by Cleo Coyle
Only one! I mouthed to Matt in triumph.
“Listen,” I told Lori, “when Moirin lit that cigarette, Piper Penny was being interviewed by New York One. You can find the raw tape of it and time it for yourself, but I highly doubt Piper had time to complete that interview, throw on a coat to shield her clothes from blood splatter, track down Moirin at the park’s carousel, and beat her to death.”
“I don’t know, Cosi. We have orange hairs on the murder weapon. We have a motive and witnesses to Ms. Penny’s violent temper that night, for which she has an established pattern on previous occasions. Timewise, it still might be possible—”
“But smoking a Lucky Strike takes under ten minutes, and Moirin’s cigarette wasn’t even completely finished before it was snuffed out by her own blood—”
“Dear God,” Matt muttered next to me.
Lori exhaled hard. “How do you explain her very unique color of hair on the murder weapon?”
“I can’t. Unless . . .”
“What?”
“The captain of the New York Raider’s hockey team, Ross Puckett—he was Piper’s date, remember? Well, Puckett was nowhere in sight when Moirin was killed—”
“So he decided to accost or sexually assault Ms. Fagan, and it ended in murder? That’s your theory?” Lori’s tone was skeptical. “It would mean Ross planned ahead and brought some of his date’s hair to frame her.”
“I can’t explain the orange hairs, only the timeline.”
Lori sighed. “I don’t know about Puckett, but I’m going to push the hair analysis to the front burner. We’ll probably know something by midday tomorrow. I’ll get back to you.”
“Thank you!” I said and ended the call.
Matt adjusted his collar. “Let’s head back to the Blend. This storm seems to be getting worse.”
My mood was buoyed by Lori’s response, but then I glanced at the murky sky, crowded with cascading flakes, and my spirits fell.
“I wish Mike would call.”
“Maybe he did. Check your messages again.”
I did and shook my head. “Something must be wrong. Before I left the Bryant Park Grill, I tried calling the airline. They said information on Quinn’s flight was pending. His ex-wife won’t return my call, and he has yet to return mine. Pending? What does that mean? Honestly, I don’t know what to do . . .”
Matt reached for his own phone. “Maybe I can help. I downloaded a dozen airline apps into this thing. Give me his flight info.”
“It’s a commuter airline. Capitol Express, Flight 324 out of Baltimore. It was supposed to take off a little after five . . .”
Matt paged past screens until he located the right app. “Here we go. I’ll find your boyfriend for you.” His thumbs went into action. “The flight took off two hours late, and it landed in LaGuardia at . . .”
Matt paused, then swallowed.
“What?”
“Nothing . . . I mean it’s probably nothing. The plane didn’t land, that’s all.”
“Didn’t land? But it’s a one-hour flight, and it took off over five hours ago!”
Matt’s thumbs repeated their keyboard dance. “I can’t get anything more. The real-time schedule just says Capitol Express Flight 324 has not yet arrived.”
“Can it be circling that long?”
“I doubt the plane had that much fuel. It was probably diverted because of the weather.”
“Then why doesn’t it say that?!”
Matt looked up from the screen. “What the hell was Quinn doing on an airplane tonight, anyway? Did you pressure him to come home?”
“Just the opposite! I begged him to stay put. It was his ex-wife who bullied him onto that plane. That’s why we . . . well, we had words.”
“You and the redheaded underwear model went at it again? Who brought the handcuffs this time?”
“Not funny.”
“Well, what exactly did she tell you?”
I went through the entire play-by-play: How Leila Quinn dropped off their kids at the Cookie Swap with an “update on Mike” for me. According to her, he couldn’t get a flight out of Washington National, so he called her to apologize for missing the party. She went nuts and guilt-tripped him so badly about “letting his kids down” that he changed his plans again and drove for an hour to BWI, which was just fine with her.
“When Leila Quinn smugly told me how she ‘convinced’ Mike to drive to Baltimore to get a flight to New York in time for the party, I told her a thing or two, and she left the Cookie Swap in a hissy fit.”
