“Your old man. What do we know? I’ll tell you. We know one of two things. He either disappeared because he wanted to, and he’s got no intention of being found except on his own terms, or he was taken out. Forget the first one, it’s the less likely. That second one? Listen. Somebody bad killed your father. Someone with the poison in their blood. My advice to you is that when you take on a case, it doesn’t matter what kind it is, you keep in mind that what you’re looking to do is nail someone with the poison in their blood. Doesn’t matter if it’s only a little poison. Embezzler, guy cheating on his wife, insurance scammers, doesn’t matter. It comes from the same source as the creep who took your old man away from you. They’re cousins, all these schmucks. That’s what you go after. Every time. It’s their blood you’re sniffing for, Fritz. Poison blood. Get it off the street. Every time. You want to do right by your old man? There’s your ticket.”

When I reminded Shirley that she wasn’t allowed to smoke in the bar, she quietly cursed the mayor. She dropped the celery-green pack back into her purse.

“I noticed where the girl lived who got her throat slashed the other night,” Shirley said. “That’s little missy’s front yard, isn’t it?”

“She goes by the name of Margo.”

“I figured you knew who I was talking about.”

“The murder happened right across the street.”

“Did she know her?”

“Did Margo know her?”

“I know it’s not fashionable to know your neighbors in this city, but stranger things have happened.”

“She didn’t know her,” I said.

“If I were an associate of this Marshall Fox character, I’d be leaving on the next train. You know who did this, don’t you?”

“You do?”

“Of course I do. Not the specifics, but it was a fan. A demented fan. An obsessed fan. Someone’s trying to make it look like the original killer is still out there, like Marshall Fox is completely innocent of those two murders last year. He wants to sow the seeds of doubt in the jury’s mind so that they don’t come in with a guilty verdict. Everyone knows this is the world’s stupidest jury and they can’t make up their minds even when it’s as clear as a bell. You wait, you’ll see. Some nutcase with pictures of Marshall Fox plastered all over his walls. That’s your killer.”

“And the reason for these particular victims?”

“Friends of Fox. Like those first two. They’re just trying to go with the pattern.”

“The pattern was women with whom Fox had been involved,” I pointed out. “Zachary Riddick is a square peg.”

“Did I say the killer was brilliant? The lawyer probably just got under his skin and he decided to do Riddick in while he was at it. I’m not the police. I don’t have all the answers.”

Her drink was finished, and she wanted another one. I’d cut her off after two and then hope we’d have to wait in the cold air awhile for the elevated subway. I replenished my mug while I was at it. Cold gray Sunday would have been perfect in front of a toasty fire with little missy. My day was feeling like the booby prize.

“Except for roses and black-eyed Susans, daisies were about the only flower your father could identify. You knew that, right?”

Of course I knew that. She pointed it out to me every year. She picked up her glass and took a noisy sip.

“He was devastated about what happened to Patrick. He took the blame. Thing is, your uncle had too big a soft spot. He ran with all those crazies, but his heart wasn’t in it. Not really. He was a good boy. Harlan spotted that. You’ve never seen a man so miserable with remorse. I should have hated him. I should have ripped his eyes out. He killed my brother. Sweet Patrick.” She picked up her glass again and held it near her chin.

“I’ve been trying to be furious with your father from the day they found Patrick. What happened between us made no sense. I should be furious. And you know…I might be. I don’t care what you think, Fritz. He’s out there. Your father is alive and he’s out there and he’s letting you and me know it. He’s either stark raving mad or he’s scared half to death or he just has his reasons. Or all of the above. But one day I’m going to catch that bastard laying his little daisies on my brother’s grave. You’ve never really seen me furious. You think you have, but you haven’t. You’d better be there when it happens. Your father’s going to need you there to protect him.”

She sniffed back a tear and raised her glass. “Patrick Malone.”

I tapped her glass with my mug. “Patrick Malone.”

She stared at me as she downed her drink. Never took her eyes off me. “You look just like him, you know,” she said.

Of course I knew. She told me so every year. And she didn’t mean my uncle Patrick, either.

14

THE TUESDAY AFTER the Hamptons weekend, Robin swore to herself that she was not remaining home after work simply because she had told Marshall Fox that she had the night free. Michelle had called up suggesting that the two meet up in the Union Square area for drinks, but Robin had begged off, claiming she was tired and looking for an early night.

“It’s not Fox, is it?” Michelle said. “He hasn’t actually called you, has he?”

Michelle didn’t believe for a minute that Marshall Fox had been serious. Robin agreed with her. He’d been drinking, she reminded herself, plus God knows what else. Robin couldn’t claim to be up on all the drugs of the moment, but she had seen enough bizarre behavior during the Hamptons party to know that there had been more consumed than just the cocktails she’d spent all night circulating. She had already played over and over in her mind her encounters with Fox and determined that she’d been taken in-almost taken in-by the celebrity’s prodigious charm and his serial flirting. It’s absurd, she told herself. The man goes out with supermodels and Hollywood actresses. I was the hired help. Get a grip.

In fact, Fox hadn’t called. Not the Sunday after the party, not Monday, and not Tuesday. Of course he hadn’t. It was absurd. For all Robin knew, Fox had patched things up with Kelly Cole, and the two of them had shared a good laugh about the crazy martini-throwing incident, and that was that. Robin had stayed up and watched his show Monday night just to see-she told herself-if Fox made any mention of the event in the Hamptons. He didn’t, though he had made a joke that sounded to Robin like it might have been an oblique reference to the striking blond newswoman and the drink-throwing incident. But maybe not. Robin had caught sight of herself in the mirror on the wall next to the television set and told herself to snap out of it already.

To her regret, Robin had talked about the party at work, letting slip the fact that Marshall Fox had flirted with her and had sort of asked her out. Denise from Graphics was a huge Marshall Fox fan.

“Has he called yet?” The question came on what seemed to be a half-hourly basis. On Tuesday Denise was nearly beside herself. “Has he called? You are checking your machine, aren’t you?” Denise had even offered to check Robin’s home answering machine for her. “Look. When he does call, you do not erase that message. I’m serious. I swear, I’ll pay you to let me record it. You have to promise me. Oh my God. Marshall Fox.”

But he hadn’t called. By two o’clock, Robin had made a particular point about not calling home anymore to check her machine. At the end of the day, Denise had demanded that Robin call one more time.

“He starts taping the show at five. He might’ve called right before.”

There’d been no messages. Good, Robin told herself. That’s that.

LATER THAT NIGHT, her chin pressed hard against her pillow, Robin had panicked. What was she doing? This was insane. As she twisted her head to look over her shoulder, what her eye fell on first was the television set atop her dresser across the room. The set was muted, and Marshall Fox was signing off. He placed his hand over his heart.