“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 afirstname?” 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.”
