Chapter 74: Getting Back on Track
A week passed without incident.
No tail at McLaren's, no unfamiliar cars on his block, no sense of the particular pressure at the back of his neck that he'd learned to trust as a real signal rather than paranoia. Corleone had called on Wednesday with a brief message relayed through an intermediary: the matter is being looked into, nothing actionable yet. Which meant the surveillance had either stopped or gotten better, and Andrew was choosing to treat both possibilities with equal caution.
Rose Draper had settled into 208 with the minimal disruption of someone who traveled light and knew how to occupy a space without overwriting it. She knocked on his door twice in the first week — once to ask about the building's recycling situation, once to return a dish towel she'd borrowed without asking, which told him she'd been in his apartment while he wasn't there, which was its own piece of information.
He changed the lock on Thursday. Not aggressively — just a new deadbolt, the kind of routine maintenance that any reasonable person did periodically. He didn't mention it.
Rose didn't mention it either, which was also information.
Tuesday the truck went back out.
He was on Columbus by eleven, the prep done, the menu board up, the Garfield decal catching the April light in the way it did when the angle was right. The first regular appeared at eleven-fifteen — the construction foreman from the building on 78th, who ordered for four and took the bags without stopping, the way he always did.
By noon the line was back to its usual length.
[Cooking (Expert): 7/100]
The number moved during the lunch rush, which told him the regulars had noticed the gap and were engaged in the specific way that attentive eaters were engaged — tasting more carefully, comparing today against the last time, providing the kind of real feedback that moved the panel even when it wasn't spoken aloud.
He'd added a new dish to the rotation — the one he'd been developing in his head for three weeks, a braised short rib sandwich built on a technique that crossed French braise with Korean seasoning ratios, served on a pretzel roll with a quick-pickled slaw. He'd tested it twice at home, adjusted the acid balance on the slaw, and put it on the board that morning without announcement.
By one o'clock he'd sold out of it.
He noted this without celebration. One good day proved a concept. Consistent performance proved a dish. He'd make more next time and see if the response held.
Joey appeared at seven-fifteen with his own fork, which he'd started bringing two months ago after Andrew had mentioned that he preferred customers who didn't ask for extras. Joey had interpreted this as a general philosophy about self-sufficiency and had acted accordingly, which was the kind of lateral thinking that Andrew had come to expect from him.
He ate with the focused reverence he brought to everything Andrew made, then sat back and drank water and hiccupped twice in rapid succession.
"Monica's doing something tomorrow night," he said. "She wants everyone there. I tried to call you this afternoon but it went to voicemail."
"Battery died," Andrew said, still working the griddle. "What time?"
"Seven. Her place." Joey watched Andrew plate something with the expression of a man deciding whether to order a second round. "She said it's important."
"I'll be there."
"Also—" Joey leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice with the theatrical discretion of someone who had seen too many movies about people delivering sensitive information. "Ross called me this morning. He sounded — different. Good different."
"Good," Andrew said.
"Did something happen with Carol?"
"Ask Ross."
Joey accepted this with the equanimity of someone who had learned that Andrew would tell him things when Andrew decided to tell him things and not a moment before. He ordered a second round, which Andrew had anticipated, and ate it with the same focused appreciation.
At eight-fifteen, Daisy Kaplan appeared around the corner of Columbus with two women Andrew recognized as her regular Thursday companions, bouncing slightly on her heels the way she did when she was pleased about something.
She stopped when she saw the truck.
"You're back!" She came to the counter with the energy of someone who had been waiting for this and was not going to underplay it. "We came by twice last week and the spot was empty. I was starting to think you'd closed."
"Taking care of some things," Andrew said. "What are you having?"
"Everything." She looked at the menu board with the focused attention of someone who had opinions. "Is the short rib sandwich — is that new?"
"Sold out at one."
She made a sound of genuine dismay. "Okay. Next time I'm here at eleven."
