New York Dead

you lately.”
    “Kind thoughts, I hope.”
    “The kindest, I assure you.” Eggers looked at his watch. “I’ve got a client coming in any second, but I’d like to buy you a drink sometime, chew over some things.”
    “Sure,” Stone said, fishing out a card. “Give me a week or two, though. The Sasha thing is taking a lot of time.”
    “Of course,” Eggers said, extending his hand again. “We’ll make it dinner, when you’ve got the time.”

    On his way home, Stone reflected on Bill Eggers’s prosperous appearance, the handsome office, the prestigious law firm. Was it possible that Woodman & Weld might need someone with his background?
    When he got home, there was a notice from the NYPD: his return-to-duty physical had been scheduled. Stone flexed the knee. Not bad; he’d begun to forget about it. He tried a couple of half knee bends. It was sore, but he could ace the physical.

Chapter
17

    “Can I buy you breakfast?” her low, pleasing voice said on the phone. “It’s the first real day of autumn outside, and we’ll have a walk in the park, too.”
    “Oh, yes.” Stone exhaled. He was pitifully glad to hear from Cary. Their last, uncomfortable evening had been eating at him, and, in spite of her parting words, he had been unsure of his reception, should he call her.
    “There’s a little French place called La Goulue, on East Seventieth, just off Madison. I’ve got a table booked in half an hour.”
    “You’re on.”

    They sat in the warm, paneled restaurant, a pitcher of mimosas between them, and drank each other in.
    “I don’t know when I’ve been so glad to see anybody,” Stone said.
    “I’m glad it’s me you’re glad to see,” she replied. She slipped off her shoe, and, under the tablecloth, rested her foot in his crotch. “Oh, you are glad to see me, aren’t you?” She rolled her eyes.
    “That’s not a pistol in my pocket.” He grinned.
    Her eyebrows went up. “You’re supposed to wear a gun all the time, aren’t you?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Are you wearing one now?”
    He nodded.
    “So that
could
be a pistol in your pocket.”
    He laughed. “It could be, but it isn’t.”
    “Where are you wearing it?”
    “Strapped to my ankle.” He hated the bulge under his coat, hated being careful about inadvertently revealing the weapon.
    “You have a badge, too, I guess.”
    “That’s right. I wouldn’t be a policeman without a badge, would I?”
    “Let me see it.”
    Stone produced the little leather wallet and laid it on the table.
    She flipped it open and ran a finger around the badge. “It’s gold,” she said.
    “A detective’s badge is always gold. It’s what every cop wants, a gold badge.”
    The waiter came and refreshed their mimosas from the pitcher, leaning over, eyeing the badge.
    Stone flipped the wallet shut and put it back in his pocket.
    “I want it,” she said.
    “Want what?”
    “The badge.”
    Stone laughed and shook his head. “To get that badge, you’d have to sign up for the Police Academy, walk a beat for a few years, spend a few more in a patrol car, then get lucky on a bust or two, and have a very fine rabbi.” “Rabbi?”
    “A senior cop who takes an interest in your career.”
    “Do you have a rabbi?”
    “I did. His name was Ron Rosenfeld.”
    “And he helped you?”
    “He helped me a lot. I would never have made detective if not for him.”
    “Why did he help you?” she asked.
    “That’s a funny question. Why do people ever help each other?”
    “But there must have been some specific reason, apart from just liking you. Did he help all young policemen?”
    “No,” Stone admitted. He thought about it for a moment. “I think it may have been because he was a Jew and I was such an obvious WASP.”
    “That doesn’t make any sense. Why didn’t he help Jewish cops, instead of you?”
    “I think because he had been discriminated against when he was a young patrolman, so he felt some empathy with my situation. He saw me getting passed over for good assignments, and it rankled, I guess. Oh, he helped a lot of young Jewish cops, too. It wasn’t just me.” “Did he retire?”
    “He died. It was a lot like losing my father.”
    “So who helps you now?”
    Stone shrugged. “Nobody. Well, Dino helps me.”
    “But he’s junior to you, isn’t he?”
    “Yes, but he’s more inside than I am. I think he defends me sometimes; I think it’s made a difference, too.”
    “It’s a funny situation, isn’t