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?“I don’t know about you, but I’m starved,” he proposed. “I did offer to buy you dinner hours ago.”
?I glanced up to see concern written on his brow. “Oh, yes. And I could really use another drink.” We began to walk as I continued to write in the notebook.
?Mark spoke as we walked. “I’m worried. You look pale.”
?I put the notebook away and sighed. “It wasn’t easy.”
?Mark told me about the pipe and everything he could remember from his interrogation as we headed south on Eighth Avenue. In return, I told him that after I was questioned by the detectives, I gave a statement, which was written up for me to sign.
?We went to Victor’s Cafe, a Cuban place on 52nd Street. We slipped into the Cuba Lounge and found a secluded table near the bar.
?The waitress took our orders for scotch, which Mark was pleased to find that they had a great selection of single-malts. I ordered a Glenkinchie and he settled on a Talisker.
?“They kept asking about you,” I considered. “How well I knew you, how many times I’d seen you at the conference, any history we’ve had.”
?“Since my fingerprints were on that pipe with Randall’s, they believe I’m implicated. I think they are convinced I’m either the killer or an accomplice.”
?“I see,” I responded as I sipped scotch and we placed our meal orders. “How did that pipe end up at my place?”
r /> ?“Your place?” he questioned.
?“I’m sorry.” I found my hand went to my head in a dismissive gesture. “I meant Randall’s…the murder scene…oh crap!” I took another swallow of my drink.
?“Are you sure you’re all right?” Mark fretted.
?“It’s so weird,” I told him, and felt my face flush. “I’ve written about murder for years, and yet when it happens to someone you know…it’s all so…”
?“Personal?”
?“Yes. I mean—well, I had two mysteries published before the Holmes books.”
?“Who Killed Clark Kent?” Mark clarified. “I liked that one. It had nothing to do with Superman, just a reporter named Clark Kent who ended up murdered.”
?“You read it?” I couldn’t hold back the smile that played on my lips.
?“Yes, and the follow-up, Who Killed Bruce Wayne?”
?“So, you were the one.”
?“The one?”
?“Those books didn’t do very well,” I explained, and gave a sigh. “‘Disappointing’ is what the publisher called it.”
?“I thought they were pretty clever,” Mark mused. “But your writing really took off with the Holmes books.”
?“Also what my agent said. She told me I’d finally found my voice, and that it was Doctor Watson.”
?Mark laughed at this. “Sorry, I don’t see you as Watson at all, and after reading your books, I think it’s Holmes you emulate.”
?I considered this for a moment. “I guess you’re right. To have the kind of mind that sees the slightest detail—”
?“Which you did to me this afternoon.”
?I waved a hand dismissively. “That was easy—”
?“Elementary, perhaps?”
?I gave a cross between a laugh and a snort, which immediately embarrassed the hell out of me. But I soldiered on, held up the remains of my drink, and saluted. “Elementary, my dear Watkins.”
