“Unbelievable,” Joe says, shaking his head. “So they really don’t know anything about it yet?”

“Far as I know,” I say. “They’ve got the roof off limits while they continue to search for any clues. And of course they’re talking to everyone at the agency, including me.”

“Sure hope they find this guy,” Joe says. “So what else is going on, anything?”

“Yeah, actually, there is. Between us folk, I’m getting some great feedback on a job I’m after, a really great job.”

“Fantastic,” says Diane, and Jean puts her arm around my back with a loving squeeze.

“Yeah. Don’t want to jinx it, but it could be good.”

We’re seated for dinner, and the conversation flowers among us friends, budding into lighter subjects, thank goodness. Imagine. Life could be good, if only…

Diane orders their oven-baked penne, Joe likes the grilled skirt steak, Jean splurges with fish and chips, and for me, the drunken salmon with bourbon cream sauce.

To go with the drunken salmon I order a bottle of limited edition Seyval blanc from St. George, a local winery up in Mohegan Lake. After the server pours it all around, I offer a toast.

“Here’s to good friends and the wonderful lives we share,” I pronounce, with a great deal of hope against hope.

“Hear! Hear!” and soon dinner is served, in the midst of animated chatter all around.

After dinner we share a round of vintage port and I ask for the check.

“Let’s split it, Tim,” Joe offers.

“Nah. Let me, I’ve got it.” I hand the server my MasterCard.

She’s back in five minutes and tries to be discreet. “I’m sorry, sir. Your card is refusing this charge.”

Jesus! It’s that bad.…

I get a look from Jean.

“Must be because I’ve been traveling. Sometimes the banks go overboard with their security precautions.”

Yeah, right.

“Hey, Tim, no sweat. I’m sure it’s a tech malfunction or something. Let me get it,” and Joe hands her his card.

Is there no escaping this shit? Well, actually, no, there isn’t.

Chapter 13

Monday morning…and I’m back at it. 7:20 express, gets me in to Grand Central at 8:08, time enough to read the New York Times on the way in. Then I grab the 6 train downtown to 14th Street and walk over to the office.

In I go, and the weekend has not helped anybody calm down much. The office is still in a state of jangled nerves, preoccupied would-be workers, and general chaos.

Mo’s at the front desk. “Hey, Tim, good morning! Welcome back.”

“Yeah, I guess,” I say.

“Those detectives, the two of them, were back. Waiting at the front door when I got here to open up. They’re all over it. And us. Interviewing everybody,” she tells me.

“Turns out they’ve been in the area most of the weekend.…”

“Well, there’s been a murder. I’m grateful they’re here. Did they talk to you, Mo?”

“Sure. Asked me all about Ramon, what I knew about him, his personal life. His family. Who he hung out with here at the agency. All I could tell them was how much we all loved him.”