“Sorry I wasn’t there. I do enjoy a good catfight.”
Off my irritated look, Matt raised an eyebrow. “Don’t be modest. I personally think you could take her at mud wrestling.”
“Again. Not funny.”
“It’s a little funny . . .” He shrugged. “Seriously, Clare, don’t feel bad. What’s the holiday season without a family squabble?”
“We’re not family.”
“Not yet. But the flatfoot gave you that cereal box ring, didn’t he?”
“The Claddagh is a friendship ring.”
“It’s more than that,” he said quietly. “And you know it.”
“I do, but . . .” I closed my eyes. “For five months now, Mike’s been commuting from Washington . . . and I miss him so much, especially at night . . . and I’m here, and he’s not, and he must know that I’m worried sick about him . . . yet he never even bothered to call!”
I stopped and met my partner’s gaze. “What if he can’t call? Didn’t you once tell me that when a plane goes down, airlines never say so? They simply list the flight as never arriving . . . Matt, what if . . .”
My voice caught, and I hated myself but the tears finally came. I could feel my nose running and my body shaking.
“Oh crap,” Matt whispered. “Clare?”
He moved to take me in his arms, but stopped—and in a monumental moment of growth, Matteo Allegro actually made an effort to respect my boundaries.
“Do you need a hug?” he asked sheepishly.
I shook my head no, but like my embarrassing pommes frites breakdown, something inside me crumbled. My arms groped for something to hold on to, and before I knew it, my face buried itself in his strong shoulder, where it proceeded to ruin his exquisitely woven cashmere topcoat.
Twelve
THAT night I discovered something far worse than notification—waiting to be notified.
After (literally) crying on Matt’s shoulder, he offered to stay with me, but I wiped my eyes and insisted he rejoin his wife.
“I’ll let you know if I hear anything,” I assured him.
“You do that, Clare, because putting you through this was completely unnecessary on Quinn’s part, a total dick move; and if that flatfoot actually turns up alive and well, you better let me know because I’d like to kill him.”
“I appreciate your loyalty, Matt—I do. But I think there’s been more than enough killing tonight . . .”
We walked me back to the coffeehouse in silence. The historical district had gone silent, too. Few vehicles attempted to negotiate the slippery streets, which were becoming impassable, and the tops of every parked car looked like some wedding cake designer went mad with whipped cream frosting.
By the time we reached the Village Blend, the shop was emptying out. I bade Matt good night and brushed the snow off my parka. As my night shift served the last stragglers, I made private calls to Tucker and Nancy.
Then I politely cleared the shop and locked the front door. Gathering my kids together around the fading fire of the shop’s brick hearth, I broke the news about Moirin.
Gardner Evans bowed his head with stoic sadness, Dante Silva cursed like a Bronx cop, and Vicki Glockner burst into tears, her crumpet-colored curls breaking free of their loose ponytail.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I’m very upset, too.”
“I was Moirin’s Secret Santa!” Vicki shared between sobs. “I already put her gift beside Bing Crosby in th
e pantry. I couldn’t wait to see her reaction when she opened it!”
“What did you get her?” Gardner gently asked.
“Tickets to see Purple Lettuce.”
I blinked in confusion. “You got her tickets to see radicchio?”
Vicki shook her head and began to sob again.
Dante caught my eye. “Purple Lettuce is an indie band.”
Whoops. “What a thoughtful gift,” I quickly assured Vicki. “Moirin really liked those downtown club bands, didn’t she?”
“They’re actually from Long Beach in Nassau County,” Vicki informed me. “They’ve gotten really big now, but Moirin said she’s followed them from their first dive appearance on the Island.”
Dante cursed again. “Who would do that to an innocent girl?!”
His outburst was so sharp and loud that Gardner, Vicki, and I started.
