The Anonymous Client

feet up, a position in which she often read. She squirmed uncomfortably, scrunched up to a sitting position, pushed the hair back off her face, and adjusted her glasses.
    The detective found a broken matchstick.
    Tracy frowned. Shit. She knew that. She’d read the page twice.
    Damn. She never should have come home. Never should have let Mark Taylor talk her into it. When he’d called to tell Steve about Philip Harding, she’d wanted to stay and keep the office open, but he’d convinced her there was nothing she could do. And he’d promised to call her at home if anything broke. And, of course, nothing had, and there was no point in her hanging out in an empty office.
    But still.
    Tracy sighed and returned to her book. The matchstick. What was it about the matchstick? Probably something important, or it wouldn’t be in the book. What did the detective think? Had she read that far?
    One of the reasons Tracy couldn’t concentrate was that she had the radio on. She’d been listening to 1010 WINS , hoping to get an update on the Phillip Harding murder. And, of course, there’d been none. And, she realized, realistically, there wasn’t apt to be at that time of night. Every twenty minutes there was another report, but they were all the same. The body’d been exhumed, arsenic had been found, and the police were investigating. The end.
    The news report came on again. Tracy put down her book and listened. Same thing. Exhumed, arsenic, investigating. The announcer moved on to the latest local political scandal.
    Tracy picked up her book again and began reading.
    The detective found a broken matchstick.
    Shit.
    The political corruption story ended. The newscaster then said, “The body of a man was discovered early this evening in his East Village apartment. He had been stabbed to death with a knife. The man has tentatively been identified as David C. Bradshaw, of 249 East 3rd Street. The motive for the crime is as yet unknown. Police are investigating.”
    Tracy sprang to her feet. Holy shit! Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch! Her mind was racing. Jesus Christ. How did this happen? What was going on? What should she do?
    The announcer’d moved on to the weather. The radio was too loud. She couldn’t hear herself think. She went over to the radio, clicked it off. There. That’s better. Now ...
    Steve Winslow. Did she have Steve Winslow’s home number? No. Would he be listed? And where did he live? Manhattan. Somewhere in the West Village. Or was it SoHo? Shit, what does it matter?
    Tracy raced to the phone and dialed 411.
    “May I help you?” the operator said.
    “In Manhattan—a listing for Steve Winslow.”
    “One moment, please.”
    There was a click, and then the recorded message started giving the number. Tracy grabbed a pencil from her desk, jotted it down. She jiggled the receiver, breaking the connection, and punched Steve Winslow’s number in.
    No answer. She must have let it ring a dozen times.
    Tracy slammed down the phone. She was really angry. Of course he wasn’t there. Mark Taylor had a pipeline into police headquarters. He’d have gotten the news about Bradshaw way ahead of the media. He’d gotten it, and he’d called Steve Winslow, and that’s why Steve wasn’t there.
    Tracy thought of calling Mark Taylor, but she didn’t. In the first place, she was pissed off. In the second place, he wouldn’t be there either. He’d have called Steve, and the two of them would be out there investigating the case, doing god knows what, and with never a thought of her. Son of a bitch! Son of a fucking bitch!
    Tracy snatched up her apartment keys and slammed out the door.

14.
    M ARILYN H ARDING HAD BEEN CRYING . That was the first thing Steve Winslow noticed. She had combed her hair and put on makeup and composed her face, but nothing she could do was going to disguise the fact that she was distraught.
    Of course, she had every right to be. After all, she’d just discovered that her father had been murdered. A tremendous shock for anyone, let alone a young girl.
    But was that all?
    They were in the library of the Harding mansion. Steve Winslow had taken a cab out to Glen Cove (“It’s your money, buddy”), bullied his way past the Harding butler (Christ, did butlers really exist outside of British drama?), and been consigned to the library while the butler reluctantly delivered the message.
    A few minutes later Marilyn Harding entered the room. She walked slowly, mechanically, and her eyes were