I passed Tavern on the Green. I stared up at the Dakota on my left, where John Lennon was killed on a corner years ago. The subway station was very close to Cherry Hill, and I wondered if Gault might have left the park and come here. I stood and stared. That night, December 8, I was driving home from a court case when I heard on the radio that Lennon had been shot dead by a nobody carrying a copy of Catcher in the Rye.

‘Benton,’ I said, ‘Lennon used to live there.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He was killed right over there by that entrance.’

‘Is there any possibility Gault cared about that?’

He paused. ‘I haven’t thought about it.’

‘Should we think about it?’

He was silent as he looked up at the Dakota with its sandblasted brick, wrought iron and copper trim.

‘We probably should think about everything,’ he said.

‘Gault would have been a teenager when Lennon was murdered. As I recall from Gault’s apartment in Richmond, he seemed to prefer classical music and jazz. I don’t remember that he had any albums by Lennon or the Beatles.’

‘If he’s preoccupied with Lennon,’ Wesley said, ‘it’s not for musical reasons. Gault would be fascinated by such a sensational crime.’

We walked on. ‘There just aren’t enough people to ask the questions we need answered,’ I said.

‘We would need an entire police department. Maybe the entire FBI.’

‘Can we check to see if anyone fitting his description has been seen around the Dakota?’ I asked.

‘Hell, he could be staying there,’ Wesley said bitterly. ‘So far, money hasn’t seemed to be his problem.’

Around the corner of the Museum of Natural History was the snowcapped pink awning of a restaurant called Scaletta, which I was surprised to find lit up and noisy. A couple in fur coats turned in and went downstairs, and I wondered if we shouldn’t do the same. I was actually getting hungry, and Wesley didn’t need to lose any more weight.

‘Are you up for this?’ I asked him.

‘Absolutely. Is Scaletta a relative of yours?’ he teased.

‘I think not.’

We got as far as the door, where the maitre d’ informed us that the restaurant was closed.

‘You certainly don’t look closed,’ I said, suddenly exhausted and unwilling to walk any more.

‘But we are, signora.’ He was short, balding and wearing a tuxedo with a bright red cummerbund. ‘This is a private party.’

‘Who is Scaletta?’ Wesley asked him.

‘Why you want to know?’

‘It is an interesting name, much like mine,’ I said.

‘And what is yours?’

‘Scarpetta.’

He looked carefully at Wesley and seemed puzzled. ‘Yes, of course. But he is not with you this evening?’

I stared blankly at him. ‘Who is not with me?’

‘Signor Scarpetta. He was invited. I’m most sorry, I did not realize you were in his party …’