Chapter Two
Simon catches up with the gruff young woman halfway down the staircase.
“Look, I apologize,” he says.
“Don’t follow me.” Her expression has moved from stern to stony. “Fine, you’ve apologized. Now you can leave.”
“I’m going out as well.” Simon thinks of a good excuse. He gestures toward the narrow front door as they reach the small lobby area. “And I don’t want to let you walk out there on your own, in case that loud guy is still around.”
The young woman stops, blocking the door to face him, high spots of red on her cheeks. She has dark-brown eyes, glossy and sharp, like a little carnivore. “Oh, so you want to protect me from a situation you caused. Very chivalrous.”
“I didn’t mean to—” Maybe she is too canny for excuses. He needs to reassess. “Look, I’m sorry. Can we please start over? I’m Simon Noone. I live almost directly above you.”
He sticks out his hand. She glares at it. But then she unclenches her jaw, takes his hand and shakes.
“Nomi Pace.” She’s still very stiff cheeked. “I’m sorry if my client’s associate disrupted your activities. I’ll ensure there’s no more disturbances.”
Professionalism restored, Nomi Pace turns and walks outside.
“Great.” Simon follows the clip of her boots out the door, down the concrete steps. It’s a nice afternoon, and surprisingly warm. He tugs his sunglasses out of his hair and slides them on. “I’d like to go back to the part about you being a private investigator.”
Nomi sighs. “You and every other person I meet.”
“I wondered if you could tell me—”
Still striding, she cuts him off with a raised hand. “First of all, you should know that I don’t give advice for free.”
“Fine.” They are heading along Gansevoort, away from Hudson Street. Passing the Florent Diner, he sidesteps a fire hydrant. “I’m not really looking for advice—more like . . . suggestions.”
“Right.” Nomi keeps walking. “Why are you following me, again?”
“I’m not following you. I’m going to the pay phone outside the grocery store.”
“Uh-huh.”
She already thinks he’s annoying; he might as well shoot his shot. “How would you trace someone if all you had was a name and a location?”
Her mouth twists. “Don’t tell me—you met someone at a club, and you lost their number.”
“No. This is . . . kind of a hypothetical.”
“Sure.” An eyeroll.
“So how would you do it?”
“You have a name and a location, but nothing else?” Nomi frowns. She’s still stomping along, but he can see she’s intrigued despite herself.
“Only a first name.” They’re nearly at the deli grocery near the corner of Gansevoort and Washington.
“Just a first name?” She stops in the street to gape. Recovers and turns around, continues walking. Looks like she’s going to the grocery too. “Well, that’s crazy. It can’t be done.”
It’s not her tone; it’s the way she pulls the shutters down: It can’t be done. He’s been at this for weeks, and she’s giving up so easy? To hell with that.
Frustration firms his voice. “I want it done.”
Nomi looks at him and frowns, pulls the door handle of the grocery store to go inside. Oh well, he’s come this far. He catches the door and follows behind her.
It’s about as crowded as it gets inside the grocery.
Four people are waiting for sandwiches near the deli counter, a guy is making himself coffee at the coffee station, and three people are browsing for groceries.
Jaunty opera music blares from a radio attached to the wall, adding to the chaotic vibe.
Nomi squeezes to get through to the shelf racks, seems nonplussed when she realizes Simon is still on her heels. But something in his face clearly makes her take pity on him, because she keeps speaking.
“Okay, listen.” She grabs two jars from the shelves—sauerkraut, jelly—and talks as she searches for other items. “There’s lots of ways to trace a person, but you need a minimum amount of information.
A complete name is the best place to start.
Even an alias. Then you try police reports, municipal records of births, deaths, marriages, hospital records.
Or if you only have fingerprints, you try fingerprints, known associates, criminal records . . .”
“No fingerprints.” Simon hits his head on a fly swatter poking out from a top shelf, pushes it away, takes his sunglasses off. “So without a name, you’re nowhere.”
