinking about Sylvester Stallone’s post-Rocky career probably would have produced more genuine sadness and tears, but that didn’t occur to me at