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remember last night, it’s just a dark hole.”
    “Take two aspirin. Have a bubble bath. Be grateful you can’t remember the jerk.” The line went dead.
    Grazia threw her phone on the sofa and burst into sobs of frustration and fury.
    Detective Cargill waited while she mopped up her tears with a handkerchief dug from her handbag. “Does she remember who you were talking to?” he asked.
    “No. She said I drank too much champagne, that I wasn’t drugged, that I invited one of those Italians to my hotel. She didn’t see which because she left for the airport when I was still at the bar.”
    “Not terribly sympathetic,” commented Stanley. He handed Grazia a cup of water from the cooler. “How well do you know this helpful person?”
    “She was in my class at law school. I haven’t seen her for ten years.”
    “Was she carrying a suitcase?” Cargill asked. “If she went to the airport from the bar, she had a suitcase.”
    Grazia rubbed her forehead. “I don’t remember a suitcase.”
    Stanley cut in. “Maybe Nick put it behind the bar. Is it important?”
    “Picture this, Stanley: a supposedly intelligent lawyer drags her suitcase from her hotel, whose name she can’t remember, through deep snow during a blizzard warning to a crowded bar. She talks with Italian men whose names she doesn’t offer. When the snow is falling the heaviest, she drags her suitcase outside, somehow flags down a taxi, and departs for the airport.”
    “Maybe she pre-ordered an airport van,” suggested Stanley.
    “During heavy snowfall, people go early to airports. Or their flights are cancelled. My point is she’s a key witness, and she hasn’t given us any information. Suggestive.”
    “Of what?” Grazia’s brain wasn’t making connections.
    “That she isn’t telling us what she knows, like who drugged you or took you to your hotel.”
    Grazia was shocked. “If Laura knew, she would say. We are friends.”
    “Women get jealous. They play dirty tricks on each other,” Cargill said. “I’ve seen it before.”
    “You talk to her,” Grazia said, defeated. “Maybe she’ll remember more for a police detective.” Grazia held out her smartphone, and Cargill copied Laura’s number into his battered notebook.
    “Try her again later,” he suggested. “She may have met the perpetrator at her hotel and they went to the Brazilian Bar together. If we knew where she was staying, we could check the register for other Italians. A name may ring a bell with you.”
    Grazia leaned her head back against the sofa. “Why me?” she groaned. 
    “Does Nick have any ideas on that?” asked Stanley.
    Detective Cargill shook his head. “I dragged the SOB out of bed this morning and got a cheek swab for DNA. He remembers Grazia, and he remembers the champagne. But he says the place was packed, and he couldn’t see past the faces at the bar. No knowledge of drug-facilitated assault, of course.” He leaned toward Grazia and spoke earnestly.
    “It’s possible that we’re looking for an Italian who’s in New York for business or tourism. He may be staying in a hotel near the Brazilian Bar. People don’t go far for a drink in snow that deep. You recognized him and let down your guard, didn’t keep your hand over your glass. Rohypnol is a popular date-rape drug in other countries. The guy brought it with him.  Search your memory, Miss Conti. Did you meet an old Italian boyfriend last night?”
    Grazia tried to think but she couldn’t. She shook her head.
    Cargill turned to Stanley. “Let’s call in Luigi.”
    Luigi, the reception clerk, was already tapping on the door. “Housekeeping has finished cleaning Miss Conti’s room.”  He held out Grazia’s lunch. She ripped open the package and took a bite. Stanley addressed Luigi.
    “Tell Miss Conti about the telephone message you took for her.” 
    Luigi turned to Grazia. “A man phoned you at eleven o’clock this morning. Detective Cargill and Mr. Johnson were in the lobby