“The Brown something or other. Cow? Sheep? I’m not sure. I never go in there. It looks—shady.”

“Address?”

“Let me see, I get on the subway at 167th Street and Jerome Avenue, and the Brown whatever it is is two blocks downtown from the entrance, that would be at 165th Street, on the east side of Jerome Avenue. Unless it’s two blocks uptown—forgive me, I’m usually much more together than this—but recent events—”

“I know,” Ritchie said. “I understand. Look, we’ll get a cab. Probably take half an hour to get to you in the Bronx. Is that OK?”

“Certainly, Mr. Castleman. It’s the least I owe you. Though I’m not sure the place is entirely savory—”

“How bad can a coffee shop be?” Grelich broke in. “We’ll be there.”

Grelich hung up the phone.

“I was going to ask for her home address and telephone number,” Ritchie said.

“Don’t complicate matters, she’ll be there.”

The taxi ride was a trip in itself, and not without its own share of humor and pathos. But it doesn’t bear on our story, so we skip it, mentioning only that they found the Brune Vache on 166th Street and Jerome Avenue, and left a Cuban taxi driver wondering why a well-dressed guy like Ritchie was going to a place that was known to serve the worst coffee in the five boroughs. Must be Mafia-related, the driver decided.

Rachel Christiansen was inside, at a table near the door, a cup of tea in front of her. The place was dark, and nearly empty. Rachel was an over-weight, sweet-faced woman in her late twenties. Her face was framed in fluffy light brown hair. She stood up when Castleman walked in.

“Mr. Castleman? I am Rachel Christiansen. I am so sorry for what happened. Believe me, I had no idea... “

“What happened?” Ritchie asked.

“Well, I can only guess. It might be something else entirely.”

“Just tell me what you think.”

“Well, as I said, I really don’t know. But Nathan was very conflicted about the work he had been hired to do. Or would be doing. You were his first subject. But the very idea of taking a human life—even with the consent of the owner of that life—seemed to him sacrilegious.”