“I’m afraid not,” Carpenter replied, stirring her sauce and dropping some French green beans into boiling water and adding salt. “The drawing is accurate, as far as it goes, but her looks are so unremarkable that, with some hair dye and a little makeup, she could be anybody. If we had a good mug shot, that might help, but not much. The girl is a chameleon.”

“You think she’s a lesbian?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she hates lesbians.”

“I’ll set the table,” Stone said. He got some dishes, napkins, and silver, and spread everything out. “Time to light the candles?” he asked.

She dumped the beans into a colander, then put them into a skillet with some butter and garlic. “May as well,” she said. “It’ll be ready in a minute.”

Stone found a couple of Baccarat wineglasses and lit the candles. I do lovely work, he thought, gazing at the table.

“Bring me the plates,” Carpenter called. “I’ll serve us in here.”

Stone took the plates into the kitchen and watched as she quickly arranged the food on them, looking very professional. He took them into the dining room, placed them on the table, held a chair for Carpenter, and poured the wine.

“Bon appétit,” she said, raising her glass.

“Looks wonderful,” he said. He tasted his chicken. “You may cook all my meals,” he said, eating hungrily.

“Don’t count on it,” she replied, taking a bite.

“What’s your feeling about this Park Avenue shooting?”

“It doesn’t feel good, does it?”

“Maybe we should just stay in Connecticut,” he said. “She’d never find us here.”

Marie-Thérèse walked into Elaine’s and looked around. She’d read about this place, most recently on Page Six, and she was surprised that it wasn’t fancier. What lay before her was a homey-looking neighborhood restaurant with a dining room stretching to the back of the building, checkered tablecloths, and a long bar on her left. The headwaiter was looking at her, but she pointed at the bar and took an empty stool at the end, her back to the window. She was wearing a sleek, black cocktail dress from Armani and some very nice pearls that she had stolen from a victim some time ago. The bartender came over.

“Johnnie Walker Black, on the rocks,” she said, in her best American accent.

He brought the drink. “You having dinner?” he asked.

“Can I eat at the bar?”

“Sure. I’ll get you a menu.”

She sipped her Scotch and surveyed the crowd. She recognized two or three faces from the movies or the celebrity magazines, which she read voraciously. She liked the place. The bartender brought the menu, and she ordered a Caesar salad and a steak. “Have a drink on me,” she said to the bartender.

He poured himself a small Scotch, raised his glass to her, and sipped it.

She wanted him friendly.