He smiled. “With all due respect, Detective, they don’t sound expensive enough to be a firm I would hire.”
Since it was past noon and they were on the East Side, Rook said lunch was on him at E.A.T. up near 80th and Madison. After she ordered her spinach and chèvre salad and he put in for a meat loaf sandwich, Nikki said, “So you’re still not going to talk about it?”
He feigned innocence. “Still not going to talk about what?”
She mocked him: “What? What?” Her iced tea arrived and she peeled the straw wrapper thoughtfully. “Come on, seriously, it’s me. You can tell me.”
“I’ll tell you what. . . . This table is wobbly.” He grabbed a sugar packet and ducked under the table, then came up seconds later, testing the adjustment. “Better?”
“Now I understand why you were so hesitant about going with me to the publisher this morning.” He shrugged, so she pressed. “Come on. I promise not to judge. Have you seriously been trying to break in as a romance fiction writer?”
“Trying to break in?” He cocked his head and grinned. “Trying? Lady, I am in. I am so in.”
“OK . . . how are you in? I’ve never seen one of your books. I’ve even Googled your name.”
“For shame,” he said. “OK, here’s the deal. It’s not uncommon for magazine writers to supplement their income. Some teach, some rob banks, some do a little ghostwriting here and there. I do mine there.”
“At Ardor Books?”
“Yes.”
“You write bodice rippers?”
“Romance fiction, please. You might say I make some pretty handy side money as one of their authors.”
“I know ‘romance fiction’ a little bit. What name do you use? Are you Rex Monteeth, Victor Blessing?” She paused and pointed at him. “You’re not Andre Falcon, are you?”
Rook leaned forward and beckoned her closer. After a glance side to side at the other tables, he whispered, “Victoria St. Clair.”
Nikki shrieked a laugh, causing every head in the place to turn. “Oh, my God! You’re Victoria St. Clair?!!”
He hung his head. “It’s nice to see that you’re not judging.”
“You? Victoria St. Clair?”
“No judging here. This is more like straight to the execution.”
“Rook, come on. This is big. I’ve read Victoria St. Clair. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.” And then she laughed, but covered her mouth with her hand, stopping herself. “Sorry, sorry. I was just thinking about what you said the other day about everybody having a secret life. But you. You’re an A-list magazine writer, a war correspondent, you’ve got two Pulitzers . . . and you’re Victoria St. Clair? This is so . . . I dunno . . . beyond secret.”
Rook turned to the restaurant, to see all the faces staring, and said, “Not so much anymore.”
Roach entered the law offices of Ronnie Strong on a floor below the DMV in Herald Square, and both detectives felt as if they had walked into the waiting room of an orthopedic practice. A woman with both hands fully casted so that only the tips of her fingers were visible was dictating instructions to a teenage boy, probably her son, who was helping her fill out an intake form. A man in a wheelchair with no visible injury also completed paperwork. A strapping construction worker whose chair was flanked by two Gristedes bags of receipts and paperwork gave them a sharp look and said, “He ain’t here, fellas.”
The receptionist was a very pleasant woman in a conservative suit but with a fish hook in her lip. “Gentlemen, have you been done wrong?”
Ochoa turned so he wouldn’t laugh and muttered to Raley, “Hell, it’s been a while since I was even done.”
Raley maintained his composure and asked to see Mr. Strong. The receptionist said he was out of the office, making a new series of commercials, and that they could come back tomorrow. Raley flashed his tin and got the address of the studio.