French Pressed

by Cleo Coyle

  “This better work,” she grumbled. “I turned on the charm for forty minutes, then she walks in and the freakin’ perp dumps me!”

  She appraised me, shook her head. “The little bastard is obviously going for the emeralds.”

  Detective Soles rolled her eyes. “This is my partner, Sue Ellen Bass,” she said.

  “Well, is she going to do it?” Detective Bass demanded.

  “Calm down,” said Detective Soles. “I haven’t explained the sting yet.”

  Before I could ask them, “What sting?” or even make an educated guess where this conversation was going, given Quinn’s current task force goals, the door opened, and two exceedingly tipsy young women entered the ladies’, tittering loudly.

  “Into my office,” Detective Bass commanded. She shoved us into a marble-walled bathroom stall and locked the door behind us. The stall was quite spacious, a mercy, considering there were three of us crammed in there.

  “Are you going to wear the wire?” Detective Bass whispered to me.

  “The wire? What for?”

  “That guy, the one who was chatting you up? He’s our prime suspect.”

  “That kid, Simon? You’re telling me he’s a May-September gangster? He said he was a fashion designer—”

  Bass snorted. “Simon, huh? And he’s a fashion designer? That’s real funny, because he told me his name was Richard, and he worked on Wall Street.”

  “Sounds suspicious to me,” Soles agreed.

  “Or the SOB is married,” Bass replied. “In which case, the situation’s even more pathetic than I originally figured, because it means I can’t even get a lowlife scumbag to be straight with me.”

  “Please, Sue Ellen…” Soles shook her head. “Let’s not delve into your dating habits—”

  “Easy for you to say. You’re a happy newlywed.”

  Soles rolled her eyes. “And you’re the one with the commitment problem!”

  “True.” Bass shrugged. “But there are too many cute guys on the force. Like Lieutenant Quinn out there. He’s pretty hot, but word is he’s taken.”

  “Already?” Soles asked. “He just split with his wife.”

  Sue Ellen shrugged. “Whoever the lucky lady is, the man’s got it bad for her.”

  Oh, Lord.

  Her partner hushed her, faced me. “Look, Ms. Cosi. We really need you to do this. Lieutenant Quinn told me to tell you something else. He said he wouldn’t ask if he didn’t need this.”

  I nodded. The man had gone out on a limb enough times for me. The least I could do was return the favor. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

  “There’s a risk,” Detective Soles warned. “These guys have been violent in the past. We’ll be on you like glue, but you could still get roughed up if we drop the ball—”

  “We won’t,” Detective Bass declared.

  “But it’s a possibility,” Soles added.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  Detective Soles glanced at her partner. “I told you she’d do it. This one can take care of herself.”

  “You’re going to wear a wire, honey,” Sue Ellen Bass said as she reached into her bag. “Ask simple ‘Simon’ out there to escort you home. You live in the Village, right? We’ll monitor your conversation after you leave the club. We’ll follow you, too. If he tries to rob you, or rape you, or even look at you funny, we’ll know it and come running.”

  “What if he’s innocent?”

  Sue Ellen yanked a radio, battery pack, and a tiny microphone on a long wire out of her bag and untangled it. “Then you have nothing to worry about.”

  Detective Soles fumbled with the buttons on my blouse.

  “Excuse me? What are you doing?!”

  “The wire goes under your clothes.”

  It took several minutes, but eventually I was ready. The transmitter was tapped to my belly, the microphone wire running up, under my bra, to the microphone itself, which was nestled between my breasts.

  “Did you bring a coat?” Bass asked, checking out my breasts.

  “Of course. It’s freezing outside.”

  “Well, don’t button it; you might cover the mike.”

  “Okay, Ms. Cosi. Say something.” Soles commanded, slipping a headset over her tight blond curls.

  “Say what?” I asked.

  Detective Soles listened and nodded to her partner. “It works. Now we need a panic phrase—”

  My eyes widened. “A what?”

  “Something you say that lets us know that you’re in real trouble,” Sue Ellen replied in an exasperated tone, as if I should know this stuff already.

