She shrugs. “Sure.”
Inside, he approaches the counter and pays for their treats, managing his wallet and pulling out the bills with one hand. His fingers are long and graceful. His other hand, Rosalind observes, is withered, covered in a spiderweb of scars and thickened skin. She can’t help feeling sorry for his injury. She has an urge to reach out and explore the raised welts.
The hostess shows them to a table near the front window.
“Miss Porter.” He gestures to the opposite banquette, suggesting she sit first. It chills her, hearing her name again. Is he here to accuse her of something? She’s aware of her own breathing and the ticking of her heart in her ears.
Sliding into the booth across from her, he removes his hat, sets it beside him. “So you’re waiting for an explanation . . .”
A waitress comes before he can say more, plunks down two thick white mugs, and starts pouring a cup for Rosalind.
“No coffee for me,” she says.
“Surely you want something to drink?” he asks. “Tea maybe?”
She nods.
“Please bring the lady tea.”
“You want the joe I poured?” the waitress asks him.
He silently slides the mug toward himself. He unrolls the bag of doughnuts with one hand, then plucks a paper napkin from the silver holder and sets a cruller in front of Rosalind.
“I’m actually not much of a coffee drinker myself. Just thought it might be good with doughnuts.” He takes a bite of his cruller. “These are good. You should try yours.” She can see the man is making an effort to be friendly, nonchalant.
“Why am I here?” she asks.
He leans forward, stares at her for a moment before he speaks. “You worked with Fermi on the Manhattan Project, didn’t you?”
For years she was instructed never to reveal a thing about her work. To say only that she had a job at the Metallurgical Laboratory. As for the trips to Oak Ridge and Hanford and Los Alamos, oh God, those endless desert nights in bed with Weaver—she told her family they were pleasure trips with girlfriends. Sitting with Mr. FBI now, she doesn’t say a word. She observes how he so carefully hides his hand. No matter how long it’s been since she lost her job, she still protects the project in the same way.
He stares at her with those water-hued eyes.
“Tell me about your relationship with Thomas Weaver,” he says.
“Weaver?” she asks. “Why?”
“He interests us.”
“Well, he doesn’t interest me anymore. I want nothing to do with him. I certainly don’t want to discuss our ‘relationship,’ as you call it.”
Szydlo merely sits back and shakes his head.
“You’re a pistol,” he says.
“I’m glad I amuse you.”
He takes a sip from his mug. “I bet you intimidate a lot of guys. A nuclear physicist.”
“Not anymore.” She frowns at him. “I sell jewelry.” Even after three and a half years, speaking the words aloud sends a ripple of irony through her.
“Were you surprised when Weaver started calling you again?”
“How . . . how do you know he’s been calling?”
“I know you’ve said no. You haven’t seen him anyway?”
“I don’t want anything to do with him. I told him to leave me alone.”
“Actually, you told him . . .” He pulls a little notebook out of his breast pocket. “‘Stay out of my life.’” He glances up meaningfully.
“I . . . How . . . ?”
“We’ve been tapping your telephone.”
It takes a moment for her to swallow this indigestible pit. The day before yesterday, she’d complained to her friend Marie about her monthly cramps. Heat crawls up the back of her neck.
“I’m sorry we had to compromise your privacy,” he says. “Of course, we had a court order.”
“I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“It’s not you we’re after.”
“But it’s me you’re following. You’re not very good at it. I’ve spotted you more times than I can count.”
“What did your friend call me? Shadowman? Like a radio character. It’s hard to tail someone when you’re six foot seven.”
Remembering that she’d told Zeke that Shadowman was menacing but attractive, Rosalind experiences a chill that makes her scalp tingle. She’d described him in detail. Those eyes!
“I just had to make sure you weren’t one of Weaver’s contacts before I approached you.”
“Contacts? What does that mean?”
“I know you told Mr. Weaver you don’t want to see him. We—the FBI—would like you to change your mind.”
“Wait. I’m confused.”
The waitress brings her hot water at last.
“Almost forgot, darlin’,” she says, yanking a tea bag out of her pocket, tearing off the wrapper, and plopping the tea into her cup before shuffling off.
“We want you to call that number he gave you. To start seeing him again.”
“Why?”
“Because he wants you back in his life. And we need to know what he’s up to. Do you recall the number he gave you?”
“Hyde Park 3-5806.”
“He said you’d remember.” He looks at her admiringly.
“What does the FBI want with Weaver anyway?”
“We think he’s involved with some ugly stuff. You’ve already seen how terrible I am at tailing people. Help me out here and I’ll tell you more.” He flashes her a crooked grin. So he can smile. He’s especially attractive when his face lights, even if it’s only a flicker, then gone. “You were close once,” he offers.
“That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to avoid.”
He nods knowingly. “I know it ended badly.”
She pretends to worry more out of the tea bag, dipping it in and out of the water. Ended badly? Weaver separated her from all that mattered in her life.
“What is it you think he’s done?”
“And may yet do,” he says.
“Something so bad you’d go to all this trouble?”
He nods, his eyes saying she doesn’t know the half of it.
“Couldn’t you just arrest him or hang him by his toes or whatever it is you people do?”