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he said. The bowl was just a couple of feet away, and he could easily have picked it up himself, but he wanted her to pass it. It was a technique he had used many times when questioning recalcitrant people: getting her to cooperate in such a small way might subconsciously lower her resistance to his questions.
    Eugenia complied.
    He leaned forward. “I’m sorry to have to ask about this, but we really could use your help. Do you have any idea why someone would have done this to your husband?”
    She shook her head, but he thought he noticed a slight hesitation. He could have been wrong, but he had spent a long career honing his interview skills—“Do you know why Daniel was in Coney Island that night?” Though the two neighborhoods were right next to each other, he knew that residents of Brighton Beach tended to stay close to home, among others who spoke their language.
    Eugenia shook her head.
    “The shooting happened late—did he say anything about where he was going?”
    She shrugged. “He sayed he must have meeting with business client.”
    “Do you know who it was?”
    She shook her head.
    “He stayed out late?”
    She nodded. “This is not unusual. You know: men, drinking …”
    He thought for a moment. “Was there anybody at work he was having problems with?” In the hospital, Daniel had mentioned his import-export business. As it turned out, the man had not imported knickknacks at all, but something quite different: fish. The business had sounded mundane until Daniel explained that he wasn’t talking fish sticks; he dealt mostly in sushi-grade product. He boasted that his company was becoming involved in the new global markets. Black cod caught off the U.S. West Coast might end up in Tokyo, he’d said. Pollack served as fish-and-chips might come from the Bering Sea. He said a single high-quality bluefin tuna could weigh six hundred pounds and cost tens of thousands of dollars, making it the most valuable fish in the world.
    Now Jack thought about all that money. And he thought about the crude, macho world where the fish were sold: the Fulton Street market, next to Manhattan’s South Street Seaport. The place had long been notorious for Mafia involvement. A D.A. task force had supposedly driven the mob away, but he wondered how complete the eradication had been. …
    He leaned toward Eugenia. “Was Daniel having any trouble with competitors?”
    Her face remained opaque. “Dany does not tell to me his business.”
    He sighed. “We’re trying to help you, Mrs. Lelo. It would be great if you could help us too. Any little thing might be useful—a phone call or letter that might have upset your husband, somebody he might have mentioned …”
    She bowed her head; it took Jack a moment to realize that she was crying. All of a sudden she didn’t look so tough. “What you want from me? My husband is dead.” She curled up, sobbing.
    Jack considered putting an arm around her, but didn’t think she would accept any comfort from him. After a moment, he stood up. “I’m going to go now. I’m very sorry about your loss.” He pulled out his wallet and handed her his card. “If you think of anything that might be useful, please call me. At any time.” He started to leave but turned back to the young widow. “I want you to know that I’ll do everything in my power to catch whoever did this to your husband. That’s a promise.”
    OUT ON THE STREET , he called Linda Vargas.
    “The wife said that just before the murder, Lelo was having a meeting or drinks with some business client. Did you find the guy?”
    “Yeah,” she said. “Witnesses saw them having what looked like a very friendly drink in a sports bar in Coney Island, and then Lelo left, alone. The client stayed in the bar for a couple of hours after he left. He said they had just met for the first time that evening.”
    Jack frowned. “Okay, thanks.”
    As he walked back to his car, he wasn’t thinking about this apparently innocuous