He nodded.
“It’s just that, my mother…” Boy, this was hard. “She’s from, well, I guess I’ll just spit it out. She’s a Gypsy. And I’m afraid that might have something to do with this murder.”
“What?” he said. “How could it?”
“The knife, in Neville’s throat…” I whispered. “I kind of recognized it as one of theirs.”
“Holy crap.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Listen, I haven’t had anything to do with my mother or her family for a very long time, so I hope it’s not true, but I’m freaking out about it, you know? And I don’t know if I should tell anyone or just wait and see what happens. What do you think?”
“Geez, that’s a hard one,” he said. “If you tell the cops you recognize the knife, you’re putting yourself right into it.”
I nodded.
“But if you don’t say anything, then they won’t follow a possible lead…which might take them straight to your mother’s doorstep. Which is where, exactly?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Like I said, I haven’t spoken to her in years. She’s in Europe, but that’s a pretty big continent and I have no way to narrow it down to a particular country.”
“I think you should keep your mouth shut. Just answer the questions about your role in things, and let the cops do their jobs. Maybe they’ll trace the knife to her, maybe not—but it’s not your place to send them on that path,” he said.
“No?” I asked.
“No,” he said. He paused for a second, looking me over. “Wow, so you’re a Gypsy, then.”
“Don’t call me that, please,” I said, sitting back in my seat.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean it as an insult, it’s exotic.”
“I don’t want to be exotic, I just want to be a regular person,” I said. “Please, do me a favor and forget I ever told you.”
“Okay, but tell me one thing: can you read fortunes? Like, can you read my palm?” he asked, thrusting his hand across the table between us.
“No,” I said. “Maybe someday, I’ll look at the cards for you, but not in a public place, okay?”
He rubbed his hands together. “Lovely! I can’t wait. But now I really have to get going,” he said. “Don’t worry, kiddo, your secrets are always safe with me. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow, all right? Try to stay out of jail in the meantime.”
We hugged and I headed via the back entrance to my building to the basement garage where I retrieved my Mini Cooper and slowly made my way through the crowded Greenwich Village streets towards the Holland Tunnel. When I was sitting in line on Seventh Avenue waiting for the traffic light to change and cars to move into the tunnel entrance, I saw a flashing red light coming up in my rear view mirror. There were cars on all four sides of me, and so I had nowhere to move out of the way.
“Pull over, Miss,” a voice instructed. “You, in the red Mini, pull to the right. Yes, you.”
At the green, the car next to me moved ahead and I signaled right. I stopped at the curb and the cruiser pulled in behind me. In short order, two officers approached, one on either side of the little car. I turned down the radio and pulled out my license, holding it out the window for the large policeman to read.
“Registration, Miss,” he said. I pulled the plastic envelope out of the glove compartment and handed it to him, noting that the other cop was walking around, looking in all the windows and assessing my belongings.
“Turn off the car and put the keys on the passenger seat, please,” he said. “I’ll be right back.” He walked away but the other officer, whom I now identified as female, stayed next to the car, her hand resting on her weapon. I reached for my cell phone.
She tapped on the window. “No calls right now. Just sit tight,” she said.
I dropped the phone back in my bag and moved the rear view mirror until I could see the other cop talking on the phone in his black and white. He was nodding; then he got out, motioned to his partner and filled her in. I took the opportunity to dial my own home phone number and waited for the answering machine to engage, then activated the speaker phone.
“Miss.”
The officer surprised me by appearing at my window suddenly. I secured the phone close to my thigh.
“Yes?”
“Detective Friday has instructed me to ask you to kindly remain in Manhattan until the investigation into Mr. Carstairs’ murder has been concluded.”
“Excuse me? Am I under arrest or something?” I asked.
“No, ma’am, it’s just a request.”
“So you aren’t going to take me in or anything?” I waited while he shook his head and handed my documents back. “And you can’t stop me from taking the tunnel to New Jersey to visit my father, can you?”
“Technically, no, we have no power to prevent you from leaving the jurisdiction, Miss, but Detective Friday is requesting that you remain in Manhattan for the time being, if you would be so kind.”
“Tell me, officer, am I a suspect? A ‘person of interest’ in this crime?”
“I have no idea, ma’am, I was just told to keep eyes on you and detain you if you made any attempt to leave the city.”
“Can I have the phone number of this Detective Friday, so I can speak with him directly?” I asked.
He turned away, spoke into his phone, and then jotted a number onto a card and handed it to me.
“Here you are. You can reach him at this number any time.”
“Thank you.” I reached for the keys and started the car. Both officers were still crowding my windows. “Can I do anything else for you?”
“I, um, aren’t you going to call him?” he asked.
“Not right now,” I said. “Please step away.”
“One moment.” He turned away again, but now I could hear him clearly speaking to the detective. “Do you want us to search the vehicle? Uh-huh… I don’t know...I gave her the number. ..Uh-huh…Should we follow her? Yes, sir. Roger that.”
He signaled the other cop. “Okay, thanks for your time, Miss.” They walked back to the cruiser.
Damn, I thought. Are they going to follow me to Princeton? This is ludicrous. Besides, that guy should decide if I’m a Ma’am or a Miss. Talk about bad form.
I hung up the phone and speed-dialed my father, then quickly filled him in on the situation. “So, should I still come down, or do you think you should come up here?”
“I’ll get the train,” he said. “When I know what time I’ll be in the City, I’ll send you a text. We can go somewhere extravagant for dinner. Don’t worry, we’ll get this all straightened out.”
“Okay, Dad,” I said.
“And I called your Uncle Phil for legal advice,” he said. “I’ll see you soon.”
He hung up before I could object to the Uncle Phil call. Oh boy.
It was almost 4:30, and I had no idea how I was going to get out of this lane of traffic without going through the Holland Tunnel and coming back. If it weren’t for the fact that it would cost me twelve bucks, I’d do it just to tick off the cops. Hmmm. Instead, I got out of the car and approached the officers sitting in the cruiser behind me. I knocked on the window.
“Excuse me, but could you possibly create a path for me to get out of here without going