Free Three-Day Town by Margaret Maron

supper, then stood to go. “Sorry to have kept you unnecessarily.” “No problem,” Dwight said easily.
    We walked out into the deserted hall with him and rang for the elevator. The doors to the other two apartments were closed and there was a tucked-in-for-the-night feel. The portable coat racks were still there but the hangers were empty except for a gaudy Hawaiian shirt and a fake orchid lei.
    “Looks like someone’s gone off with my overcoat and scarf,” Elliott said. “Unless Luna’s got it.” He checked his watch again. “A little late to ask her tonight, I guess.” The elevator door slid back and a beefy white-haired man with a droopy white mustache opened the cage door.
    “You’ll freeze out there without a warmer coat,” I said.
    “No. I’ll hop in a cab and I’ll be fine.”
    “I don’t think so,” said the night man, whose name, according to his brass tag, was Jani. “The snow’s over a foot deep and still coming down. The crosstown streets are pretty well blocked and not much is moving on Broadway. The ambulance barely made it to the door, and that was a good forty minutes ago.” “Ambulance?” asked Dwight.
    “Phil Lundigren’s wife flipped out when she heard about Phil and they had to call an ambulance for her.” Elliott turned back to us. “I don’t suppose you have an extra coat I could borrow? Or a heavy sweater so I can foot it down to the subway?” All four of us looked down at his shoes. Leather hiking shoes, not boots, and barely ankle high.
    Dwight gave me an inquiring glance and I nodded.
    “Looks like you’d better stay here tonight,” he said.
    “Here?” Elliott looked around the hallway in puzzlement.
    “With us,” I told him. “You can’t go out in this weather dressed like that. Not when we have an extra bedroom.” “Oh, but I couldn’t,” he protested.
    “It’s pretty rough out there, sir,” said the night man.
    “Then I’ll try the hotel down the block.”
    “Full, sir. You’re not the only one stranded. I heard one of Luna’s party guests say they got the last room.” Elliott turned back to us and stretched his hands out in surrender. “If you’re sure you don’t mind?” “Of course we don’t mind,” I told him.
    While Dwight put away the food and Elliott helpfully stacked the dishwasher, I pulled extra towels from the linen closet in the hall and made sure there were clean sheets on the bed in the guestroom.
    We were all too tired for further socializing, and when I handed Elliott a robe that Rob had left in the owner’s closet, I said, “Sleep as late as you can. I certainly plan to.” Yawning, Dwight said, “I went ahead and filled the coffeemaker. If you’re up first, all you have to do is switch it on.” “Thanks again,” Elliott said as we headed for our own room. “I’ve heard about Southern hospitality all my life, but I never expected to find it in the middle of Manhattan.”

CHAPTER
    7
It is generally supposed that the police of a city have but one duty to perform, namely to arrest law-breakers; but the New York police have other things than that on their schedule.
— The New New York , 1909
    S IGRID H ARALD —S UNDAY MORNING
    W hen Sigrid joined him in the kitchen of 42½ Hawker Street on the edge of Greenwich Village, Roman Tramegra said, “Oh, good! I was about to tiptoe down the hall to see if you were awake yet. Have you seen the snowdrifts? A perfect winter morning for a hearty breakfast.”
    Her housemate flourished his whisk at her and, in a deep voice that was a mixture of cinema English and educated Midwest, said, “What will it be, my dear? Hash browns, quiche, omelets, or waffles?”
    Now in his early fifties, Roman fell somewhere between friend and surrogate uncle. He was an overly adventurous chef and his culinary experiments were often inedible, but breakfast was usually safe.
    “An omelet would be good. Just cheese, though.”
    “Only cheese? Not a few jalapeño peppers or chopped shallots and