“But that isn’t really the sort of thing you want to talk about over dinner. And dinner is certainly necessary. Then there’s Matt.”
“Sir?” Matt said.
There he goes again with that “Sir” business, Amy thought. Who does he think this cop is, anyway?
“What time are you meeting McFadden and Martinez?”
“Nine o’clock, at the FOP,” Matt said.
What in the world is the Eff Oh Pee?
“I thought that was it,” Wohl said. “So what I propose is that we go to an Italian restaurant I know on Tenth Street, and have dinner. Then I could drop you at the FOP, Matt, and take Dr. Payne to the Roundhouse, and borrow an office there where we could have our talk.”
I really loathe spaghetti and meatballs; but what did I expect?
“Sir,” Matt said, “why don’t you come back here? I mean, she has her car in the garage here.”
“Well, I don’t know….”
“How would you get in if you gave us your key?” Amy asked.
“I wouldn’t give you my key,” Matt explained tolerantly. “I would leave the door to the apartment unlocked, and you use your key to get in the building.”
“Doctor?” Peter asked, politely.
“Whatever would be best,” Amy heard herself saying.
It is absolutely absurd of me to think about being alone in an apartment with a man I hardly know. This is a purely professional situation; he’s a policeman and I am a physician. I will do my professional duty, even if that entails pretending I like spaghetti and meatballs. And besides it’s important to Matt.
The tailcoated waiter in Ristorante Alfredo bowed over the table, holding out a bottle of wine on a napkin for Peter Wohl’s inspection.
“Compliments of the house, sir,” he said, speaking in a soft Italian accent. “Will this be satisfactory?”
Wohl glanced at it, then turned to Amy. “That’s fine with me. How about you, Doctor? It’s sort of an Italian Pinot Noir.”
“Fine with me,” Amy said. She watched as the waiter uncorked the bottle, showed Wohl the cork, then poured a little in his glass for him to taste.
“That’s fine, thank you,” Wohl said to the waiter, who proceeded to fill all their glasses.
“I think it will go well with the tournedos Alfredo,” the waiter said. “Thank you, sir.”
Peter Wohl had explained to both of them that the tournedos Alfredo, which he highly recommended, were sort of an Italian version of steak with a marchand de vin sauce, except there was just a touch more garlic to it.
“You must be a pretty good customer in here, Inspector,” Amy said, aware that there was more than a slight tone of bitchiness in her voice.
“I come here fairly often,” Wohl replied. “I try not to abuse it, to save it for a suitable occasion.”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, my money is no good in here,” Wohl said.
“I don’t think I understand that,” Amy said.
“The Mob owns this place,” Wohl said, matter-of-factly. “Specifically a man named Vincenzo Savarese—the license is in someone else’s name, but Savarese is behind it—and he has left word that I’m not to get a bill.”
“Excuse me,” Amy flared, “but isn’t that what they call ‘being on the take’?”
“My God, Amy!” Matt said, furiously.