“Something like that. A tax lawyer, an accountant. This is a game, I’m just guessing, you understand that—”

“I understand. What nationality?”

“American. What do you mean?”

“English, Irish, Italian—”

“Oh,” he said. “I see, more of the game. I would say Jewish, I would say Italian, I would say dark, Mediterranean. Because she was so blonde, you know? A contrast. I don’t know that he was dark, but there was a contrast. Could be Greek, could be Spanish.”

“Did he go to college?”

“He didn’t show me a diploma.”

“No, but he must have talked, to you or to her. Did he sound like college or did he sound like the streets?”

“He didn’t sound like the streets. He was a gentleman, an educated man.”

“Married?”

“Not to her.”

“To anybody?”

“Aren’t they always? You’re not married, you don’t have to buy mink for your girlfriend. He probably bought another one for his wife, to keep her happy.”

“Was he wearing a wedding ring?”

“I don’t remember a ring.” He touched his own gold band. “Maybe yes, maybe no. I don’t recall a ring.”

He didn’t recall much, and the impressions I’d pried out of him were suspect. They might have been valid, might as easily have grown out of an unconscious desire to supply me with the answers he thought I wanted. I could have kept going—”All right, you don’t remember his shoes, but what kind of shoes would a guy like him wear? Chukka boots? Penny loafers? Cordovans? Adidas? What?” But I’d reached and passed a point of diminishing returns. I thanked him and got out of there.

There was a coffee shop on the building’s first floor, just a long counter with stools and a takeout window. I sat over coffee and tried to assess what I had.

She had a boyfriend. No question. Somebody bought her that jacket, counted out hundred dollar bills, kept his own name out of the transaction.

Did the boyfriend have a machete? There was a question I hadn’t asked the fur salesman. “All right, use your imagination. Picture this guy in a hotel room with the blonde. Let’s say he wants to chop her. What does he use? An axe? A cavalry saber? A machete? Just give me your impression.”

Sure. He was an accountant, right? He’d probably use a pen. A Pilot Razor Point, deadly as a sword in the hands of a samurai. Zip zip, take that, you bitch.