The Eighth Day

Chapter 2

The Café del Mar, with its overpriced fare and darkened atmosphere, was considered one of the finest restaurants in Manhattan. In 1896, a family of Spanish immigrants had opened it in a two-story brick building on Forty-Sixth Street. The first story consisted of the original kitchen, updated with extravagant top-of-the-line equipment, and a dining area with hardwood floors and chandeliers that hung from a vaulted ceiling. The second story, once used as living quarters, now served as a bar and nightclub.

A crowd of curious looky-loos had gathered outside the Café del Mar, tempered by the police officers between them and the restaurant. The bordering sidewalk and street glowed a dim yellow with diagonal black lines, cordoning the building off from the city. Red and white lights whirled on police cars, and cameramen and reporters emerged from news vans and pushed their way through the crowd to capture the day's headline.

Contrasting with the hum of excitement outside, solemnity hushed the interior of the restaurant. Several groups of patrons remained at their tables, waiting for the investigators to finish with their questions. Some sat wringing their hands and mopping at sweaty brows, as if they themselves had committed murder. Others glowered, their expressions clearly stating they were important people with important things to do. Here, too, sat the chefs of the Café del Mar, aprons stained with egg spatter, grease, and flakes of dried batter, eyes glazed by the memory of death that danced in their heads. One still held a crusty spatula, clutching it in his hands like a condemned man might clutch a crucifix.

Shawn sat at the same table where he'd eaten breakfast, sipping coffee no longer even warm. He stared out the window, seeing nothing, his thoughts a blur of questions uninterrupted by a single answer.

A polite cough jerked him from his ruminations. Shawn wrenched his gaze from the window and turned to a man dressed in a dark-brown suit and tie. Streaks of gray had invaded his once black hair, and his deeply lined face had about the same consistency as sandpaper.

"May I have a seat?" he asked, and his voice was sandpaper as well. He slid into the chair on the opposite side of the table before Shawn could respond. "Name's Detective Sam Harrington."

"Shawn Jaffe."

"How're you holding up?"

He tried on a smile, but it didn't fit. "Okay, I guess."

An app for the New York Times was open on the digital tabletop, and the detective gestured toward it with a nod of his chin. "The classifieds, huh?"

Shawn frowned at it. "I guess. I don't remember."

Harrington produced a notepad and ballpoint pen from a pocket inside his jacket. Shawn raised his eyebrows. Talk about old school. He'd thought ink and paper had gone the way of the polar bear.

The detective opened the pad with a flick of his wrist and thumbed the plunger on the pen. "Looking for anything in particular?" he asked. An innocent enough question under other circumstances, but to Shawn it sounded like an accusation.

"Not me," Shawn said. He tapped the screen, and the app disappeared. "It was open when I got here."

The detective studied his face for a moment, then shrugged. "I'm told the victim spoke with you before he was killed. Mind if I ask you a few questions?"

Shawn remembered the stranger's warning. They're watching you. But who were "they," and who could he trust? The police? Aloud, he said, "Not at all. Fire away."

"Got an ID on you?"

"Sure." Shawn brought up his driver's license on his smartphone. "Ready?" he asked, expecting to transfer the information through a wireless sync.