Shit. She almost went back. But she was so late already. But what if he was trying to reach her, and couldn’t? Or what if Ali needed to reach her?
Well, worst case, she could always borrow his cellphone. And she was so close already.
But when she got there, she didn’t see him. The hostess confirmed that yes, they did have a reservation for two under David Teller, and offered to seat her.
She waited a half hour. Had he come and gone already? But no, the hostess would have told her that. Besides, she was late, but not that late. She would have waited for him at least that long. In fact, she just had, and then some.
Maybe he’d been trying to call her, or to text. She could have borrowed a phone and tried him, but she didn’t remember the number. And anyway, wouldn’t that look desperate?
Well, it was less than a ten-minute walk. She could just go back, check her phone, and decide at that point. She wished she hadn’t called Ali. She could have walked Frodo herself. They could have taken a long one.
She came in through the back of the building and let herself into her apartment. Ordinarily, Frodo, hearing the key in the lock, would be waiting at the door. But not this time. The lights were on, but the apartment was silent.
“Frodo? Where are you, boy?”
No response. She felt a little uneasy. Could Ali still have been walking him? Not impossible, but . . .
The peacoat was hanging by the front door. She reached into the pocket and pulled out her phone. A text from Dave—sent just a minute after she’d run out, naturally. His plane had been delayed, but they had landed and he was on the way. He could still meet her if she wanted, or another time. She smiled, and realized she’d really been worried that he’d blown her off. But . . .
“Frodo?” she said again. He always greeted her. Ali was still out with him. That must have been it.
She saw lights flashing against the venetian blinds. She went to the window and peeked through.
There were police cars all over the street. An ambulance. People standing around at the periphery. And at the center . . . Oh, God, was that someone lying on the sidewalk?
She bolted out the door, down the stairs, and through the front entrance. Yes, someone was on the sidewalk. But there was yellow tape strung up and people in the way and she couldn’t get close enough to see.
She heard whimpering. Frodo. She turned and saw a uniformed cop, a woman, holding him.
“Frodo,” she said, running over. “Frodo, I’m here, boy.”
“Yours?” the cop said.
“Yes. Yes. Come here, boy. Oh, my God.”
The cop handed him over. Frodo whimpered and licked her cheek. She turned and looked at the person on the ground again. But there were still too many people, and shadows from the lights flashing from the patrol cars. She tried to tell herself she was wrong, it was someone else, but the clothes, and who else could have been with Frodo . . .
“Do you know her?” the cop asked.
Maya was suddenly aware she was crying. “Yes. I mean, I’m not sure. Oh, my God, what happened?”
“Detective,” the cop called out, holding up a hand. “Over here.” One of the people kneeling near the person on the sidewalk stood. He clicked off a flashlight and started over. As he ducked under the yellow tape, Maya saw a tough-looking guy with a dark goatee and a badge hanging from a lanyard. “Someone who knows the deceased,” the cop added.
“Deceased?” Maya said. “What, no, that isn’t possible . . .” She looked again. She had to fight the urge to shout at Ali to get up, this joke wasn’t funny . . .
“I’m Detective Pacquiao,” the goateed guy said. “Do you know Ms. Watkins?”