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Wetzon,” Rona said. “You’re walking on my heels.” She bent to slip her heel back into her jogging shoe, and Wetzon saw a purplish bruise on her leg between her white sock and her pantleg.
    “You want to hazard a guess about cause?” Ferrante asked the assistant M.E.
    Cocking her ear, Wetzon stayed put, letting Rona go on up the stairs.
    “Sure. I can give you a guess, but again, don’t hold me to it. I’d say he had quite an earache.”
    An earache?
    “An earache?” Ferrante gave voice to Wetzon’s thought.
    “Yes. Caused by a small-caliber gun pressed to the ear. A .32, I’d say.”
    “I thought you were in such a rush to leave, Wetzon,” Rona proclaimed from the top of the stairs. “I’m going to make a phone call.” She disappeared from Wetzon’s view.
    Wetzon hung around for a few minutes at the foot of the steps, but heard nothing further. She found Rona in the small waiting room off the lobby talking to Detective Martens.
    “It was a legal separation. I’ve said only two words to him in the last four months. ‘Drop dead.’ How obliging of him. Megan, my little girl, is eight months old and doesn’t even know she has— had— a father.” Seeing Wetzon, Rona waved a hand in her direction. “Ask Wetzon. She knows what I’ve been through. The shit refused to pay support for his only child.”
    Martens was listening politely and making notes in his notebook. “When did you see your husband last, Mrs. Middleton?”
    Rona shrugged.
    “She’s tired and a bit distraught, Detective,” Wetzon offered, trying to keep Rona from saying too much.
    “I’m nothing of the kind, Wetzon. This is exhilarating. When did I see the turd last? I don’t remember. It’s been months, I’m sure.”
    “And this morning? Where were you between, say, between five and nine?”
    “You have to be kidding,” Rona exploded.
    Wetzon raised her eyes heavenward. Thank you, God.
    “You think I did it? Oh, puh-leeze. Do you believe this, Wetzon?”
    “It’s procedure, Rona. Just confirm where you were and then we can go. Right, Detective?”
    Martens nodded. “For now.” He waited, pen poised, for Rona’s statement of her whereabouts.
    “Okay, okay, well, let’s see. I woke up at five as I always do, showered, dressed. Then Megan and her nanny and I had breakfast together, as we do every morning. I usually leave for the office around seven, and I’m in by seven-thirty. I thought he was mugged?”
    “This is just routine, ma’am. We’ll know more after the autopsy.”
    “Ugh. I don’t want to hear any more. Have you had dinner, Wetzon?” Rona took her arm.
    Ringo was beating a solo in Wetzon’s head, and she was starving. She shook her head slowly.
    “Good. Let’s go get something to eat. I’m famished.” Rona looked down at her running costume. “Someplace informal.”
    “I think I should go home,” Wetzon said, but her stomach reminded her there was nothing in her fridge except nicoise olives and half a tomato. Without Silvestri around, she forgot about having food in the apartment. She certainly was not about to cook a meal for one, so when she had dinner at home, she dined splendidly on bagels with a choice of topping. But she didn’t even have a bagel in the freezer.
    “I know—” They were on the street, having declined Martens’s offer of a lift. “Let’s go to the Carnegie.”
    “The Carnegie.” Wetzon smiled. Why not? She hadn’t been there in ages.
    There was a short line in front of the Carnegie Deli on Seventh Avenue and Fifty-fifth Street, and it would get longer after the theaters let out, but now it was moving fast. The deli counter was jumping; waiters were pushing, demanding attention, while customers waiting for take-out orders grew restless. The rest of the restaurant was moderately crowded, but the noise might have been coming from a football stadium. It was bedlam. Everyone was shouting.
    They were led to a table in the rear.
    “Look who’s here,” the man at the