The Midnight Club_ A Novel - James Patterson [26]
“Are you always so generous?” Sarah asked him.
Stefanovitch mumbled something about soup kitchens, about trying to do the right thing every once in a while. Sarah let it drop. Still, she was oddly touched. The image of this strangely charismatic man in a wheelchair helping out panhandlers stuck in her mind.
At Forlini’s, the maître d’ greeted Sarah with an effusive smile and a gallant, almost seductive handshake. “Ah, la bella signora, so nice to see you always.”
Since she had been writing The Club and spending so much time downtown at Foley Square and Police Plaza, Forlini’s had become one of her favorite lunchtime haunts. The maître d’, and most of the waiters, knew her from several past visits. The maître d’ took their drink order after escorting them to a corner table. He hurried away to the bar.
Sarah had brought other policemen there, and she always seemed to pay the check. Women paying for dinners in Little Italy was still unusual, highly suspect.
“So tell me about working on newspapers,” Stefanovitch said once the waiter had left them. “I get to watch a few pretty good reporters occasionally. Times guys. New York Daily News. You broke into a tough club.”
“It’s not quite so macho on the West Coast. Maybe a little bit where I started, in San Francisco. Certainly not in Palo Alto.”
Sarah had never really felt comfortable talking about herself, not even after her book had become successful. She didn’t particularly want to talk about herself now, either.
“Why don’t you go first?” she said across the small, intimate table. “Tell me something about yourself, Lieutenant, anything you’d like. I’m going to have to write about you in the book. I’ve already written a little.”
“You wrote about yesterday?” Stefanovitch coughed and patted his chest.
“A little. Sure. I write every morning.” The look on her face was slightly impish, not so serious after all. Sarah McGinniss was actually much prettier than he had thought the other day. Her eyes had a nice sparkle.
“How did I come off in what you wrote this morning?”
“Just the way you were. Tough, pretty obnoxious. Remember, you’re the one who told me not to act so serious.” They both laughed. Things were improving.
Their drinks came and the maître d’ made the usual impassioned plea for several of the house specials. Stefanovitch chose the calamari, plus mozzarella and beefsteak tomatoes. He was still learning to curb his appetite, adjusting to life in the Chair. Sarah went with a linguine, clam, and shrimp dish; prosciutto and melon to start.
“My first impression was that you were pretty serious yourself,” Sarah said. She was talking with her head cocked to one side. The effect was captivating. “Aren’t you?”
Stefanovitch thought that she was working him a little bit, interviewing him. He found that interesting, a challenge to be dealt with.
“I don’t know if I trust first impressions very much anymore,” he said. “People are becoming too slick nowadays. There are too many good actors out in the world.”
“Now you sound like a cop again,” Sarah said.
“I am a cop. That was just my impression of one, though. Want to hear the Minersville, Pennsylvania, impression? The navy port-of-call impression? I do a few different voices, a few acts. Every street cop has to be a little bit of a con artist.”
Sarah decided to take a chance as she listened to John Stefanovitch become more human. Afterward, though—while they were heading back to Police Plaza—she would wonder if she’d had any right to ask the next few questions.
She leaned forward on her elbows, holding his eyes with her own. “Tell me something about your life before the shooting, Lieutenant. Your wife’s name was Anna, wasn’t it? She was a teacher?”
Stefanovitch moved uncomfortably in his wheelchair. He raised his wineglass but didn’t drink from it. His fingers lightly twirled the glass.
Sarah saw that he was uneasy with her questions.
“Yes, her name was Anna. Originally, she was Anna Maddalena. We met in Ashland, Pennsylvania, after I got out of the