Free Cold Open, A Sam North Mystery by Greg Clarkin

said.
    I turned and walked out, and was on the sidewalk of Fifth Avenue when I heard him again.
    “It’s extremely rude to walk away from someone like that.”
    I turned around, and he was in my face. “I wasn’t done talking to you,” he said.
    We were standing in the middle of the sidewalk.
    “Listen,” I said, “I don’t know who you are or what you’re after, but—”
    “I’m not after anything,” he said.
    “Good, then leave me alone.”
    “I will when you stop bothering people,” he said.
    “It’s what I do for a living,” I said.
    “Maybe you need to go back to being the morning-feature guy, you know? Stop with the investigative stuff.”
    “Thanks for the career advice,” I said.
    I turned to leave, and as I did I felt his hand on my arm, right at the bicep.
    “You’re in way over your head with this thing, my friend,” he said.
    “I’ll take my chances,” I said.
    He tightened his grip on my arm.
    “This will be the first, and only time, I’m this gentle,” he said.

Chapter Fifteen
     
     
    “What was that supposed to be about?” I asked.
    “I think it was about man’s struggle for recognition,” Liz said. “You know, the battle to make your way in the world and persevere in the face of the sometimes daunting odds the world presents. And really about developing and listening to your inner voice.”
    We were walking up the steps out of the basement of what at one time was a Polish community center down on Avenue A in the East Village. Today a sign identified the building as the “New Filmmakers Institute.” A smaller sign was below that one. “Dedicated to the Development and Enrichment of the Next Generation of Film Artists.”
    The girlfriend of one of Liz’s banker colleagues was a film artist and had just premiered her independent film, Taxi Man . Sitting through it felt more like punishment than anything else.
    “I thought it was about a guy trying to hail a cab,” I said as we reached the front doors and stepped outside.
    “It may have been,” she said.
    “I know it was,” I said. “All fifty-seven minutes of it.”
    “But I think there was something deeper there,” Liz said. “Didn’t you see the looks he got from people passing by?” she said.
    “Maybe he should have shaved and cleaned himself up.”
    “I think you missed the broader point,” she said.
    “I probably did. What about her uncle who put up the twenty-three Gs to make it?” I asked. “You think he got the broader point?”
    We walked over to First Avenue and crossed Ninth Street. It was after ten and the sidewalks were as crowded as Midtown at noon.
    “After movie-drink?” I asked.
    “You don’t think you’re getting off that easy, do you?” she asked.
    “You mean we have to talk more about Taxi Man ?”
    “I was thinking of another film. The one where the guy goes into the coffee shop and gets threatened,” she said.
    “I’d rather discuss Taxi Man . I now see how his inability to get a cab was part of a larger societal issue.”
    “Nice try.”
    “What if I said I identify with the guy in Taxi Man ?”
    “Nope. We need to talk,” she said.
    “You first.”
    “This is new for me,” Liz said. “Dating someone who’s in danger.”
    “This is a little on the new side for me too. Been years since I had a story that pissed off someone enough to come after me.”
    “And you don’t have any idea who this guy was?”
    “None. And he didn’t give any clues.”
    “But he knows what you’ve been doing?”
    “Seemed to, or at least that was the impression he wanted to give.”
    “So he’s been following you?”
    “Maybe. Maybe not,” I said. “He could have heard from someone that I was asking questions about Jack’s death.”
    “And someone would only care if …”
    “If there was something they didn’t want me to find out.”
    We reached the corner of Fourteenth at First Avenue and waited for traffic to clear. I wrapped my arm around Liz’s waist and pulled