Clearly, Dante was the angriest, and I shouldn’t have been surprised. Most days, he was an easygoing, “space music”–loving, live-and-let-live kind of dude. But like most artists, he had rivers of passions that ran deep; and when heated, those depths boiled up with ferocity.
Suddenly, he was peppering me with questions about who did it, or who the police thought did it. And the look in his eyes said he was ready to go out into the storm by himself and bring the killer to justice with his bare hands.
I could have mentioned Piper Penny, but since I firmly believed those orange hairs either didn’t belong to her or were placed there to frame her, I simply said—
“The police have a number of leads.”
“Come on, boss. Don’t give me that official baloney. Who are they looking at for this?”
“What happened to M was awful,” I replied levelly, “but we have to control our emotions. We have to trust the police to bring M’s killer to justice.”
Dante exhaled hard on that, and I bit my own cheek.
As far as “trusting” the police went, I certainly trusted Mike, and I trusted Lori Soles; but I did not (for one nanosecond) trust Fletcher Stanton Endicott. Unfortunately, he was the lead detective in Moirin’s case.
Where did that leave me?
Frustrated, that’s where—which was why I began questioning my staff about Moirin’s life, specifically about her boyfriend, Dave.
Like Tucker and Nancy, none of them had ever met Dave. They didn’t know much about Moirin, either, for that matter. All they knew was that her family was back in Ireland. Other than that, she’d kept her private life just that—private.
“Let’s finish our work and call it a night, okay?” I finally said.
“Gardner and Vicki should get out of here,” Dante insisted. “They have the longest commute. I can just walk home.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yeah. I need to burn off my fumes,” Dante said. “You might as well head upstairs, too, boss. I just want to put on my music and try to chill.”
I glanced at our French doors, framed in tiny white Christmas lights, the casement panes half coated with shaggy frost.
“You know what, Dante?” I said with a sigh. “I think we all need to chill. And given tonight’s weather, it won’t be a problem.”
Thirteen
“JAVA! Frothy!”
The sight of my two furry roommates bounding into my apartment’s kitchen didn’t allay my worries about Quinn, or lift my spirits about Moirin, but they did make me feel less alone.
Java was my big coffee bean brown lady with attitude; Frothy, my sweet little ball of white fluff. As I popped a juicy can of Salmon Supreme, their purring bodies circled my legs like a yin and yang of feline gratitude.
Out of habit more than hunger, I opened the fridge to scan the contents and spied the medium-rare pepper-crusted roast beef. It was perfectly cooked, all ready to be sliced razor thin for wraps and sandwiches. I’d made it special, to welcome Mike home.
I slammed closed the fridge door. Okay! Enough of this waiting, I need a pro . . .
I found my cell and placed a call to Sergeant Emmanuel Franco. Holding my breath, I prayed he would answer and not his voice mail.
“What’s up, Coffee Lady? Isn’t it past your bedtime?”
“Have you heard from Mike?”
“No, should I have?”
“He’s missing . . .”
I explained the situation—including my extreme frustration at not knowing who the heck to call on the Washington end of Quinn’s life because he would never tell me anything about his work in Washington.
Franco’s reply was cop-calm. “Try not to worry, okay? I have a contact with LaGuardia security. I’ll find out where his flight was diverted . . .”
If it was diverted, I thought, swallowing hard.
After ending the call, I trudged up the short flight of stairs to the duplex’s second floor, rubbing my arms as I moved through the chilly gloom of the hall to the master bedroom.
During the decades Matt’s mother ran the Village Blend, she’d lived in this two-floor apartment above the coffeehouse. Over the years, she’d furnished the place with lovingly preserved antiques, many of them museum-quality pieces.
An array of paintings and sketches graced the walls, each from an artist who’d patronized her shop at one time or another—Hopper, Krasner, Warhol, Keith Haring. She even framed a doodle on a napkin by a half-drunk Jackson Pollock.
None of it cheered me now; and then I saw it, a blinking light on my bedside phone! Someone had left a message on the landline! I literally lunged for the button, hoping I’d hear Mike’s voice, but as the recording played, my spirits bottomed out.
