Demurring further, she said, “I’d like to know where you drove Mr. Moreno.”

“Dead?” He turned to his wife. “Dead, you heard. How terrible.”

“Mr. Farada?” Sachs repeated with patient insistence. “Could you tell me where you drove him?”

“Where we drove, where we drove.” He looked troubled. But he looked too troubled. Studiously troubled.

Sachs wasn’t surprised when he said, “Sadly I am not sure I can remember.”

Ah. She got it. “Here’s an idea. I could hire you to re-create the route. To start where you picked him up. That might refresh your memory.”

His eyes pendulumed away. “Oh. Yes, it might. But I could have a regular assignment for Elite. I—”

“I’ll double your fee,” Sachs said, thinking about the ethics of paying a potential witness in a homicide investigation. But this case was fat with moral ambiguity from the top down.

Farada said, “I think that might work. I’m so very sad that he died. Let me make a call or two.”

He vanished toward a den or study, pulling his mobile from its holster.

Farada’s wife asked again, “There is nothing you’d like?”

“No, thank you. Really.”

“You are very pretty,” the woman said with admiration and envy.

Faye was attractive too, though short and round. Sachs reflected that one always envies whatever one is not. The first thing that she’d noticed about Faye, for instance, was that when she walked forward to shake the detective’s hand she did so without any hitch in her gait.

Farada returned, wearing a black jacket over the same slacks and shirt. “I am free. I will drive you. I hope I can recall everywhere we went.”

She gave him a focused look and he added quickly, “But once we start I think the places will return to me. That’s how the memory is, isn’t it? Almost a living creature unto itself.”

He kissed his wife and said he’d be back before dinner—with a glance toward Sachs so that she could confirm this would be the case.

She said, “A couple of hours, I’d guess.”

He and Sachs walked outside and they got into the black Lincoln Town Car.

“You don’t want to sit in the back?” he asked, perplexed by her choice of the front passenger seat.

“No.”

Amelia Sachs was not a limo girl. She’d been in one only once—at her father’s funeral. She had no bad associations with long black sedans based on that experience; she simply didn’t do well being driven by others, and sitting in the rear seat exponentially increased her discomfort.

They got under way. The man drove expertly through traffic, unwavering but polite and never using the horn, though they encountered several idiots whom Sachs would have blared onto the sidewalk. The first stop was the Helmsley on Central Park South.

“Okay, so I pick him up here about ten thirty a.m.”