12
The next afternoon, Richie knocked on the door of a swank hotel located in the city’s downtown area just off Union Square.
“Who is it?” A voice with a heavy New York accent called.
“Richie Amalfi.”
The dead bolt clicked. Audrey Poole opened the hotel door, peeked at him with one eye, and shut it again. He heard the chain being unfastened, and then the door swung open wide. “Richie, how did you find me?” She was whispering and looked strained and harried. “Get in here. Hurry!”
He entered the room, and she shut, locked, and chained the door again. She had on jeans and a T-shirt, no shoes, no make-up, and her hair looked like she had washed it and let it dry without doing anything more. The years, he couldn’t help but think, hadn’t been kind to her. And while some women could get away
