McNeal snapped out of his thoughts and looked around. A stunning blonde woman wearing a tight black dress approached. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”
“Jack McNeal, right? Don’t say you don’t recognize me.”
McNeal turned red, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I’m not good with names.”
The woman offered a manicured hand, bright-red nail polish. “Sylvia Walsh.”
The name didn’t mean anything to him. “Sylvia Walsh?”
“We went in Catholic school together. Staten Island? I was only there for a few weeks. But I remember you.”
McNeal sensed something was wrong. He shook her hand. “I’m sorry, but I can’t seem to place you. I’m pretty good with faces.”
“Well, no matter. I remember you. You’ve barely changed at all. Mind if I sit down?”
McNeal squirmed, uncomfortable. He wanted to be alone. But it seemed rude to say he didn’t want her to sit beside him. “Sure, please.”
Sylvia slid into the stool next to him, her thigh brushing against his. “I can’t believe it’s you. I heard you had joined the force.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, I bumped into a girl you dated at the time. Shirley O’Connell?”
McNeal didn’t want to engage in small talk, or any kind of talk, for that matter. “Shirley? That’s a blast from the past. How is she?”
“She’s good. She’s still working on Staten Island.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Why are you in Washington?”
“I’m in town for a conference.”
“What kind of conference?”
“Lingerie. I run a shop in Jersey City.”
McNeal smiled. “Is there much demand for sexy lingerie in Jersey City?”
“You’d be amazed. So, what brings you to town? I can’t believe I just bumped into you after all these years.”
“This and that.”
“Tell me about the NYPD.”
“I don’t talk about my job, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure, I understand. I see you’re married.”
McNeal looked at his wedding ring. “I was married.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. That was insensitive.”
“You couldn’t have known. My wife died recently. Very sudden.”
“Oh my God, and here’s me, blabbering on. I’m so sorry to hear that, Jack.” She reached out and held his hand, squeezing it softly. “I know what it’s like.”
“To lose a spouse?”
Sylvia nodded. “Husband knocked down and killed by a careless driver in the Village. He was leaving the Blue Note jazz club just after one in the morning.”
“I live on that same street.”
McNeal sensed something was off. He questioned what the odds were. He had bumped into a girl who claimed she had gone to the same school. And her husband was knocked down and killed on the street where he lived.
“Are you kidding me?” she scoffed.
“Scout’s honor.”
“So, there was an Uber driver from Romania or Rwanda, or something. He was on his cell phone at the time. Ran into my husband. Dead on arrival.”
“That’s tough. I’m sorry.”
“It was a couple years back, but the pain is always there. I know that better than anyone.”
McNeal felt it in his bones. He could tell she was playing him. He wondered if she was a grifter. He imagined she made a lot of money picking up men in bars. But if she was a pickup artist, how did she know so much about him? Something was definitely off. No doubt about it. She hadn’t gone to his school. He would remember her.
As the evening wore on, he played along with her. She was good company. They enjoyed a few drinks, and conversation was easy. Maybe too easy. She was a Yankees season ticket holder. She liked the President. She was thinking about relocating to Nevada for the weather and low taxes. Her easy manner grated on McNeal. He tried to figure it all out as they chatted.
“Look, I’ve got an early start tomorrow,” McNeal said. “I’ve really got to call it a night.”
“You wanna join me? I’ve got a nice room. No ties. No obligations. Just a couple of New Yorkers with a few hours to kill.”
McNeal’s mind was suddenly racing. His senses were switched on. He definitely couldn’t remember who she was from back in school. But she seemed to know a hell of a lot about him. Her story didn’t add up. So, why had she approached him? Had someone sent her? “I don’t want to impose.”