As she turned onto Twenty-third Street she passed a computer-beeper-pager shop and saw the cornucopia of gadgets filling the window.
That's it: electronics. My guy Joseph Hermann imports cell phones and VCRs and computer games and all that sort of stuff from the Far East. His constant traveling is a strain on our relationship, but we're deeply committed to each other and we'll be marrying as soon as he nails down his lines of distribution and can get off the road.
And then she spotted El Quijote's canopy. She'd passed it countless times but had never thought of eating there, and that beat-up metal canopy, painted some awful shades of red and yellow, was why. The restaurant was tucked under the notorious Chelsea Hotel whose redbrick front and wrought-iron balconies made it look as if it would be more at home in New Orleans. But the restaurant itself wasn't all that inviting. It looked… old.
She stepped inside and saw a long bar stretching toward the rear on her left. The restaurant area lay to the right. The inside pretty much matched the outside—old. And traditional-looking. High ceilings, white linen tablecloths, and faux Cervantes murals along the wall. She wondered if it had been redecorated since the forties. Even with daylight streaming in through the front window, the interior somehow managed to remain dim. She found that oddly comforting.
She saw a man step away from the bar and approach her.
Detective Matthews. Wearing a trench coat, no less.
"Hi," he said, grinning. "I've got us a table."
She realized he was very good-looking when he smiled. She extended her hand.
"Detec—"
He raised his finger and waggled it. "Uh-uh-uh. Will, Remember?"
"All right. Will." She took a breath. She knew he was waiting for it, so she said, "Only if you call me Alicia."
His smile broadened. "I'd love to. Let me take your coat, Alicia."
As she shrugged out of her all-purpose raincoat, she hoped she wasn't sending him the wrong message. But he seemed like a decent guy. What could it hurt?
He checked both their coats, then signaled to the majtre d' who led them through the half-full dining area to a rear corner.
Unable to think of anything else, she said, "This is nice."
"You've never been here?"
She shook her head. "I usually eat lunch at my desk, and at home it's whatever I can whip up quick and easy. I don't eat out much." Because I don't like to sit alone at a restaurant table.
He frowned. "I just realized I should have checked first if you like garlic. If you don't, we'd better find another place."
"I love garlic. But Mexican food isn't very—"
"This isn't Mexican. It's Spanish."
Alicia winced. "Of course. El Quijote. I should have known. It's just that after all those years in Southern California, any restaurant with an 'El' is automatically Mexican."
"'All those years?' I thought you were a New Yorker."
"I was. And am again. Born and raised. But at eighteen I left for USC and stayed away for a dozen years."
She didn't tell him that she'd looked into the University of Hawaii because it was the farthest she could get from New York and that house on Thirty-eighth Street and still be in the United States. But USC had offered her a better financial package, so she'd settled for California.
The waiter arrived.
"You've got to try the shrimp in green sauce," Matthews said. "Best thing on the menu—if you like garlic."
She ordered that, plus a Diet Pepsi. He ordered a beer.
While they waited, he quizzed her about her West Coast years, and she found herself relaxing as she talked about herself. As long as he didn't ask her about her life before that. Premed, medical school, the residencies… grueling years, but good ones. She'd left New York one person and arrived in California as another. The new Alicia had no past, owed nothing to no one. As she'd stepped off the plane, she'd been reborn as a being of her own creation.
She used the arrival of their meal—a metal crock filled with plump pink shrimp nestled in a lime-green sauce—to change the subject.
"But enough about me," she said. "What about Floyd Stevens?"
"Taste first," Matthews said as he spooned a generous portion onto her plate. "You don't want to ruin a good meal with talk about scum."
Alicia bit back a sharp retort. She hadn't come for the food, she'd come for information, dammit. Instead she forked a shrimp in half and tasted it. God, it was good. Incredibly good. Quickly she ate the other half. She hadn't realized how hungry she was.
"So," he said. She looked up and found him watching her intensely. "What do you think?"
"Heavenly," she said. "So good, in fact, that nothing you can tell me can ruin it."
He sighed. "Okay. Here's what I learned: Seems this isn't the first time Pretty Boy Floyd has been caught with his hands on a child. They weren't easy to find, but I dug up three past complaints about him."
Alicia's spirits jumped. "Then, he's got a record—a history of pedophilia. How the hell did we ever allow him in?"
"Hang on here. No record. The complaints were all dropped."
"Dropped? All of them?"
He nodded, chewing slowly. "Seems he's pretty well-off financially. Made a lot of money on Wall Street in the eighties and retired as a young millionaire with lots of time on his hands and a yen for kids."
Good as the meal was, Alicia found her appetite waning. "He buys his way out."
"Or threatens his way out, like he's trying to do with you. He's got a shark for a lawyer. Nasty SOB who loves to go for the throat."
"In other words, those weren't just empty threats."
"Afraid not."
"You're really making my day."
"Sorry. Just thought you should know what you're up against."
"I guess I already knew. Fineman called yesterday."
"What he say?"
"Pretty much what you overheard. Told me I could expect to spend the next three to five years in and out of courtrooms, burning up every penny I earn in legal fees, then spending much of the rest of my working life paying off the punitive and pain-and-suffering damages he expected the court to award his client. Of course, I could avoid all that if I saw the light, realized how mistaken I was, and withdrew my complaint."
"What a sweet guy. Goes to prove lawyers get the clients they deserve."
Alicia leaned back and fought a wave of depression as a string of rationalizations raced through her brain: Kanessa hadn't been done any physical harm, and she didn't have enough self-awareness to have suffered any long-term psychological damage. And at least Floyd Stevens was out of the Center for good, so the kids there were safe from him. Maybe he'd been hurt and frightened enough by the beating to keep his hands to himself from now on.
The fact that she was allowing these thoughts to exist depressed Alicia even more.
"You okay?" Matthews asked.
"No."
"Know what you're going to do?"
Alicia stared at him. "What do you think I'm going to do?"
He met her gaze. "I haven't known you very long, but I can't see you doing anything else but hanging in there."
The sudden surge of warmth for this virtual stranger took Alicia by surprise. There'd never been a chance that she'd cave in—on something else, maybe, but never on anything like this—and he'd recognized that. For some unfathomable reason, she found herself smiling.
"How could you know that?"
"I don't know. I just sense it. It's part of what I find so attractive about you."
Uh-oh. There it was, out in the open, flopping around on the table. She chose to ignore it.
"You don't think I'm crazy?" she said.
"No. I think you're principled."
She wished it were principles. She wished it were that simple.