The List by Anne Calhoun Page B

Eventually.” She smiled at him. “Now it’s a habit I can’t break. Cheers,” she said, and tapped her glass to his.
    “You don’t email her?”
    “Nan never made the leap into the digital generation, and I like writing. It feels more real to me,” she said, then glanced at him. Like she’d admitted something she shouldn’t have. “I suppose that’s why I make the connections. I know chemistry when I see it. Computers can match people based on interests or activities or hobbies, but I match people based on something far harder to quantify. It’s the human elements, like stationery. You just can’t replace the human touch.”
    “So if I want to make something real to you, I should write it down?”
    “Not necessary. You feel very real to me.”
    There was a simmering silence that smelled of cumin and cayenne in doses intense enough to make his eyes water.
    “As long as we’re asking the why questions, why the FBI?”
    “I started with the NYPD, but went over to the FBI. Better stories,” he said.
    “Hmm,” she said. “Explain. You studied English at school.”
    She’d remembered. “I have a double major in English and accounting,” he said. “My mother said reading books was great but almost no one got paid to do it, and I should be employable. The way I see it, numbers tell stories, too.”
    “The current story?” she asked, toying with the wineglass.
    “The usual sordid attempts to circumvent laws and make more money than any one person or family needs.”
    Her smile broadened. “Insider trading?”
    “It’s always happening,” he said equably. Tilda knew everyone. She probably sold stationery to the crooks they were trying to catch who partied like the one percent. “We’re always two steps behind,” he said. “Convincing legislatures to close loopholes takes years, and as fast as we get them closed, really smart guys with MBAs from Ivy League universities find another one to exploit. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t catch them.”
    “So you like stories, and you like numbers.”
    “I like stories in any form. Numbers tell stories,” he said.
    Her smile widened.
    “I get the feeling that, until now, you didn’t think I was that interesting.”
    “Oh, I thought you were very interesting,” she said. “You ask good questions. You listen. You’re patient. Persistent. You spend months putting together cases against white-collar criminals, and you run marathons. How many?”
    “Twelve,” he said. “I’m stepping up to ultramarathons next year.”
    “Ultra?”
    “Fifty miles or more. I’m starting with fifty. We’ll see how that goes.”
    “You are a very interesting person, Daniel Logan.”
    Her attention felt like a searchlight sliding over his skin, and he understood why people went to Tilda Davies to ask for their most secret desires. She looked at you like you mattered, like she saw who you were and judged not at all. He wasn’t about to deny that the attention was addictive. Every time he got a bit of her, he wanted more, more, more.
    “Who connects you?” he asked. The question seemed like a non sequitur, but it wasn’t. He’d been puzzling over this since the night he met Tilda Davies. In a city like New York, or London, people lived literally one on top of the other. A certain level of intimacy was unavoidable. He overheard conversations, watched dramatic breakups and reunions all take place on the subway in rush hour traffic, and yet despite all that intimacy, everyone was looking for that elusive thing: a meaningful connection.
    Everyone except Tilda Davies.
    “Sorry?”
    “Louise says you’re the woman to see if you want an introduction. For any reason. Who does that for you?”
    She rested her chin on her fist and smiled at him. “I’m the woman who knows everyone. I don’t need introductions. People come to me.”
    “Everyone needs something,” he said.
    “I have everything I want.”
    The thought saddened him a little. She was so young and so