From Potter`s Field

'I can't do it,' I said to him.

We turned onto Central Park West.

'I'm sorry, but I just don't think I can be around you and Connie,' I added.

'I thought you said you could discipline your emotions.'

'That's easy for you to say because I don't have someone else in my life.'

'You're going to have to do it at some point. Even if we break this off, you're going to have to deal with my family. If we are to continue working together, if we are to be friends.'

'So now you're giving me ultimatums.'

'You know I'm not.'

I quickened my pace. The first time we had made love I had made my life a hundred times more complicated. Certainly, I had known better. I had seen more than one poor fool on my autopsy table who had decided to get involved with someone married. People annihilated themselves and others. They became mentally ill and got sued.

I passed Tavern on the Green. I stared up at the Dakota on my left, where John Lennon was killed on a corner years ago. The subway station was very close to Cherry Hill, and I wondered if Gault might have left the park and come here. I stood and stared. That night, December 8, I was driving home from a court case when I heard on the radio that Lennon had been shot dead by a nobody carrying a copy of Catcher in the Rye.

'Benton,' I said, 'Lennon used to live there.'

'Yes,' he said. 'He was killed right over there by that entrance.'

'Is there any possibility Gault cared about that?'

He paused. 'I haven't thought about it.'

'Should we think about it?'

He was silent as he looked up at the Dakota with its sandblasted brick, wrought iron and copper trim.

'We probably should think about everything,' he said.

'Gault would have been a teenager when Lennon was murdered. As I recall from Gault's apartment in Richmond, he seemed to prefer classical music and jazz. I don't remember that he had any albums by Lennon or the Beatles.'

'If he's preoccupied with Lennon,' Wesley said, 'it's not for musical reasons. Gault would be fascinated by such a sensational crime.'

We walked on. 'There just aren't enough people to ask the questions we need answered,' I said.

'We would need an entire police department. Maybe the entire FBI.'

'Can we check to see if anyone fitting his description has been seen around the Dakota?' I asked.

'Hell, he could be staying there,' Wesley said bitterly. 'So far, money hasn't seemed to be his problem.'

Around the corner of the Museum of Natural History was the snowcapped pink awning of a restaurant called Scaletta, which I was surprised to find lit up and noisy. A couple in fur coats turned in and went downstairs, and I wondered if we shouldn't do the same. I was actually getting hungry, and Wesley didn't need to lose any more weight.

'Are you up for this?' I asked him.

'Absolutely. Is Scaletta a relative of yours?' he teased.

'I think not.'

We got as far as the door, where the maitre d' informed us that the restaurant was closed.

'You certainly don't look closed,' I said, suddenly exhausted and unwilling to walk any more.

'But we are, signora.' He was short, balding and wearing a tuxedo with a bright red cummerbund. 'This is a private party.'

'Who is Scaletta?' Wesley asked him.

'Why you want to know?'

'It is an interesting name, much like mine,' I said.

'And what is yours?'

'Scarpetta.'

He looked carefully at Wesley and seemed puzzled. 'Yes, of course. But he is not with you this evening?'

I stared blankly at him. 'Who is not with me?'

'Signor Scarpetta. He was invited. I'm most sorry, I did not realize you were in his party…'

'Invited to what?' I had no idea what he was talking about. My name was rare. I had never encountered another Scarpetta, not even in Italy.

The maitre d' hesitated. 'You are not related to the Scarpetta who comes here often?'

'What Scarpetta?' I said, getting uneasy.

'A man. He has been here many times recently. A very good customer. He was invited to our Christmas party. So you are not his guests?'

'Tell me more about him,' I said.

'A young man. He spends much money.' The maitre d' smiled.

I could feel Wesley's interest pique. He said, 'Can you describe him?'

'I have many people inside. We reopen tomorrow…'

Wesley discreetly displayed his shield. The man regarded it calmly.

'Of course.' He was polite but unafraid. 'I find you a table.'

'No, no,' Wesley said. 'You don't have to do that. But we need to ask more about this man who said his last name was Scarpetta.'

'Come in.' He motioned us. 'We talk, we may as well sit. You sit, you may as well eat. My name is Eugenio.'

He led us to a pink-covered table in a corner far removed from guests in party clothes filling most of the dining room. They were toasting, eating, talking and laughing with the gestures and cadences of Italians.

'We do not have full menu tonight,' Eugenio apologized. 'I can bring you costoletta di vitello alia griglia or polio al limone with maybe a little cappellini primavera or rigatoni con broccolo.'

We said yes to all and added a bottle of Dolcetto D'Alba, which was a favorite of mine and difficult to find.

Eugenio went to get our wine while my mind spun slowly and sick fear pulled at my heart.

'Don't even suggest it,' I said to Wesley.

'I'm not going to suggest anything yet.'

He didn't have to. The restaurant was so close to the subway station where Gault had been seen. He would have noticed Scaletta's because of the name. It would have made him think of me, and I was someone he probably thought about a lot.

Almost instantly, Eugenio was back with our bottle. He peeled off foil and twisted in the corkscrew as he talked. 'See, 1979, very light. More like a Beaujolais.' He pulled the cork out and poured a little for me to taste.

I nodded, and he filled our glasses.

'Have a seat, Eugenio,' Wesley said. 'Have some wine. Tell us about Scarpetta.'

He shrugged. 'All I can say is he first come in here several weeks ago. I know he had not been in before. To tell the truth, he was unusual.'

'In what way?' Wesley asked.

'Unusual looking. Very bright red hair, thin, dressed unusual. You know, long black leather coat and Italian trousers with maybe T-shirt.' He looked up at the ceiling and shrugged again. 'If you can imagine wearing nice trousers and shoes like Armani and then wearing T-shirt. It was not ironed, either.'

'Was he Italian?' I asked.

'Oh no. He could fool some people, but not me.' Eugenio shook his head and poured himself a glass of wine. 'He was American. But he maybe spoke Italian because he used the Italian part of the menu. He ordered that way, you know? He would not order in English. Actually, he was very good.'

'How did he pay?' Wesley asked.

'Always charge card.'

'And the name on the charge card was Scarpetta?' I asked.

'Yes, I'm certain. No first name, just the initial K. He said his name was Kirk. Not exactly Italian.' He smiled and shrugged.

'He was friendly, then,' Wesley said as my mind kept slamming into this information.

'He was very friendly sometimes and not so friendly other times. He always had something to read. Newspapers.'

'He was alone?' Wesley asked.

'Always.'

"What kind of charge card?' I said.

He thought. 'American Express. A gold card, I believe.'

I looked at Wesley.

'Do you have yours with you?' he asked me.

'I would assume so.'

I got out my billfold. The card wasn't there.

'I don't understand.' I felt the blood rise to the roots of my hair.

'Where did you have it last?' Wesley asked.

'I don't know.' I was stunned. 'I don't use it much. So many places won't take it.'

We were silent. Wesley sipped his wine and looked around the room. I was frightened and bewildered. I did not understand what any of this meant. Why would Gault come here and pretend to be me? If he had my gold card, how did he get it? And even as I asked that last question, a dark suspicion stirred. Quantico.