The October List

anybody really know what they want to do until they’re thirty?’
    Not far away an elegant horse, ridden by an attractive young brunette in full gear, cantered along the bridle path.
    He asked, ‘You have your camera? You could take a picture for Sarah.’
    ‘No, I don’t carry it around generally. Besides, I’ve taken lots of horse pictures.’
    They watched the beautiful creature disappear north, striding toward Harlem.
    She was silent. Daniel frowned and glanced up the sidewalk.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Just thought I saw somebody looking our way.’ The light grew fierce and he pulled on Ray-Bans.
    She looked. ‘I don’t see anybody.’
    ‘Imagination, maybe. Some man, I thought. In a dark overcoat.’
    They continued their stroll to her apartment, looking over some of the vendor carts. Used books, CDs, food, of course. Always food.
    Then Gabriela sensed Daniel’s body language shift. He said, ‘That complication you were telling me about at the restaurant? How much of a complication is he?’ He glanced back once more, to the spot where he thought someone had been watching them.
    ‘Frank Walsh isn’t going to be following me.’
    ‘No? Are you sure? Wait, is he bigger than me?’
    She sized up Daniel’s athletic shoulders, arms and chest. ‘If it comes down to a fight, I think you’ll win.’
    He exhaled. ‘Then I’ll relax.’
    ‘Seriously,’ she said. ‘Frank is a nice guy. He’s dependable. He’s … sweet.’
    Daniel began to laugh hard at the telling word.
    ‘I’m there.’ She pointed to a nondescript building up a cross street, affordable only because of the bizarre but kind rent laws in New York City.
    Daniel began to say something but at that moment two men in suits, which didn’t fit particularly well, approached with obvious intent.
    They didn’t come from the place in the park where Daniel had believed he’d spotted their follower, Gabriela noted.
    One of the men, Anglo and tanned, wore aviator shades; the other, of Indian – South Asian – extraction, wore those glasses that dimmed automatically in the sun. Gabriela blinked, looking down at their NYPD badges and ID cards.
    ‘You’re Gabriela McKenzie.’
    ‘Yes. I … Yes, I am. Who are you?’
    The one with the aviator sunglasses said briskly, ‘I’m Detective Kepler, this is Detective Surani. Could we talk to you for a moment?’

CHAPTER
8
     

9:00 a.m., Saturday
1 hour earlier
     

 

 
     
    They sat across from each other in the spattered window of Irving’s Deli, Upper West Side.
    The restaurant, a mash of linoleum, dinged chrome and worn wood, was chaotic. The smells were of garlic, fish, bagel steam, toast, coffee. Mismatched perfume and aftershave, too, sprayed on in lieu of shower; on Saturday, why preen?
    The day was beautiful, a bright Saturday in September, and people were swarming. Many locals were at tables and in the queues, but many ‘interlopers,’ too, as Gabriela said.
    ‘You mean from my ’hood,’ Daniel called over the ocean-roar of the patrons. ‘The TriBeCa?’
    ‘We’re thinking of requiring passports for you people to cross Fourteenth Street,’ she said.
    ‘That’s profiling,’ Daniel said.
    They returned to their food.
    She thought it curious that Daniel wore a suit on the weekend – gray like yesterday, though a different cut and a dress shirt of blush pink. No tie. Had he planned to attend a meeting later? Or was he simply more comfortable not wearing casual clothes? Gabriela was in tan stretch pants, a burgundy sweater, pearls too. Ankle boots. He’d looked at her figure once – when he thought she wasn’t paying attention. The sweater was tight.
    The table was small and she adjusted the distinctive turquoise Tiffany bag on the corner. ‘Thanks again for this.’
    ‘The least I could do.’
    Daniel asked where exactly she lived, relative to the deli, which was on Broadway, near 75th.
    Gabriela grimaced. ‘About four blocks away. I come here way too often. The hips I have, I have Irving’s to thank for.’ Her eyes swept around the counter, piled high with every imaginable taste. ‘Kosher, I’ve learned, does not mean low calories.’ She paused, frowning. ‘I’m waiting.’
    Daniel tapped his forehead with a palm. ‘What hips?’
    ‘Too little, too late.’
    ‘But obviously you work out.’
    ‘I’ll give you a few points for that,’ she said.
    Daniel looked philosophical. ‘You notice when men say to women, “Oh, you work out,” it’s a come-on line.