So I didn’t say it now.

“If you talk to him,” I said instead, “give him my love.”

Bill nodded.

I got up and poured more tea, to give myself a chance to figure out some really smart, articulate words for what I wanted to say next, but I was lost, really. All I could come up with was exactly what I meant: “What do we do now?”

“About what?”

“Well, it was lots of fun cracking up with you, but we still haven’t gotten past the part where we haven’t spoken in months because you’re a four-letter-word. And Joel’s still dead.” I tried for matter-of-fact, but I felt my eyes mist.

“How about,” Bill said, “we put the first item on hold and work on the second?”

“Meaning what?”

“Mary said you think Joel’s murder may be related to the case you’re working, but the homicide cop who caught it doesn’t.”

“Speaking of Mary, wait until I get my hands on her.”

“That’s between you two. What I’m proposing is, if you want, I’ll work with you on this. We can follow up whatever you think needs following. If you’re right maybe we can light a fire under the cops, and if you’re wrong we’ll find that out.”

“I’m right.”

“You usually are.”

“Boy, you must be seriously feeling guilty, to say something like that.”

“You’re right about that, too. Deal?”

“Is this why you called?”

“Yes.”

“Because you thought I needed help?”

“No. Because I wanted to help you.”

And that was like the “please” when he’d first called.

Probably the sensible thing to do would be to let the cops handle Joel’s murder. I could focus on Rosalie Gilder’s jewelry, assuming Alice Fairchild still wanted that. Bill speaks a number of languages, but none of them is Yiddish or Chinese, so if I took that route I could throw him out and count myself lucky to be rid of a fuckup.