Free Trail of Blood by S. J. Rozan

bars.”
    “With which you’re quite familiar, I’m sure.”
    “Legends?”
    “Bars. Did you ever meet anyone who saw it?”
    “Not that I recall. Just guys whose buddies, captains, and pawnbrokers had. The drunker guys were, the more spectacular they claimed it was.”
    “By which you mean the Shanghai Moon.”
    “Don’t tell me,” he said as we issued onto Forty-seventh Street, “that besides taking up the use of four-letter words, you’ve developed a dirty mind.”
    “Without you around someone had to provide the smut.” I sagged against the building, dismayed at the rush hour crowds. “God, I’m tired. I feel like my tank’s empty.”
    “You’ve had a hard day.”
    “No kidding.”
    “You want a cup of tea?”
    “Can I go home to bed?”
    “Sure.”
    “No, I can’t.”
    We started along the block, looking for a place to try the tea option. We didn’t make it to the corner before my phone rang. I flipped it open and answered, sticking my finger in my other ear to hear better. What I heard was “Lydia? This is Alice Fairchild.”
    “Alice!” I practically yelped. “Where are you? Are you all right?”
    “Yes, of course.” She sounded surprised at the question. “Lydia, what’s happened? I’ve been in meetings, and I just got your messages. A police detective has been trying to reach me, too. Have they found Wong Pan? And the jewelry?”
    “Oh,” I said. “No, I’m afraid not. Alice, there’s some very bad news. I’m sorry, but . . . Alice, Joel’s dead.”
    I heard her quick breath. “What? Oh, my God! What happened?”
    “Someone shot him. At his office, this morning.”
    “ Shot him?” Her voice rose a few notes. “This morning? But I just spoke to him this morning. Who? What happened?”
    “They don’t know. That’s why the police want to talk to you.”
    “To me?” A pause. “They can’t be thinking this has anything to do with the jewelry?”
    “They don’t know.”
    “But how? I don’t see—Had Joel located it?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Had he found Wong Pan?”
    “I don’t know, Alice. He called me, but he just said to come up. I don’t know why.”
    “Oh, my God. What if he’d found Wong Pan, and Wong Pan—Yes, of course I’ll talk to the police, if it would help. I’ll call that detective right away. Will you come?”
    “To see Mulgrew?” The idea did not fill me with delight.
    “You might remember details I’ve forgotten. Of our discussion. Something that might have sent Joel off in one direction or another.”
    I had to admit it was a good idea.
    “I’m almost back at the Waldorf,” she said. “I’ll call him now.”
    “I’m nearby. I’ll meet you there.”
    I relayed this conversation to Bill, who’d steered me into a notch in a facade and planted himself between me and the surging crowds. We headed toward the Waldorf. Our steps fell into rhythm, as they often did; as it often did, that surprised me, Bill being thirteen inches taller than I am. “Hey, by the way,” I said, as we neared the hotel’s doors. “Thanks.”
    “For what?”
    “Showing up.”
    For a moment, he didn’t speak. Then, “I was afraid it was too little, too late.”
    “Almost. Not quite.”
    I got no smile this time from the Waldorf’s doorman, who probably thought I shouldn’t be running around in wrinkled linen when I had that nice silk suit. Or maybe he didn’t like the looks of Bill. Bill can clean up well, but in general he’s not a Waldorf kind of guy. Nevertheless, a call from the desk to Alice’s room got us an invitation up to a floor where the corridor was plushly carpeted and the walls layered in molding. I clinked a little brass knocker; the door opened right away.
    “Oh, Lydia!” Alice pressed my hands in quick sympathy. “This is so terrible. I’m so sorry about Joel.”
    “Thank you. Alice, this is a colleague of mine, Bill Smith. Bill, Alice Fairchild.”
    They shook hands. Alice asked Bill, “Did you know