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blanket still over my head, the phone rang. Once maman calmed down sufficiently to hear me out, I confessed.
    So now she knows how I spend my nights. Actually it was a relief—I was happy not to be deceiving her about it anymore.
    But as for the other huge lie I was living with, namely that I taught French part-time at NYU, I think if that venerable institution ever burned down, I’d rather assume a new identity—let her think my charred remains were buried in the rubble—than cop to the truth.
    I pulled out the telephone cord after Mom’s call. I’d leave messages for Jeff and Aubrey later in the day. Right then, all I wanted to do was sleep.
    Easier said than done. I gave up after an hour and pulled myself out of bed. I bathed and dressed and then went out in search of breakfast.
    It took a long, long time for the coffeehouse explosion to hit my nabe. But once it did, it hit with a vengeance. A couple of years ago we had only the old-fashioned Greek diners or the pricey full-service restaurants. Low end, high end. Almost nothing in the middle. I guess the Starbucks craze kicked the new trend into gear. Thank you, Seattle. There are now half a dozen civilized cafés, each with its own personality, where you can get a real espresso or latte. In a couple of them, they even let you have a cigarette.
    I grabbed both Newsday and the Daily News from the outdoor rack at the magazine store on Third Avenue and turned into the first café I came to.
    My name wasn’t exactly in 20-point type. I saw “Nanette Hayes of Manhattan” buried somewhere in paragraph 3 of the News reportage, and no mention at all of me in the other paper. I pushed my cinnamon roll aside and went back to the beginning of the story.
    True, as reported, an unknown assailant at a crowded, fashionable Upper East Side restaurant had murdered a sixty-ish black woman who made a living as a craftsperson/street vendor … “selling hand puppets.” Well, they were slightly off on that part.
    â€œRestaurant patrons interrogated at the scene were unable to give investigators a description of the gunman. Differing accounts of the incident have left police with no clear picture of who might have been responsible for the shooting.
    â€œLieutenant Frank Loveless said that no motive for the killing had surfaced. For the moment police are working under the assumption that the murder was a tragic accident and that Ida Williams was an innocent bystander,” the story concluded.
    Right again. Though the lieutenant had not used such delicate language with me. I had no memory of his using the word tragic , or innocent .
    I ordered another coffee. I was giving my poor body all kinds of mixed signals. Tired and wired at the same time. But I no longer wanted to sleep; whenever I closed my eyes now I saw that nasty hole in Ida’s forehead.
    Two shots went wild, the Bad Lieutenant had said, and the third killed the victim. Talk about rotten luck. Two bullets wind up in the wall—wild, indeed—but the final one hits Ida so squarely in the face it’s as if someone decided to see what she’d look like with a third eye.
    Well, I was making an unwarranted assumption there, wasn’t I? Who was to say that it was the third and final shot that killed Ida? Maybe it was the first.
    Maybe that wily bastard Loveless was correct. Maybe Ed Brubeck, who owned Omega, was in with some dangerous people and they decided to get even with him for welching on a debt. But those people don’t send out guys who can’t shoot straight. If Ed was the target, why didn’t the killer walk into his office and waste him? Or get him as he stepped out of his car?
    Brubeck was nowhere in sight when the mayhem began.
    Nowhere in sight. How did I know that?
    Because when I waved to Ida, I did have a couple of seconds to see who was standing nearby. Several customers. The coat check lady. Ida herself. But not Ed Brubeck. He was in his