Neither of us says anything at first. I’m silent because I know that I’m not here to discuss Roger Dallenbach, a run-of-the-mill wife beater. Even though I’ve only been in Special Vics for nine months, this is the second time we’ve started a file with Dallenbach’s name on it. The first case we dropped because his wife refused to press charges. A month later, the cops were back at the Dallenbach home, and this time the missus was down two teeth. Once again, she blamed the door rather than her husband. It’s likely he’ll go unpunished for this assault too.

The reason I’m actually here is because Lauren wanted to separate me from her husband.

“When is the Dallenbach trial set?” Lauren asks, just as the silence begins to get truly awkward.

“The pretrial conference is in two weeks,” I say. “No trial date has been set yet.”

More silence hangs between us. “Okay. Thanks,” she finally says.

Without saying another word, Lauren turns and hurries out of her office. I have little doubt she’s gone to retrieve her husband—and get him out of the building as quickly as she can.

5. ELLA BRODEN

5.

ELLA BRODEN

Lauren and Richard are already seated when Gabriel and I arrive at Sant Ambroeus, an upscale Italian restaurant that has been a mainstay of the Upper East Side since I was a kid. I instinctively check my phone to make sure we’re not late, but we’re right on time.

Even though I was only teasing Gabriel the other night when I told him that this was an audition for him, he’s clearly nervous. So much so that he asked me to meet him at work so we could arrive together. When I entered his office, he looked like he was about to face a firing squad.

“It’s just dinner,” I said. “Besides, you carry a gun.”

“Very funny. Is what I’m wearing okay?”

“Sure. It’s the same thing you wear every day—gray pants, black shirt. Do you even have a change of clothes here?”

Gabriel gives me a sidelong glance when we first encounter our dining companions, undoubtedly because they’re more dressed up than either of us. Yet, like Gabriel and me, they’re also wearing their work uniforms. For Lauren, that means a dark blue business suit with a hint of a white blouse sticking out. Richard’s suit is impeccable, dark blue and likely bespoke. The last button on his sleeve is undone, and his tie is knotted into a perfect dimple. I’m the most underdressed of the quartet—blue jeans and a cable-knit black sweater—befitting my status as a mostly unemployed artist.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” I say.

Lauren stands and kisses me on the cheek. “We haven’t even ordered drinks yet.”