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phone messages,” I said, again stating the obvious.
    “You reckon?” Badger sneered.
    “Isn’t that illegal?” I asked.
    “The point is the fat man left seven messages for his boyfriend, probably after he was dead,” Badger said.
    “Husband.”
    “Pardon?”
    “Husband. Aubrey and Neil were married,” I told him.
    “No such thing,” Badger laughed.
    “There is according to New York State. I thought we were supposed to be accurate?”
    “I meant there is no such thing in the pages of the
New York Mail
,” he explained.
    “Okay, but I don’t think he did it.”
    “Don’t be a silly cunt. He’s under arrest. I have all the messages, some quite naughty, what he’s going to do to Neil when they make up. See if you can get your sources to say this is Aubrey’s pathetic ploy to fool cops and set up a phony alibi. It’s a solid follow.”
    “I don’t have any sources,” I replied, truthfully. “I just blundered in. I met a couple of guys up there but they may never talk to me again.”
    “You had better hope they do.”
    “Why?”
    He looked at me with bemused pity, like he was talking to the world’s dumbest bastard.
    “I assume in these hard economic times you would like to continue working here?”
    “Sure,” I said, taking the three steps toward the door. “Nice to be appreciated. I also want a raise. Mate.”
    This time he blinked. I got up and walked to the door.
    “Where the fuck are you going?”
    “To the Greek joint. Someone stole my souvlaki. I’m hungry, mate.”
    In the elevator I changed my mind and went back uptown.

10.
    Bistro du Bois was a converted storefront on Madison Avenue near 91st Street. The front was dark cherry wood, cut glass and shiny brass fittings. An A-frame sandwich board on the sidewalk outside said it offered “French Provincial Fusion Cuisine served dim sum style.” Whatever that was, it wasn’t cheap. A mesquite-grilled, truffle-infused cheeseburger special cost forty-two bucks.
    Inside, it was warmly dark, with indirect honey lighting around the walls and ceiling. Waiters and waitresses in black pants and white shirts hurried among islands of white tablecloths with white plates piled high, offering them to seated customers. I realized that dim sum was like in some Chinese restaurants, where they brought you different dishes and you picked without ordering.
    On the right was a small bar with more brass and a huge mirror along the wall. Set into the rear wall was a stainless-steel counter with piles of plates on one side under bright lights. The counter was flanked with walls of glass, behind which chefs in kitchen whites chopped, sliced, boiled, sautéed and argued. Some of the cooks were laughing and had champagne glasses. One of the guys celebrating was the tattooed guy from the video. The one who had glared silently at Aubrey. I walked to the bar and nodded to a female bartender, an attractive young thing with a name badge that read HEATHER , also in a white top and black pants, but tighter than the waitresses’.
    “Table, sir?”
    “No, thanks. You the boss?”
    “Not me. He’s in the back. What’s this about?”
    “The homicide.”
    “Oh yeah, some of your guys just left. Terrible. I’m Heather. This way, please.”
    She led me toward the glass wall and into the bright kitchen. In the kitchen she brought me to the carousing guy with the tattoos.
    “He’s here about the murder.”
    The head chef turned to me, a wide grin on his face. “The other cops told me that pig Aubrey was under arrest for murder. Please tell me that hasn’t changed,” he said in a voice thick with drink.
    “It hasn’t. He’s in jail.”
    They all cheered and poured more bubbly.
    “Thank God,” he said, shaking my hand. “I’m the exec chef and owner. Maurice Verre-Montaigne.”
    “Sounds French. I’m Shepherd.”
    “Actually it’s Murray Glassberg from the Bronx, but hey, French restaurant, French name, right?”
    “And the best authentic Puerto Rican