  “Oh, sure, a panic phrase,” I replied flatly. “How about ‘Help, help, I’m being mugged’?”

  Detective Soles rolled her eyes. “That won’t work. What if he’s holding a knife on you? If you yell that, he’ll just finish you off.”

  “Can’t you just follow me and see that I’m in trouble?” I said.

  “We can try to keep a visual on you,” Soles said, “but what if he pulls you into the shadows where we can’t see you? Or takes you into some private lobby, where our presence would tip him off?”

  “We have to rely on the wire,” Detective Bass insisted.

  “And the panic phrase,” Lori Soles reminded her. Then she looked down at me (a long trip) and put her large hand on my small shoulder. “If something bad starts to go down, and you want us to rush in, you have to say something that’s not at all appropriate, something that will confuse the perp long enough for us to move in. We’ll need about fifteen seconds, at least, and that’s enough time for a guy like this to kill you.”

  “Okay, I’m convinced,” I said. “Like what?”

  “Just say ‘Carnegie Hall,’” Soles replied. “We’ll understand.”

  “Carnegie Hall?” I smirked. “Are you sure I don’t have to practice first?”

  Soles laughed, glanced at her partner. “This one’s quick. I think she’s gonna do it for us.”

  “Okay, honey,” Sue Ellen Bass said, slapping me on the back. “Get out there and break the little scumbag’s heart, so I can crack his skull.”

  Detective Soles and I left the bathroom together. I could tell she was relieved to see that Simon Ward was still waiting where we left him. She made a big show of saying good-bye, making sure to mention that I would be going home alone now.

  “Thanks, Clare,” Detective Soles said, squeezing my shoulder reassuringly as she pecked my cheek. “I’ve got to go find my man.”

  I took the blue martini from Simon and drained it in one gulp.

  “You’re friend seems a little…scatterbrained,” he said.

  “She is.” I nodded. “She might be a little tipsy, too.”

  “You’ve finished your drink in a hurry. You may feel a little tipsy soon, too.”

  “That’s why I’m going home,” I told him. Simon frowned—until I took his arm and added, “But not alone, I hope. You know, I don’t live far at all, but I could use a chaperone on the walk home.”

  Simon grinned and patted my hand. “I’ll be your escort—how’s that? I have far too many designs on you to be an effective chaperone.”

  I laughed, only half faking it. I had trouble believing Simon was anything more than a charming young man who had a way with the ladies—which was also (eesh) a fairly accurate description of a May-September gang member, come to think of it.

  We waited a few minutes at the coat check. Simon retrieved our stuff. As he helped me into my coat, he leaned close and gave me a light kiss on the back of my neck. I stiffened, remembering Mike was watching this—or, at the very least, listening.

  Outside, the line was still long, but it was colder than I remembered it. We stepped onto Fourth Avenue, and a blast of arctic air hit us.

  “Too cold.” Simon groaned, reaching for a cell phone. “I’ll call my driver.”

  He hit a speed-dial button and waited a moment. “Bring the car around. I’m outside Flux on Fourth Avenue.” He paused. “What do you mean,
traffic?” He faced Fourth Avenue. It was jammed with cars. “Fine,” he said, sounding annoyed. “I’ll meet you on Broadway.”

  Simon pocketed his phone and took my arm a little roughly.

  “This way,” he said, leading me down shadowy Eleventh Street. It was late, and all the businesses were closed. A block ahead, I could see traffic moving along Broadway, but where we were now, between Fourth and Broadway, it was the twilight zone, completely deserted.

  “So where do you live, Clare?” Simon asked, his tone back to upbeat and pleasant.

  “Above a coffeehouse, actually. On Hudson Street. I’m—”

  The sucker punch came out of nowhere—which is probably why they call it a sucker punch. One second I was walking along, chatting away; the next I was reeling, down on my knees, thrown by force into a shadowy alley.

