Laurie hung up the phone. She felt depressed. At the same time she knew there was a certain amount of truth in what Calvin had said. She was emotionally involved in the issue.

Sitting by the phone, Laurie thought about returning her mother’s call. The last thing she wanted to go through was the third degree about her budding relationship with Jordan Scheffield. Besides, she hadn’t quite decided what she thought of him herself. She decided to wait on calling back her mother.

As Lou drove through the Midtown Tunnel and out the Long Island Expressway, he wondered why he insisted on continually bashing his head up against a brick wall.

There was no way a woman like Laurie Montgomery would look at someone like himself other than as a city servant. Why did he keep entertaining delusions of grandeur in which Laurie would suddenly say: “Oh, Lou, I’ve always wanted to meet a police detective who’s gone to a community college”?

Lou slapped the steering wheel in embarrassed anger. When Laurie had suddenly called and insisted on coming down to his office, he’d believed she’d wanted to see him for personal reasons, not some harebrained idea of using him to publicize a yuppie cocaine epidemic.

Lou exited the Long Island Expressway and got onto Woodhaven Boulevard, heading to Forest Hills. Feeling the need to do something rather than play with paper clips at his desk, he’d decided to go out and do a little gumshoeing on his own by visiting the surviving spouses. It was also better than going back to his miserable apartment on Prince Street in SoHo and watching TV.

Pulling up the Vivonettos’ long, curved driveway, Lou couldn’t help but be awed. The house was a mansion with white columns. Right away, lights went off in Lou’s head. This kind of opulence suggested serious money. And Lou had a hard time believing a simple restaurateur could make that kind of dough unless he had organized-crime connections.

Lou parked the car by the front door. He’d called ahead so Mrs. Vivonetto was expecting him. When he rang the bell, a woman wearing a ton of makeup came to the door. She was wearing a white, off-the-shoulder wool dress. There was not much suggestion of aggrieved mourning.

“You must be Lieutenant Soldano,” she said. “Do come in. My name is Gloria Vivonetto. Can I offer you a drink?”

Lou said that just water would be fine for him. “You know, on duty,” he muttered by way of explanation. Gloria poured him a glass at the bar in the living room. She fixed herself a vodka gimlet.

“I’m sorry about your husband,” Lou said. It was his standard intro for occasions like this.

“It was just like him,” Gloria said. “I’d told him time and time again he shouldn’t stay up and watch television. And now he goes and gets himself shot. I don’t know anything about running a business. I’m sure people are going to rob me blind.”

“Was there anyone that you know of who would have wanted your husband dead?” Lou asked. It was the first question in the standard protocol.

“I’ve been all over this with the other detectives. Do we have to go through it again?”

“Perhaps not,” Lou said. “Let me be frank with you, Mrs. Vivonetto. The way your husband was killed suggests an organized-crime involvement. Do you know what I’m saying?”

“You mean Mafia?”

“Well, there’s more to organized crime than the Mafia,” Lou said. “But that’s the general idea. Is there any reason that you can think of why people like the Mafia would want your husband killed?”

“Ha!” Gloria laughed. “My husband was never involved with anything as colorful as the Mafia.”

“What about his business?” Lou persisted. “Did Pasta Pronto have any connection whatsoever with organized crime?”

“No,” Gloria said.

“Are you sure?” Lou questioned.

“Well, no, I guess I’m not sure,” Gloria answered. “I wasn’t involved with the business. But I can’t imagine he ever had anything to do with the Mafia. And anyway, my husband was not a well man. He wasn’t going to be around much longer anyway. If someone wanted him out of the way they could have waited for him to keel over naturally.”

“How was your husband sick?” Lou asked.

“In what ways wasn’t he sick?” Gloria shot back. “Everything was falling apart. He had bad heart problems and had had two bypass operations. His kidneys weren’t great. He was supposed to have his gallbladder removed but they kept putting it off, saying his heart wouldn’t take it. He was going to have an eye operation. And his prostate was messed up. I’m not sure what was wrong with that, but his whole lower half didn’t work anymore. Hadn’t for years.”

“I’m sorry,” Lou said, unsure of what else to say. “I suppose he suffered a lot.”

Gloria shrugged her shoulders. “He never took care of himself. He was overweight, drank a ton, and he smoked like a chimney. The doctors told me he might not last a year unless he changed his ways, which wasn’t something he was about to do.”

Lou decided there wasn’t much more he’d learn from the not-so-aggrieved widow. “Well,” he said, standing up, “thank you for your time, Mrs. Vivonetto. If you think of anything else that might seem important, please give me a call.” He handed her one of his business cards.

Next Lou headed for the Singleton residence. The place was a simple, two-story, brick row house with two pink flamingos stuck in the front lawn. The street reminded him of his old neighborhood only a half dozen blocks away in Rego Park. He felt a stab of nostalgia for the evenings in the alleyway, playing stickball.

Mr. Chester Singleton opened the door. He was a big man, middle-aged and quite balding. He had a hounddog look thanks to his beefy jowls. His eyes were red and streaked. The instant Lou saw him he knew he was in the presence of true grief.

“Detective Soldano?”

Lou nodded and was immediately invited inside.

Inside, the furniture was plain but solid. A crocheted comforter was folded over the back of a plaid, well-worn couch. Dozens of framed photos lined the walls, most of them black and white.

“I’m very sorry about your wife,” Lou said.

Chester nodded, took a deep breath, and bit his lower lip.

“I know that other people have been by,” Lou continued. He decided to go right to the heart of the matter. “I wanted to ask you flat-out why a professional gunman would come into your home to shoot your wife.”

“I don’t know,” Chester said. His voice quavered with emotion.

“Your restaurant-supply business supplied some restaurants with organized-crime connections. Do any of the restaurants you supply have any complaints with your service?”

“Never,” Chester said. “And I don’t know anything about any organized crime. Sure, I heard rumors. But I never met anyone or saw anyone I would call a mobster type.”

“What about Pasta Pronto?” Lou asked. “I understand you had new business there.”

“I recently got some of their business, that’s true. But only a piece of it. I think they were just trying me out. I hoped to get more of their business eventually.”

“Did you know Steven Vivonetto?” Lou asked.

“Yes, but not well. He was a wealthy man.”

“You know he got shot last night as well?” Lou said.

“I know. I read about it in the paper.”

“Had you received any threats lately?” Lou asked. “Any attempts at extortion? Any kind of protection racket knocking on your door?”

Chester shook his head.

“Can you think of any reason your wife and Steven Vivonetto should have been killed during the same night, possibly by the same person?”

“No,” Chester said. “I can’t think of any reason why anyone would have wanted to kill Janice. Everyone loved Janice. She was the warmest, nicest person in the world. And on top of that, she was ill.”

“What was wrong with her?” Lou asked.

“Cancer. Unfortunately it had spread before they found it. She never liked to go to the doctor. If only she’d gone sooner, they might have been able to do more. As it was, she only had chemotherapy. She seemed okay for a while, but then she got this awful rash on her face. Herpes zoster they call it. It even got into one of her eyes and blinded it so that she needed to have an operation.”