“Bullshit!”

“Mary, don’t play cop. I’m the cop.”

One of the gay men in the crowd glances back. On his short leather jacket is a pink button that saysACT UP; they tangled with the police at a demonstration last year. There’s no love lost between the two groups. Lombardo says, “Let’s take it out of here.”

We regroup at the entrance to the Barclay Hotel, next to the Art Alliance. The canvas awning snaps in the swirling winds around Rittenhouse Square. “Aren’t you gonna introduce me to your friend?” Lombardo asks.

“I’m Ned Waters, Detective Lombardo.” Ned extends a hand, but Lombardo hesitates before he shakes it. He’s remembering that Ned’s is one of the names I gave him in the hospital as a suspect.

“He’s okay, Tom,” I say.

Lombardo looks from me to Ned. Whatever he’s thinking, he decides not to say it. “Mary, I followed up on what you told me about your husband. I looked up the AID file on his accident. I even talked to one of the men who investigated. Your husband was hit on the West River Drive, going out of town, at that first curve.”

“I know that.”

“It’s almost a blind curve, Mary. I went out and checked it myself. I found out your husband’s not the only bicycle rider to be killed at the same spot. There was an architect, three months ago.”

“I read about him. He was only twenty-six.”

“Your husband and the architect were killed at about the same time-Sunday morning, bright and early. Probably by someone who’d been out partyin’ the night before and was drivin’ home to the subs.”

“But-”

“Wait a minute.” Lombardo pulls out his notebook and flips through it in the light coming from the hotel. “Wait. Here we go. A doctor was killed there too. An internist, who lived in Mount Airy. The guy was fifty-eight. Two years ago, the same curve. Now Brent was hit at a whole ’nother time and place. So I-”

“Isn’t that a distinction without a difference?” Ned asks.

Lombardo looks up from his little book. “What?”

“Does it really make a difference that one is in the morning and one is at night? Just because they happen at different times and places doesn’t mean it can’t be the same person.”

“Listen, Mr. Waters, I’ve been a detective a little longer than you.”

“I understand that.”

“My gut tells me it ain’t the same guy.” He turns to me. “I ran down your lead, Mary. I treated it serious, because I admit it looks strange, the two incidents bein’ so close together like that. But I gotta go on what makes the most sense, and it’s not homicide. I see two accidents, both involving booze. It’s too bad that one of them was your husband and the other was your secretary, but it’s just one of those coincidences. At least that’s what I think so far.”

“But, Tom, the license plate.”

“Half the cars in this city got no plate. The crackheads take ’em off to sell; the thieves take ’em off for the registration stickers. Look, the way I see it, the guy who killed Brent jumped the curb, trying to avoid the construction. AID told me they had two fender-benders on Walnut Street the same day, all on account of the construction.”

“Then why did he drive away?”

“Happens a lot, Mary. More than you think. Somebody’s drinkin’ a little too much, especially on a Friday night, and before they know it-boom-they’re up on the sidewalk. They’re juiced, they panic. We usually catch up with ’em in a couple of months. Some of ’em even come clean from a guilty conscience. That’s what happened with the architect.” He pauses and returns the notebook to his back pocket. “AID don’t have that many open fatals, you know. The doctor, a kid in a crosswalk in the Northeast, and your husband. He’s one of three.”

I feel numb again. Mike’s a fatal. An open fatal.

“What about the calls?” Ned asks testily.

“You get any more over the weekend, Mary?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t been home yet.”

“And what about the notes?” Ned says.

Lombardo glares at him. “I’ll come by and get ’em from Mary. I’ll look ’em over and send ’em to the Document Unit, but I don’t think they have anything to do with Brent. They don’t sound like the kinda notes you see with a killer.”

“What do you mean?”

“The notes don’t say ‘I’m gonna kill you,’ ‘I’m gonna mess you up,’ ‘You ain’t gonna live another day,’ like that. That’s the kind of notes you get from a freak who kills. A freak withcipollines. You know what that means, buddy?”

“Educate me, Detective Lombardo.”

I know what it means, little onions. But the connotation is-

“Balls!”

“Tom, Ned, please.”

Lombardo hunches to replace his raincoat. “I want to see the notes, Mary, but I gotta tell you, I think they’re from some weak sister who’s got a thing for you. Could be someone you used to know, could be someone you know now. It could even be somebody you don’t know at all, like a guy in the mailroom at work. Some jerk with a crush. That’s the pattern, especially with ladies like yourself, career girls. Their name’s in the paper, they’re on this committee, that committee. You on committees like that?”

“Some.”

“This kind of guy isn’t a fighter, he’s a lover. He’s at home, swoonin’ over your picture, tryin’ to get up the nerve to talk to you. So don’t worry. Call me tomorrow and we’ll set up a time.” Lombardo’s attention is suddenly diverted by Delia, who appears out of the darkness, followed by Berkowitz.

“Thomas!” Berkowitz says heartily, grabbing Lombardo’s hand and pumping it. “Thanks for all you’ve done.”

“It’s nothin’, Sam.” Lombardo can’t tear his eyes off of Delia.

“Mary,” Berkowitz says, “I’m sorry about your secretary.”

“Thank you.”

“Why don’t you take a couple days off? I’ll cover your desk.”

Delia purses her glossy pink lips.

I’m surprised by the offer. Covering someone’s desk is strictly associate work. “Uh, thanks. I’ll see.”

“You let me know if you need me, Mary. It’s your call.”

“Sure.”

Berkowitz turns to go. “Thomas, thanks again.”

“No problem.”

Berkowitz strides off, his heavy trenchcoat flapping, and pauses to light a cigarette in a cupped hand. The flame from the lighter illuminates the contours of his face and Delia’s.

Lombardo jerks his head in Berkowitz’s direction. “He’s an all right guy, for a big shot. He thinks the notes are nothin’ too, Mary.”

“You told him?”

“Sure, we talked a coupla times over the weekend. He was very interested in the investigation.”

“Let’s go, Mary.” Ned squeezes my arm.

I feel tired, suddenly. I’m getting nowhere with Lombardo, I can see that. I know I’m right; I can just feel it. It all makes sense, but there’s nothing I can do about it tonight. Wearily, I give in. “Okay.”

“Call me, Mary,” Lombardo says.

I nod, and Ned steers me home. Neither of us says anything on the short walk to my apartment. I don’t know what’s on his mind, but my thoughts are muffled by a thick blanket of fatigue and sorrow. As we get closer to my building, I feel a distance between Ned and me. I want to be alone with my memories of Brent, and of Mike. I’m in mourning, and it’s déjà vu all over again. We reach the door to my building, near where Ned kissed me for the first time. A lot has happened since that first kiss. Brent was alive then.

“You want to pick up some clothes, Mary?”

“Actually, I think I should get some sleep tonight.”

“You mean you want to stay here? By yourself?” He frowns, causing his freckles to converge at the bridge of his nose.

I nod.

“I’m worried, honey. I don’t know what’s going on, and I have no confidence in that detective. I don’t think you’re safe.”

“Maybe I can call Judy or something.”

“You don’t want me to stay?” He looks confused.

“Ned, it’s not that it wasn’t wonderful…”

His green eyes harden. “Oh, is that it? Was it wonderful for you? Because it was wonderful for me too.”