The possibility that Richie had been killed because of something related to their business together made Ted feel queasy. The business model consisted of picking up the scraps ignored or forgotten by real estate moguls or wannabes. Those people were the predators; Ted barely qualified as a carrion feeder. And Richie? A dung beetle.

Disagreements and disappointments were not unusual—having suffered already, Ted’s clients could be angry, suspicious, or belligerent—but there had never been anything beyond occasional strong words and hollow threats. No one got murdered over surplus money. But the doubt clung to him.

He did not feel the passage of time as he sat staring at a blank laptop screen until his cell phone intruded on this bleak reverie. Jill. Though they had been divorced for ten years, he always took her calls.

“I’m late. I’m late. I’m late. I’m late.”

“Hi, Jill.” He checked the time on the wall clock and was shocked to find that it was already early afternoon.

“I’ve got to run.”

“You’re not late. The game’s not till Wednesday.” Not a date. Just two friends going to a Mets game. Saving a rocky year or two immediately following the divorce, they’d been attending games together since their second date.

“I am late. But that’s not why I called. We’re on, right?”

“Unless you tell me differently. Why are you late?”

“Because I’m still at the museum, and Teri agreed to fit me in for a blowout in seven minutes.” Teri was a tyrannical refugee from Macedonia who happened to have a hair salon on Fifth Avenue with a view of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. Ted had never understood how wealthy Manhattanite women allowed this monster to come near them with sharp objects in his hands.

“At this time of day, you’ll get a cab out front with no trouble.”

“And if there’s no holdup in front of the Trump building, I’ll get there in ten minutes. Goodbye. See you Wednesday.”

“I’m being grilled by the NYPD tomorrow about a murder investigation.”

“What are you talking about? Don’t. Stop. Tell me Wednesday.”

“Goodbye, Jill.”

“Wait! What time?”

“Seven. It’s always seven.”

“No. They’re always changing it.”

They had once seen the second half of a doubleheader that started at eight. Once.

“Goodbye, Jill.”

She was already gone.

Gillian Fitzmaurice and Edward Molloy had been the perfect match. Everyone thought so.