“Basically, yeah. Sorry.”
She grabs three more cans and a plastic package of sugar, stuffs everything into the tote bag, then maneuvers past him to the counter.
Strings of sausage and chilies and garlic hang above the charcuterie display window, and two guys are handling orders, barking out commands to the elderly man on the register.
Somewhere behind all this, the whine of a meat slicer.
Nomi waves her tote bag, can’t get anyone to add up her groceries.
“Let me get that.” Simon takes the bag from her—being over six feet tall is an advantage here—and raises it to attract notice.
Her mouth makes a tight line. “If you must.”
“I must.” He did just pump her for information, so paying for a few groceries seems like a fair exchange.
Simon pays the man on the register for Nomi’s things and also makes purchases for himself: a green tomato, a tub of coleslaw, two ripe figs.
Nomi’s tote and his own brown paper bag in hand, he struggles his way out of the store behind her.
Back outside on the pavement, she turns in the sun, and he hands her the tote.
She seems confused about it. “Thanks for the groceries. You didn’t have to do that.”
“You just gave me advice, which, as you pointed out, isn’t free.”
“I didn’t help, though.” She grimaces. “You’ve really only got a first name?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I ask what you’ve already tried?”
“A bunch of things . . .” He’s got a record of them in his notebook. Thinking about it makes him tired. “But I don’t know, maybe I’m chasing my tail on this.”
Nomi tilts her head. “This isn’t a hypothetical, is it?”
“No.”
“Who are you trying to find?”
And this is really the moment when he has to choose. He’s been carrying this mission for months—more like years—on his own. Maybe it’s time to stop being completely self-reliant. But how much does he tell her?
Simon thinks of a discreet blue card stuck to a wooden door in a grungy building in a dingy neighborhood: This woman might be an investigator, but she’s not top of the line. Not someone likely to rat him out, considering his vulnerabilities. He has a lot of vulnerabilities.
He makes a call and hopes it’s the right one.
“Me,” he says. “I’m trying to find me.”
“Pardon?”
“I was pulled out of the Usumacinta River in Guatemala in 1982, with a gunshot wound to the head. They patched me up, but I lost my memory, and I had no ID. I don’t know who I am.”
Nomi’s tote hangs down by one strap. “You lost your memory. Like, what, amnesia?”
“Yes.”
“Amnesia.” She tests the word.
“Yes.”
“Okay. Wow. That’s . . .” She steps back, steps forward again. When she’s not frowning and trying to seem gruff, her face is quite expressive. Her hard, mink-dark eyes are focused on him and have taken on a new inquisitiveness. “So what do you already know?”
“I know . . .” He hesitates, but they’ve got to start somewhere. “I know I’m American—or at least, I have American dental work. I have a name, Simon, that was on a label sewn into my clothes.”
“So you have new paperwork.” She picked that up quickly. She’s no fool.
“Yes.” It was always going to come out. He continues the litany. “The rest is . . . random. I’m right handed. I’m not color-blind. My first language is English, but I seem to be good at languages. At least, I didn’t have much problem picking up Spanish and Maaya t’aan—”
“And Italian,” Nomi says.
Simon looks at her. “What?”
“You . . .” Nomi wets her lips. “You just spoke Italian with the deli owner.”
“Italian.” He can feel how his mouth has fallen open. He doesn’t know how to react.
“Yes.” Nomi keeps her eyes fixed on his. “You didn’t realize? Oh wow.”
Simon blinks at Nomi, blinks at the store. Raises a hand to rub at the groove in his skull. His headache is making a numb spot at his temple.
Is it always going to be like this? Living this strange double life, his shadow self always one step ahead, driven by impulses and instincts and appetites he’s barely conscious of . . .
There is a deep part of you, something inside, that you do not yet understand. Flores spoke the truth. It’s not right. He can’t go on like this. He needs to know who he is.
Simon draws his shaking hand over his face, turns back to Nomi, the same hand open toward her. “Now do you see why I need your help?”