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“Blue Italian” pattern salad bowls. (It wasn’t Madame’s best china, but it was my favorite. The homey blue scenes of Northern Italy set against the white earthenware reminded me of an especially carefree summer when I was Joy’s age.)
    “Clare, do you recall ever seeing Ms. Lathem come into the Blend with a companion?”
    “Companion?”
    “Friend or lover? Male or female?”
    For a moment, I tried to recall her visits—anything unique about them, but it was so difficult to even remember her face. “It’s difficult…we serve hundreds of people a day. I try to get to know the regulars…but when we get busy…well, you’ve seen how crazy it can get…”
    Quinn nodded.
    “I can only recall her coming during the morning rushes. Alone.”
    We ate in silence for a full minute.
    “Did she leave a note?” I asked, too curious not to. “You know, a suicide note. Explaining why…”
    “No note. No nothing,” said Quinn. “No drugs, no alcohol, no record of mental instability, or strained relationships. Everybody loved her. That’s what doesn’t sit right. There are usually some signs of problems. Issues. But my search and interviews have turned up a young woman who had everything to live for.”
    “Was it possible she didn’t kill herself? That she just…I don’t know, slipped off the platform?”
    Quinn shook his head. “The motorman said she flew right out in front of him. Flew. She didn’t drop down partially. She projected forward…and yet…”
    “What?”
    “She’d bought a bag of groceries at the Green Market. Who the hell buys groceries ten minutes before they off themselves?”
    “You think she could have been pushed?”
    Quinn’s thumb and forefinger caressed the stem of Madame’s Waterford crystal wine glass. “No witnesses. The platform’s security camera was mounted right above the woman’s head—so we’ve got no usable pictures. And the motorman claims he didn’t see anyone—but with the way that station slightly curves, and the place on the platform where the victim had been waiting, the pusher could have remained invisible behind a staircase.”
    “So you think there was a…‘pusher.’”
    “Can’t prove it.”
    I nodded, having been down this road with Quinn before. From past experience, I’d learned that New York City detectives didn’t just investigate shootings, stabbings, and stranglings, but any suspicious death or accident that appeared might result in death.
    According to Quinn, his department was routinely swamped and his superiors wanted what he called a “high case clearance” rate. They had no patience with Quinn’s marking time on cases that wouldn’t make an Assistant D.A.’s pulse race.
    Quinn explained to me that the transit police statements to the press had played the death as a suicide in the public’s eye. So any other theory Quinn might wish to introduce would now be met with a great deal of political resistance within his own department—especially a theory with little evidentiary support. Even his partner on the case wanted them to close it out as a suicide.
    After we finished our salads, I moved our bowls to the sideboard, ducked into the kitchen to retrieve the main dish, then set the platter of Chicken Francese down on the table between us.
    “It smells delicious,” he said.
    I served it up, and he began to eat.
    “Save room,” I told him. “I’ve got a killer desert.”
    Quinn closed his eyes, like he did every day when he took that first sip of my latte—but this time his mouth was chewing instead of sipping.
    “Clare,” he finally said, “this is amazing.”
    “It’s a crime how easy Chicken Francese is to make,” I told him between bites, “so if I were you, I wouldn’t be too impressed.”
    “I don’t know,” he said, opening his eyes. “If I were you, I’d be careful with your confessions to crimes around me.”
    I smiled. “And why is that?”
    He took another sip of wine, a long one, and I’d swear that