As casually as she could, she turned slightly away from him and checked out the room in the mirror over the bar. If this was a bust, there would be other agents backing him up and watching the doors. Then a woman came through the door from the direction of the ladies’ room and sat between Bob and Shelley. Another agent. Was this socializing or a setup?

Shelley drained her glass, put a twenty on the bar, and walked past the jazz group. A man was leaning against the wall beside the door, snapping his fingers to the rhythm of the group, and he gave her a good once-over. She left the hotel and threw herself in front of a passing taxi.

“Lady, you want to watch it,” the driver said. “I nearly clipped you.”

“I know, my fault. Go up to Seventy-ninth, then left on Fifth, then down to Seventy-sixth and take another left.”

The driver stepped on it. “That’s a complete circle,” he said.

“I know, but on Seventy-sixth, cross Madison and let me out at the other hotel entrance on Seventy-sixth.”

“It’s your fare,” he said.

“And let me know if anyone seems to be following us.” She didn’t want to look back herself, exposing her face.

“Jealous lover?” the driver asked.

“Jealous ex-husband,” she said.

“Yeah, I got an ex like that.” He turned left on Seventy-ninth, then again on Fifth Avenue and started downtown, then he made the left on Seventy-sixth, crossed Madison, and stopped at the hotel’s side entrance.

“Here you go,” he said. “Would you like some company tonight?” He turned and looked at her.

He wasn’t bad, she thought: young, good haircut. “You ever been shot by an ex-husband?” she asked.

“Not so far.”

“Let’s not start tonight.” She handed him a ten, got out of the cab, and ran into the hotel, making for the elevator bank. She pressed the button and waited nervously for the car to arrive, forcing herself to look neither to the left nor to the right. Finally, it arrived, and she got in and pressed the button two floors above her room, then she got off and took the fire stairs down two floors and let herself in.

She leaned against the door, breathing hard. Two FBI agents in one evening was too much to take. She hoped to God neither of them had noticed her in the bar. Maybe the hair color would be enough to throw them off.

She undressed, then removed her makeup and checked out her face in the bathroom mirror. She had never liked her nose much; maybe this was the moment to do something about it.

She sat on the bed and picked up a copy of New York magazine, remembering an ad she had seen in the back pages. She found it and read it carefully, looking at the before-and-after photos of a woman who had had cosmetic surgery. There was an 800 number and a notation that it was manned at all hours.