It was Maddie’s thing. Even though she and her husband were batting and slapping each other back and forth, collecting allies, marshaling forces, they had not yet gotten to a declaration of war, the actual filing for divorce, they still shared real estate and minor public performances of amity. He had little interest in this particular one, but was willing to go along with it for some domestic tranquility and some local good guy credits. The problem remained, how to really make use of it. Most people who have a lot of money truly believe that money is the measure of all things. Unless a writer—or a detective—was raking in millions, he’d give them about as much time and attention as he gave the gardener or the kids’ grade school teachers. He’d shake my hand, nod at me, turn away, and shortly thereafter find a way to excuse himself from the room entirely.

If Maddie was telling the truth, I knew what would hold his attention. If I was a hot fourteen-year-old girl, he’d chat with me all night.

—

Owen Cohen.

West Forty-Sixth Street, between Ninth and Tenth Avenues. Up on the third floor. It was a good space with high ceilings. When the space was mine, I’d called it TCI—my name, plus Investigations—Ltd. Not very imaginative. Owen kept that, so he could use the stationery, the logo, the name on the door, but used it to represent Total Confidentiality Investigations, Ltd.

He didn’t make me wait. He came right out to the reception area to greet me. We traded a long and caring handshake. I offered condolences and commiseration over the death of his partner, Winston, whom I’d liked quite a lot. Owen accepted them with a shrug. Then we walked into his private office, which had once been my private office.

“What can I do for you?” he said. Cordial. And down to business.

Who Owen was, was hung on the office walls for all to see, provided that you brought some knowledge to what you were looking at. The cover of New York magazine from December 8, 1986, had been blown up about four times its real size and encased in a clear laminate. The banner headline was “COP STORY: In Black & White.” It was above a photo of Winston and Owen—standing proud—and together—looking right at you—amid a dystopian urban landscape.

It was both true and false, real and fake.

The backstory is a novella of The City in the Eighties. Mayor Ed Koch was planning to run for a fourth term. He was going to be challenged by an African American candidate. It was their turn.

In February 1985, New York‘s cover story had been “Blacks and Jews: How Wide the Rift?”

The mayor’s people were looking for good Blacks-and-Jews-together stories. Desperately.