She ordered, paid, and stepped aside to wait. Her two companions ordered behind her, and then a fourth woman came around the corner at a jog — slightly out of breath, dark coat, the look of someone who had been delayed and was mildly irritated about it.
Andrew finished two orders and looked up.
The fourth woman was Rose.
She met his eyes across the counter with an expression of complete composure — not surprised, not performing surprise, just present. She looked at the menu board, then back at him.
"Short rib sandwich," she said.
"Sold out."
"Of course it is." She looked at the board again. "The risotto."
He started on it. In his peripheral vision he could see Daisy beside Rose, and he could see the specific quality of Daisy's stillness — the kind that happened when someone was managing a reaction they hadn't prepared for.
He plated the risotto, handed it across.
Rose took it. Their eyes met briefly. She moved to stand with Daisy's group without invitation or hesitation, the way she moved through most situations — as though the space had already been allocated for her.
Andrew processed the next three orders and kept most of his attention on the griddle.
Behind him he could hear fragments — not enough to follow, just enough to register the texture of the conversation. Daisy's voice had an edge underneath the social surface that wasn't usually there. Rose's was smooth and unhurried, the voice of someone who wasn't going to be pushed into a register she hadn't chosen.
At eight-forty, Rose set her empty container on the side of the counter, thanked him for the food with the specific directness she brought to everything, and left. Alone.
Daisy watched her go with an expression Andrew caught in the pause between orders — not angry, something more complicated. The look of someone who had wanted a different outcome and was recalculating.
When the rush thinned out, Daisy came back to the counter.
"How long has she been living across the hall?" she said.
Andrew looked at her. "You know Rose."
"She's my cousin." Daisy said it without enthusiasm. "We grew up together. I love her. She is also—" She stopped. Started differently. "She has her own reasons for things. Her own way of doing things. And I would really appreciate it if her way of doing things didn't involve you."
"What are her reasons?" Andrew said.
Daisy was quiet for a moment, turning her coffee cup in both hands. "She had a friend. Someone she'd known since college. He died last December." She paused. "He was connected to a situation that I think you're also connected to."
Andrew kept his expression level.
"Robert Durst," Daisy said, not quite meeting his eyes.
The name landed in the specific way names landed when they carried that much weight.
"Her friend was connected to Durst?" Andrew said.
"Her friend knew things about Durst. Had known them for a long time." Daisy set the cup down. "When Durst died, Rose started looking into what happened. She's been doing that since January." She looked at him now, directly. "She's not dangerous. She's not — she's not going to do anything. She just needs to understand what happened to her friend."
Andrew thought about the tail at McLaren's. Professional grade, patient, no approach made. Someone building a picture.
He thought about Rose arriving the next day with a bottle of wine and a key to 208 and eyes that took inventory of his apartment from the doorway.
"Her friend," Andrew said. "What was his name?"
Daisy hesitated. "Morris," she said. "Morris Black."
Andrew stood at the griddle and kept his face entirely still.
Morris Black. Galveston, Texas. 2001 in the original timeline — found in bags in Galveston Bay, his head never recovered, Robert Durst's rented room the crime scene. Acquitted.
Except in this timeline Robert Durst had died in a Manhattan hallway in December 1993, which meant Morris Black was still alive. Which meant Rose's friend who had died connected to the Durst situation was someone else entirely.
Or the timeline had shifted in ways he hadn't fully mapped.
"I'm sorry about her friend," Andrew said. It was true regardless of the details.
Daisy nodded. "Just — be careful with her. She means well. She just doesn't always stop when she should."
She collected her things and left.
Andrew worked until nine, broke down the station, drove the truck to its lot, and walked to the subway thinking about Morris Black and a woman in apartment 208 who had professional surveillance skills and her own reasons for things.
He checked the panel on the platform.
[Cooking (Expert): 7/100] [Boxing (Proficient): 97/100] [Observation (Proficient): 72/100]
Observation had moved. He filed this as accurate.
Thursday was Red Hook. He had other things to think about first.
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