A Body to die for

eyebrows went up when I said murderer. She buzzed me through. She pointed across the room, but it was all a blur. I apologized and put on my glasses. That’s when I noticed Detective Falcone sitting at a desk in the back of the room. She was alternating between drags of a cigarette, sips of coffee and bites of what appeared to be a Reuben sandwich with gobs of Russian dressing.
    I licked my chops and walked over. She put her sandwich down when I got to her desk. She kept on smoking and drinking coffee. A string of her stringy hair dipped into the Styrofoam cup. She didn’t seem to care. We made eye contact. The clarity in her mud-colored eyes made me feel uneasy for a moment, like she knew something about me even I didn’t know. “Mallory,” she said. “I’ve been expecting you.” The seat of her chair wasn’t visible with her hips spilling over it like that.
    I had a sudden premonition: Was this dumpy, sloppy, saggy woman what I’d become in twenty years? Substituting the brown strings for my luscious red curls (they’ll always stay that color—Mother Nature, meet Miss Clairol), was Falcone the ghost of Wanda future? The thought sent a chill up my spine like a monkey up a rope swing. For women, being smart didn’t cut it at fifty any more than it did at twenty-nine. Harsh, but it’s the sad, unfair truth. I relied on my looks. If I lost them, I didn’t think I’d be able to do this for a living.
    “Jack Watson called me at my office,” I said quickly to get my mind off my fears.
    She nodded and smiled. “He’s in the Brooklyn Detention Center on Atlantic Avenue. I sent over a pastrami on rye for him, but he wouldn’t touch it.”
    “Too fatty,” I said, and immediately felt embarrassed. “I meant the sandwich.”
    “I assumed so, Mallory. Because if you were talking about my body, I might get upset.” Her eyes darted across my face. I didn’t see a hint of emotion anywhere on hers.
    I felt myself blush. This woman made me uncomfortable in an unfamiliar way. “Well, if he doesn’t want it, I’ll have it.” I fiddled with a red tendril. “I like pastrami.” When in doubt, eat.
    Falcone watched me closely. Her stare made me feel worse. Finally, she said, “Pull up a chair, Mallory. Let’s discuss your friend Jack Watson.” I sat down. I checked with my hands to make sure my hips hadn’t engulfed the entire seat of the chair like hers had. I had a solid half-inch of space on either side, thank God.
    Falcone said, “Forget about the sandwich. I already gave it away. Should I order something for you?” She picked up the telephone on her desk. I noticed she had the phone numbers of a few local restaurants on a strip of tape stuck to the receiver.
    Reconsidering, I shook my head. No food. Ever again. At least not when I was around her. “Let’s just get down to business,” I said. “I don’t have all day.” I could always get nicer from there.
    Falcone frowned and leaned back in her chair. She took a long, slow drag on her cigarette and said, “I, on the other hand, have all the time in the world. This stack of paper isn’t really piled on my desk.” She patted the sloppy, high stack. “Let’s just have a calm relaxed discussion about Jack Watson. He’s been arrested. He was rude to the arresting officers. He’s in for a while. I’m not really sure what I can do for you, Mallory.”
    “You can start by giving me one of those cigarettes.” I regretted asking as soon as I did. She rummaged in her desk drawer and handed me one. I accepted. I fired my first cigarette of the day. It tasted gross. I hate menthol. I squashed it out. I didn’t give her an explanation. “Next you can tell me exactly what Jack’s in for,” I said. “He was with me at the time of the crime.” In theory, at least.
    “Are you saying you’re an accessory?”
    “I am an expert at accessorizing.”
    “I can tell.” She cocked her head at my outfit. Jeans, a tank top, no belt, no jewelry. I was completely accessory-less. “If you were present at the time of the crime, then I hope for your sake you tried to stop him.”
    “I knew exactly what he was doing, and I was fine with it. What’s the big deal? Don’t tell me jogging on the Promenade is a crime in New York now.” (Not that it would affect me if it were.)
    Falcone eyed me through her green, minty smoke. I heard once the menthol flavor comes from ground glass particles sprinkled on the tobacco. “You think Watson was arrested for