Blood on the Street (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #4)

He obviously liked her, and she didn’t know what to do with herself. Why was it so easy for her to talk to strangers but the minute there was the suggestion of intimacy between her and a man, she became an inarticulate idiot? She had felt safe with Silvestri; now she was adrift.
    Sighing, she stared at the words on the menu, not seeing them, until Alton gently took the menu away from her and folded it.
    “Would you like me to order for you?”
    She nodded, feeling her cheeks blaze. “Something from the sea, please.”
    He ordered the four kinds of salmon appetizers, then grilled swordfish with tomato olive coulis, and a 1963 Montrachet. When the waiter left them, he asked, “How’d I do?”
    “Great.” You’ve gone monosyllabic, Wetzon . She settled back in her chair and let herself smile at him. Be cool . Hunger gnawed at her, and with a ridiculously tremulous hand she plucked a piece of toasted bread from the bread basket and broke off a chunk, busying herself with buttering it. When she looked up, he was smiling at her, and she flushed again. “Don’t do that,” she said.
    “Do I make you nervous?” He, for one, was having a good time torturing her.
    “Nervous? Me? Oh my, no. Of course you make me nervous.” She stared at the Chinese figures in a repeat pattern on his tie, refusing to look into his eyes.
    The waiter returned and displayed the wine bottle; Alton nodded. The bottle was opened with a flourish, and a splash of wine was poured into Alton’s glass. After he tasted and approved, the waiter filled both glasses and slipped the bottle into the cooler next to the table.
    “To beginnings,” Alton said, raising his glass.
    Oh, no , Wetzon thought. She said, “To world peace and long life and renovated apartments.” She grinned at him and took a sip of the wine, closing her eyes. It was lovely, sophisticated. And romantic, like the restaurant. “Oh, dear,” she said, opening her eyes, and there he was, smiling at her again.
    “It is nice, isn’t it?” He was wearing a gray flannel jacket and a white shirt, open at the collar, and he, or the beer or the wine, was making her heart catch.
    “Who are you, Alton Pinkus?” she asked suddenly, setting her glass down. “What am I doing here having dinner with you?”
    He didn’t look the least bit surprised by her outburst. In fact, he looked pleased. “Born 1936, New York City,” he said, counting facts off with his fingers. “Columbia, class of ‘56. Captain, U.S. Army. Harvard Law School—”
    “Impressive CV, but—”
    “Married to Tessa, 1960,” he continued. “Three children, all grown and self-supporting. Tessa died four years ago.”
    “I’m very sorry.”
    “So am I. You would have liked each other.”
    “Alton, good to see you.” A dark-haired man in his forties, his huge mustache covering his upper lip, clapped Alton on the back. His eyes flicked over Wetzon. He stood aside to let the waiter serve their dinners, but he didn’t leave.
    “Charley, how are you?”
    “Karen,” Charley called to a salt-and-pepper brunette who had gone ahead of him. “Look who’s here.”
    Wetzon was introduced, then Charley and Karen moved on to their table.
    The food, the wine, the romance of the restaurant were bewitching, and she found herself colorfully describing the nightmare night of the flood and moving to the Village, laughing, making Alton laugh. He had a wonderful laugh: he threw his head back and committed himself in a big way.
    They were interrupted three more times by people she didn’t know, once by the director of the Metropolitan, whose name she recognized, and finally by Ed Koch, an ex-mayor of the city, who heartily recommended The Great Bonaparte for dessert.
    Wetzon had a glow on. She lost pieces of conversation. The wine had gone to her head. The Great Bonaparte, which proved to be a mountain of puff pastry, lemon curd, strawberries, and whipped cream, arrived with two soup spoons. Decaf espresso for two. Alton let her eat most of the concoction, but there hung between them a cobweb of shared intimacy over an over-the-top napoleon.
    “This is mad,” she murmured. The wine made her smile; the smile turned to a yawn, shattering her decorum.
    “I should get you home,” he said, not moving.
    “I’ll take a cab,” she said. She didn’t move either.
    He signaled for the check.
    “What do you do, Alton? You’re too young to be retired.” She gazed at him through wine-besotted eyes. He was very nice, if