‘Huh,’ he said, after a beat. ‘Mom, you might be onto something.’
‘Why? What do you see?’ Holly looked closer and found that the search had returned a list of websites related to an artist named Gennaro del Vecchio. He happened to be based here in Manhattan, and he owned an art gallery on West Twenty-Fifth Street.
‘Do you think this means something, Mom?’
‘I don’t know, but I’d certainly say it’s a shot in the right direction,’ said Holly, feeling positive once again. ‘Does the address of his gallery happen to be six-eighteen?’ she asked, referring to the numbers on the inscription. Danny checked and shook his head.
But maybe the horseshoe charm had some kind of connection to the gallery anyway. ‘Are you going to go there?’ her son inquired. ‘To the gallery?’
‘I’d say that’s my next port of call, wouldn’t you? Maybe this Gennaro fellow can tell me something.’
‘And maybe I should keep searching on the computer,’ Danny offered with raised eyebrows, wondering if his mother’s excitement over this new development might put off bed just a little while longer.
Holly was so busy examining the horseshoe charm that she barely took note of Danny’s last suggestion. She nodded her head in agreement, albeit absently. ‘Yes, that’s a good idea, that’s probably what you should … hey, wait a minute,’ she exclaimed, suddenly coming out of her daze. ‘Nice try, mister, but not so fast. School tomorrow, so it’s bed for you. Now.’ She smiled, amused by her son’s artful dodging.
‘Awww Mom—’
‘Don’t “Awww Mom” me. Bed. It’s only a few more days till winter break and then you can be the Watson to my Sherlock as much as you want.’
Danny smiled. ‘Or, you can be the Watson tomySherlock. Don’t forget who took the search to Google.’
He jogged off, laughing merrily as his mother nodded in agreement. Indeed, because of Danny, they once again had a warm lead.
16
On Monday morning, Greg strode into the lobby of theNew York Timesbuilding with his portfolio under his arm. He felt amazing. As he rode up in the elevator to Billy, the photo editor’s office, he realised he had no plan, no prepared speech, nor had he done a Q and A with himself in the bathroom mirror: he was just going to go in and show what he had and what he could do.
Billy's floor was pretty much the same set-up as Rob's, except that as a senior editor he was not only given a space on the common room floor, but was also given a private office. As Greg was ushered in by Billy himself, he stopped to stare at all the photos on the wall. Every inch was covered. There was one of almost every New York mayor from the seventies onwards, a few presidents, and every angle of the city you could imagine.
Suddenly Greg felt like grabbing his portfolio and running back out through the door. But, before he could, Billy motioned him to sit. He did, his knuckles white over the edge of the leather case.
While the walls were covered with prints, the desk was clear except for a phone. It was a long wide glass desk, with a light under it that would illuminate the whole thing to look at negatives and prints. Greg gripped his portfolio tighter.
‘So what do you have?’ Billy asked, getting straight down to business. He held his hands out to Greg for the portfolio. When Greg paused, the editor scratched his ear and laughed a little, ‘C'mon, they can't be that bad. You're here aren't you?'
Greg slowly handed the portfolio over and held his breath as Billy untied the ends and dumped the whole thing out on his desk.
He sat and slowly went through every single photo, sometimes turning them over to read the date and description, sometimes putting them aside in a separate pile to go back over. After what seemed like an eternity, Greg cleared his throat.
Billy was behind a large print – one of the shots Greg had taken while out with the cops in Queens. ‘Can I get you some water?’
‘Uh, no, I'm good.’ Greg managed. ‘It's just, ah … you’re not asking me anything.’
‘Shouldn't have to.’ Billy put the photo he was looking at down on the desk. ‘Your work should be able to tell me anything I need to know. I'm looking for photographers, not writers.’
Greg nodded. ‘True.’
‘And these are quite good, really quite good.’
Greg felt relief wash over him like a hug from his mother.
Billy closed the portfolio and sat back in his chair. ‘OK, now here comes the questions … Ever been punched in the face?’
Greg looked at him, startled, but could see from Billy's expression that he was not joking.
‘Uh, I may have been in a bar fight in college once … ’
‘Good, ever had someone try to run you over with their car?’
