I left Rollie downstairs and took the elevator up to the lobby where I used a pay phone to get the number for the New York City Florists Association. The Florists Association told me that there were four flower shops on 122nd Street, two in Morningside Heights, one in Harlem, and one in East Harlem. They had no listing for an Angelette Silver as a licensed florist, and they couldn’t tell me in which shop she might work. I copied down the names, addresses, and phone numbers of the four shops, thanked them, and hung up.

I got change at the little cigar stand they have there in the lobby, then went back to the phones and called Victor’s Floral Gifts and asked to speak to Angelette Silver. A businesslike woman who sounded to be in her forties said that she was sorry, but no one by that name worked there. I thanked her, hung up, and called the Gilded Lily. A man with a heavy, masculine voice told me that he didn’t know anyone named Angelette, but that he was certain he could meet my every need without her help. I thanked him and hung up and called Rudy’s Florist. Rudy didn’t know anyone named Angelette, either, though he did know a guy named Angel. Would that do? I said that I thought not. The fourth shop was a place called Your Secret Garden. An older woman with a soft southern accent answered.

I said, “May I speak with Angelette Silver, please?”

There was an uncertain pause. “You mean Sarah?”

There were voices in the background, then something covered the mouthpiece, then a heavy male voice came on. “You got the wrong number. Nobody by that name works here.” He hung up. Hard.

Hmm.

I picked up the Taurus from the parking garage, then took Canal over to the West Side Highway, then went north past the Village and the Lincoln Tunnel on my way up to 122nd. Maybe I was on to something. Walter Lee Balcom had put me on to Angelette Silver, who very likely was living under the name Sarah, and maybe Angelette Silver could connect me either to someone named Richie or someone who knew what Charlie DeLuca was up to. If I could just keep Charlie DeLuca from killing either Karen Lloyd or me until I knew who or what that was, all of this might work out. Stranger things have been known to happen.

On the Henry Hudson Parkway at 86th Street, halfway up the island and along the Hudson River, I spotted a metallic-brown Chevrolet following me four cars back and one lane over.

I swung south on Broadway, then east on 86th, then south again on Columbus, but he stayed with me, always four cars back, once gunning it through a red light to keep his position. Pretty good. I wondered if it was Ric.