The October List

soul.
    She may have mentioned this to Frank in passing and he’d remembered.
    Conversation meandered: to De Niro’s latest film, to Frank’s mother’s health, to Gabriela’s plans to redecorate her Upper West Side apartment.
    Then: ‘Funny you show up today.’ Uttered in a certain tone.
    ‘How’s that?’
    ‘I was going to call you later. But here you are. So.’
    Gabriela sipped the strong coffee. She lifted an eyebrow toward him pleasantly. Meaning, Go on .
    ‘Ask you something?’
    ‘You bet.’
    ‘Any chance of us?’ He swallowed. Nerves.
    ‘Us …?’ Gabriela wondered if that pronoun was the end of the sentence, though she suspected it was.
    Frank filled in anyway: ‘Dating, more seriously. Oh, hey, I’m not talking about marriage. God. I don’t even think that makes financial sense nowadays. But every time we’ve been out, it’s clicked. I know it’s only a few times. But still.’ He took a breath and plunged forward. ‘Look, I’m not a Ryan Gosling. But I’m working at losing a few pounds, I really am.’
    He looked down into his coffee. He’d made a show of using Equal, not sugar, and ordered with 2 percent milk, though Gabriela knew those were not the tools for fighting weight.
    She told him, ‘Women like men for a lot of reasons, not just their looks. And I went out with somebody who was a dead ringer for Ryan Gosling once and he was a complete dick.’
    ‘Yeah?’
    ‘Hey, I like you, Frank. I really do. And, there could be an “us.” I just want to take things real slow. I’ve had some problems in the past. You have too, right?’
    ‘Hey-ay, I’ve been a mistake magnet.’ He elaborated on what he’d told her a few weeks ago, about a difficult breakup. She couldn’t quite tell who was the dumpee and who the dumper.
    As she listened, she counted sixteen freckles on his face.
    ‘I respect that,’ he said seriously.
    ‘What?’ Had she missed something?
    ‘That you’re being reasonable. Taking time, thinking about things. And that you didn’t get all weird and run out of here.’
    ‘How can I run? I’m wearing killer high heels.’
    ‘Which’re pretty nice.’
    And now that Frank had raised a Serious Topic and the matter had been debated, he dropped it, for which she was infinitely grateful. He rose, pulled three sugar packets out of the tray and returned, spilling the contents into his coffee, then stirring up a whirlpool. Before he sat, though, he whipped his Samsung phone out of its holster.
    ‘Smile.’
    ‘What?’
    He aimed the camera lens at her and shot a few pictures, full length, from head to shoe, as she grinned.
    Finally he sat, reviewed the pictures. ‘Some keepers.’ Frank then sipped more coffee and looked up at her. ‘You know, that film festival’s going on all week.’
    ‘Really? I’m free Tuesday if you like.’
    ‘I’m working then—’
    ‘Well—’
    ‘No, if Tuesday works for you, I’ll swap shifts.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘For you, yeah.’
    ‘That’s really sweet, Frank. Really sweet.’ She gave him a breezy smile.

CHAPTER
2
     

11:00 a.m., Friday
1 hour, 20 minutes earlier
     

 

 
     
    Brad Kepler and Naresh Surani waited in an NYPD conference room that featured a single speckled window that overlooked a building that, Kepler believed, overlooked New York Harbor. This was as good as most views got – at least for detectives third – in One Police Plaza. At least when they were involved in an operation that had no name, that nobody knew about, and because of that, that could presumably fuck a career as much as make one.
    Kepler admired his arm, less muscular than when he’d joined the force but more robustly tanned. He then regarded Surani, who had a nearly gray complexion, which stayed gray no matter how much sun he got. Both men were more or less mid-thirties and more or less fit, though Kepler’s physique reflected the reality of life as a detective: sedentary, with walking the most strenuous exercise on the job. He’d chased somebody a month ago, and caught him, but his hip still hurt.
    Fucker.
    ‘This guy the shit he seems to be?’ He tapped a file on the table in front of him.
    ‘Dunno,’ Surani answered his partner. ‘Never heard of him. What’s this room for? I didn’t know it was even here.’
    The office, near their division, Major Cases, was scuffed and dim and populated with a lopsided table, six chairs, three of them unmatched, a filing cabinet, and dozens of boxes labeled Discard.
    And the