  “Ca—” I began, but couldn’t get the word out! In about a nanosecond, strong hands grabbed me, lifted me up. A forearm was shoved against my throat. I can’t talk! Simon’s face loomed close. “Don’t fight,” he whispered, jamming a knee between my legs. I could smell his alcohol-soaked breath, hear the sound of a car pulling up.

  “Come on, man! We got your back!” I heard someone call. “Bash her head in and let’s go!”

  God, this guy was strong. He had me pinned against the wall like a butterfly to a board. But then his free hand moved toward my neck. He’s going for Madame’s emerald’s! The pressure on my windpipe finally loosened. Now was my chance.

  “Carnegie Hall!” I shouted.

  “Huh?”

  “Carnegie Hall! Carnegie Hall!”

  The hard smack seemed to come a moment later, a fist striking flesh, and my attacker was sprawled on the ground. Free now, I stumbled, almost going down myself when a pair of strong hands caught me.

  Around me I heard shouts, feet pounding pavement, squealing tires. A police car rolled up to the curb. Another appeared at the end of the street, siren blaring, blocking the getaway car.

  In the flashing red lights, I looked up, saw the rugged face. Finally, I understood. I was in Mike Quinn’s arms.

  “It’s over, sweetheart,” he said, smiling. “You were wonderful. The way you handled that perp, reeled him in. It was textbook, Clare. Thank you.”

  I clutched his neck, pulled him close, and whispered into his ear.

  “Next time, we’ve got to have a better panic phrase.”

  TWO EMTs checked me out, but I didn’t need more than an ice pack. I would have accepted a stiff drink, too, but nobody was offering me anything stronger than Coke (the kind that came in a cold can).

  Mike had paperwork, interviews, instructions for the detectives under him, who were handling the bookings. And then he was off, and we were free.

  “You didn’t have to wait for me,” he said as we exited the Sixth Precinct house.

  “Yes, I did. I’ve got some good news…”

  I told Mike everything. How I went to Keitel’s funeral home viewing and questioned his wife. How I heard from Dornier about the threatening letters in the black envelopes. When I got to the Club Flux part, he was mostly caught up.

  “I remember your debriefing,” Mike told me. “You said you went to Flux to speak with the beverage manager, Billy Benedetto.”

  “He’s Keitel’s killer, Mike. I’m sure of it. He has a very strong motive: Keitel ruined his family’s business, and it led to a lot of heartache. Benedetto also has a history of threatening Tommy. And here’s the topper: Dornier was a witness to it. He saw the threatening letters. He saw how often they came and how many.”

  Mike nodded, put his hands on my shoulders. “I think you did it, sweetheart. I think you saved your little girl.”

  “But how are we going to get him, Mike? We need proof, don’t we? I’ve heard you tell me that a thousand times.”

  “We’ll get it. We’ll find a way. We can start by going to Ray Tatum tomorrow—you and me together. Tatum will give me some leeway, I think. We can get warrants for Benedetto’s computer and cell phone. We can find incriminating evidence, use it for an interrogation, pressure him to confess. We might have to use you to bait him. Do you think you can handle that?”

  “Sure. I already baited Benedetto once. I’m willing to do it again with you listening.”

  Relieved beyond belief, I closed my eyes then. Mike misunderstood.

  “Listen, sweetheart,” he said. “Tomorrow’s another day. You look tired. Do you want me to walk you back to the Blend?”

  “No.” I opened my eyes. “I’m not tired at all. My daughter will be out on bail by this time tomorrow, and once we nail Benedetto, she’ll be free of this nightmare for good. I feel like celebrating.”

  “Is that right? Have anything special in mind?”

  I nodded. “Your place.”

  Mike’s own expression had looked a little weary, but the sun dawned fast at my suggestion. He smiled down at me; then his smile became a grin. He slipped his arm around my waist.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  We took a cab to Alphabet City. We could have walked to the next neighborhood, but neither one of us wanted to waste time. Mike paid the driver, grabbed my hand, and pulled me into his apartment building.

  The place was eight stories, a converted factory with high ceilings and new windows.

  “Nice building,” I said in the elevator.

  “It’s spartan inside,” he warned.

