Ted taught her to ice-skate and introduced her to the joy of watching old black-and-white movies on television. Jill persuaded him to eat oysters and educated him enough for him to not get bored in an art museum. He was ambitious, proud of his proletarian roots, work ethic, and stamina for putting in the necessary long hours. Jill was most content in the moment and wore her Beekman Place heritage like a comfortable old sweater.

They agreed on all of the important things. Both wanted children but not yet. Vacations abroad or in the mountains and never at the beach. Steaks should be rare. Brussels sprouts without bacon were an abomination and inedible. Golf was not a spectator sport. And baseball—Mets baseball in particular—was America’s pastime. She was a Mets fan in a family of Yankee worshippers. Ted had grown up a bus ride from Shea Stadium and still refused to wear any garment with pinstripes.

He was a working-class hero, a rebel in a tie, champion of the underprivileged, confident and forthright. What you saw was what you got. Jill had secrets.

A secret.

-4-

-4-

Ted was sitting in his booth at Gallagher’s waiting for inspiration or Detective Duran—whichever came first—when a shadow fell across Page Six of the New York Post. He looked up in time to see a skyscraper shaped like a man peering in the window, squinting fruitlessly. Gallagher’s had been built on that spot in the long ago when privacy and anonymity were prized above all in a neighborhood bar. The lighting, the recessed windows, and the canvas canopy all conspired to make it impossible to identify anyone inside through the window. But when the sun was strong, the reverse was also true. Ted could not make out the facial features of the man glaring so intently. All he could really be sure of was that the guy was bald, white, and big. XXXL plus. Definitely a Big-and-Tall shopper. The giant turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Ted had the impression that the man was not alone, but he was too startled by his size to be sure.

A moment later, a petite woman with hair wound into a towering bun and dyed the color of fresh lemons came through the door. She wore sunglasses that seemed to cover half her face. Even before she saw Ted, he knew she was coming to ruin his day.

“Eddie Molloy?”

The voice was straight out of Astoria. It stabbed through the blather of Fox News emanating from the television over the bar and set his teeth on edge. There are a thousand accents to be heard every day in Queens and very few that could make his sinuses ache in sympathetic rebellion.

“Who’s asking?” he said.