“Because the weather’s crappy and it’s a weekday.” He zips his coat as they get out of the car. “I bet this place is jammed at high noon on a Saturday in July.”
“I bet Central Park is jammed right now,” she returns, noticing an Apartments for Rent sign in the window of a mansard--roofed mansion that houses law and dental offices.
Reading her mind, Barnes says, “You don’t want to live there. It’s got to be haunted.”
“Ghosts? Pfffft.” She shrugs. “That’s nothing compared to what we’ve seen. And I’m not even talking about the naked lunatic.”
He can’t argue with that logic—-which ordinarily doesn’t stop him, but this time, he refrains. Instead, he points out that it’s starting to snow.
“See that? It’s just like I told you the other day. This isn’t city snow.”
“Sadistic snow.”
“Right. This isn’t sadistic snow. It’s a Christmassy snow. Kind, gentle small--town snow. You have to admit that there’s something to be said for this Main Street USA stuff.”
“You have to admit that if you lived here, you’d never find a decent bagel, or a black and white cookie.”
“Sure I would. Look at that.” She points to a painted shingle hanging alongside the door of a bakery. “It’s called the Gingersnap Sweet Shop. I think it’s an omen.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Okay, well, try finding San Shan soup and shredded beef with spicy Asian green chili leeks and white rice around here.”
“There’s more to life than food, Barnes.”
“You’re right. There’s sex.”
“Leave it to you.” She rolls her eyes, grinning.
“Well, come on. Who are you going to date when you move up here? Them?” He points at a trio of elderly men chatting in front of the café, and another one getting out of an enormous white car. All are wearing the suburban great--grandpa uniform: newsboy caps and galoshes.
“They’re a step up from my dating pool back home. Anyway, don’t worry. I’m not going to do it, because then there would be no one around to keep you in line.”
“I didn’t even know moving here was an option until now.”
“Neither did I.”
Barnes shakes his dark head. “You’ll never leave New York.”
He’s right, of course. Yet as they walk down the steps to police headquarters, she can’t help but compare it to the chaotic, strictly functional precinct back home. This one is housed on the basement level of a stately brick building that was once, according to a historic placard, an opera house. Now it’s a movie theater showing an art house film that just opened in New York.
Five minutes later, they’re seated in a cozy office with the darkly handsome Lieutenant Nick Colonomos and clutching fragrant, steaming beverages: coffee for Barnes, tea for Sully. Not whole leaf, but she had her pick of Earl Grey or chamomile. The chairs beneath them are vintage and upholstered, facing a sidewalk--level window high in the wall. There are no bars on the glass, and beyond it, the locals are visible strolling—-not scurrying—-about their daily business.
Colonomos quickly briefs them on the case, then asks, “Did you find any evidence that Julia Sexton had a stalker in the days leading up to her murder?”
Sully and Stockton look at each other and shake their heads.
“Well, Brianna Armbruster was receiving gifts from someone calling himself her Secret Santa,” Colonomos informs them. “A neighbor says she saw someone lurking around her house on Monday afternoon.”
“What were the gifts?” Sully asks.
“Those bracelet beads the girls are collecting . . . you know what I mean? Painted, enamel, with little stick figures. Trinkettes, I think they’re called.”
She shakes her head and Barnes informs Colonomos, “You’re asking the wrong person. That’s not really her thing.”
“What’s not really my thing? I love bracelets, and beads. And . . . trinkets.”
“Since when?”