“Boss,” Esther said, “I can’t believe the news I came home to . . .”
I know, I thought, expecting her to unload about Moirin.
“Boris lost his job today!”
What? I blinked in confusion, until it hit me. Esther’s “Worst News Ever” text message was about her boyfriend, not Moirin.
“Boris can’t believe it,” she went on. “That Brighton Beach bakery has been in Brooklyn for four decades! Today the owner comes in and announces he’s closing the business and moving to Florida! Everyone’s out of a job, just like that! It’s maddening . . .”
Esther went on for another minute, ending with a desperate plea for me to give her boyfriend a job.
Boris Bokunin was smart, funny, and artfully offbeat. The Russian-born aspiring rap artist would fit in well with my oddball family of baristas, and I had no doubt he’d be a good worker. I simply didn’t have the budget to hire him.
Now I felt even worse—and I didn’t have the emotional energy to make another notification call.
I’ll talk to you in the morning, I mentally promised Esther. Then I peeled off my work clothes, threw on my oversized Steelers’ T-shirt, and collapsed into the antique four-poster.
The master bedroom’s cold hearth made me especially sad tonight. A fire would dispel the chill in the air, but I didn’t have the heart for it. Mike was the expert at kindling blazes in this room (yes, in more ways than one), and I always left it to him.
Frustrated with the winter-night silence, I reached for the remote and flipped on the television—a new addition to my bedroom. (With Mike in DC so often, my evenings had gotten too quiet.) Turning to one of the twenty-four/seven cable news channels, I hoped for an update on the storm and got it. The blizzard was the lead.
“. . . ten to twelve inches in the New York City area,” a perky weather girl forecasted, “with heavier accumulation north and west of the city. Now back to our Storm Tracker desk!”
“Thanks, Carol . . .” said the more serious-faced female anchor. “The Northeast was slammed tonight with the first deadly storm of the season. Airports from Virginia to Massachusetts are closed and travel advisories are now in effect until eight AM. New York’s Mayor Stanton held a press conference earlier . . .”
“There’s no reason to put your life and others’ lives in danger,” Stanton’s slightly nasally voice advised from behind a podium. “Stay off the road
s. Our plows will be working all night, but secondary and tertiary streets may be impassable until midmorning. Remember, our heat hotline is 311, but for life-threatening emergencies dial 911 . . .”
As the anchorwoman’s voice came back, I felt the light movement of cat paws on the bed, then the warmth of two furry bodies curling up beside me.
“. . . and reports are coming in from all over the Northeast. Dozens of car and truck collisions, some fatal, and—as we first reported thirty minutes ago—we have an unconfirmed report of a commuter plane, which had been diverted over the Atlantic, going down off the New Jersey coast . . .”
A plane went down?
“Meroow!” Java complained as I bolted upright.
“To find out more, let’s go live to Bob Morris in Trenton. Bob, what can you tell us?”
“Well, Joan, emergency crews are mobilized on what sources say is a commuter plane crash off the coast of New Jersey . . .”
I listened closely for any mention of an airline, a flight number, even an origin city. But “Bob” mentioned none of it! Was he actually in the dark? Or did the authorities ask him to hold back details, until next of kin were notified?
I lunged for the landline handset and dialed Capitol Express. The airline was a small company with an automated operator who asked me to hit 1 for yes and 2 for no about ten times before I managed to get a live operator.
“Capitol Express, how may I direct your call?”
“Your automated system continually says that information about Flight 324 is pending. Can you please tell me if it actually took off from BWI—and if it did, when and where it landed?”
“Ma’am, are you a family member of a passenger on board that flight?”
“Actually, I’m a . . .” Just say yes, Clare! “Yes, yes! I’m a family member.”
“Family members should call this 1-800 number . . .” recited the woman. “Leave your name and a contact phone number and one of our special agents will be in touch within the hour. Would you prefer I connect you?”
“Yes, connect me!”