  “But you do have a bed? I remember you saying something about—”

  “A nice big one, sweetheart.” Mike winked. “No worries on that score.”

  I laughed, so did he, then I waited a week for him to unlock his apartment. We moved inside, closed the door, and the moment he threw the dead bolt, I was pulling on the lapels of his overcoat, insisting his mouth cover mine.

  That was the extent of the preliminaries. There was no need for more. We’d had a month of them already. It was finally time to get on with it.

  Mike groaned and pulled me closer; then my feet were off the ground, but not by a few inches; this time my legs were swept fully off the planet. He carried me across his living room, where I failed to notice much—not the parquet floor or the high ceiling, not the lack of rugs, pictures, or furniture. All I remembered about our short trip was Mike’s hungry kisses, my racing heart, and the slight bump of the man’s shoe as it impatiently kicked at a half-closed door.

  Now we were inside Mike’s bedroom: a chest of drawers, a wooden nightstand, a small table piled high with books and papers, and, just as promised, a nice, big, king-sized bed. The frame was no-frills. There wasn’t even a headboard, but the sheets were soft and clean, and the thick, new comforter was the color of sky.

  He laid me down gently, resting my back against a heavenly cloud, and then things weren’t so gentle anymore. I tore at Mike’s overcoat, jerking it off. Next came the sport jacket, the tie. When I reached to unbutton his dress shirt, he stilled my fingers. He took care in removing his shoulder holster, wrapping the leather straps around his service weapon, resting it on the nightstand.

  The shirt came off next. I lightly touched his heavy muscles, softly kissed some old scars. Mike swallowed hard, pushed me back against the pillows, wasted no more time separating me from my clothes. When he saw the nasty purple bruises on my upper arms, he stopped.

  “My God, Clare. Was this from tonight?”

  I shook my head. “When Joy was arrested. Lippert’s men…”

  He quietly swore, pressed his lips to the hurt, and then we were both completely naked, stripped down until there was nothing more that could come between us.

  The only thing left to take off was the exquisite string of emeralds around my neck. I moved my hands to undo the clasp. Mike stopped me, capturing my wrists and bringing them together above my head. His gaze moved slowly over my bared curves, taking me in for the first time. I held my breath, self-conscious for an instant, until his shining eyes met mine.

  “So beautiful…” he whispered.

  I smiled, and
so did he. Then Mike and I were finally together, and for the next few hours, the rest of the world went away.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  THE sound of ringing woke me. For a moment, I thought it was an alarm clock, and then I realized it was the bedside phone. There was movement next to me on the mattress, and that’s when I remembered—

  Mike.

  I opened my eyes. He was there, beside me. His spartan bedroom was bathed in morning light, the sun rays pouring in through the half-closed miniblinds.

  “Hello?” his deep voice murmured.

  I was about to answer when I realized Mike was talking into the phone receiver. His long arm had allowed him to grab it off the nightstand without even sitting up.

  “No. It’s okay. I asked you to…” he said to the unknown caller. “What did you get?”

  I started to sit up off the pillows; Mike instantly pulled me back down. His free arm wrapped around me, urged me close against his long, strong form.

  “Uh-huh…and?”

  I tucked my head into the crook of his shoulder, rested my hand on his bare chest. Mike’s body was solid, the muscles well-defined. There were scars here, and I lightly outlined an angry-looking slash—a knife wound was my guess. Then I touched some healed incisions from surgeries, which looked like entry points from multiple gunshot wounds.

  Mike’s free hand stopped stroking my hair. His fingers moved lower, to the nape of my neck. His massaging was sweet and leisurely, his finger pads slightly calloused, a texture that made me purr.

  Mike shifted slightly, cleared his throat. “Go on. I’m listening…”

  I pressed my lips where my hands had just been. Mike took in sharp breaths of air, feeling my mouth on his skin. Then his free hand moved down my body on a mission to mess with my focus, too.

  “Okay,” he finally said. “I’ll be in later.”

  He punched the Off button and tossed the phone away. The call may have ended, but Mike’s touching was just beginning.