Dead Cold Brew

by Cleo Coyle

  Unfortunately, my expectations were slightly off.

  “Get her out of here!” McNulty roared.

  “What?” I squeaked, momentarily stunned.

  That’s when Quinn took my arm. “Clare, it’s better if you leave.”

  “I am not going anywhere!”

  “Go with Franco,” Quinn pressed, making eye contact with his sergeant. “Get her home safe,” he ordered. “With all that bling, I want her escorted all the way through the front door. Got it?”

  “You got it, Loo.”

  “But I’m an eyewitness!” I protested. “Don’t you want my statement?!”

  It took two strong men to drag me and my cruel shoes to the unmarked police car; Matt on one arm, Franco on the other. Hey, at least they were working together. But the team spirit ended after I was “helped” into the front seat.

  “How about a ride, Mr. Allegro?” Franco asked from behind the wheel. “Where are you going?”

  “To my warehouse in Red Hook, Brooklyn. It’s nine miles away, but if you’re driving the car, I’d rather walk.”

  “Suit yourself,” Franco said—and left Matt in the New York dust.

  FIFTY-ONE

  AFTER flashing his gold shield to get us through the crime-scene perimeter, Franco turned onto Fifth and switched on his siren.

  For twenty-plus blocks of Manhattan traffic, I vented enough steam to make fifty espressos, ranting my head off over the unmarked car’s wail.

  Eyes on the road, Franco said nothing during my diatribe, save for the occasional “uh-huh” and perfunctory nod of his shaved head.

  Around 25th Street, he hung a right, and finally cut the siren.

  In the ensuing silence, my volcano melted down to an exasperated stare. The young sergeant sheepishly glanced my way.

  “Sorry, Coffee Lady. Try not to take it personally.”

  “But I saw the whole thing. I’m a witness!”

  “Not to Lieutenant McNulty and his men. To them, you’re an uncooperative witness.”

  “What are you talking about? I was willing to cooperate fully with any investigation.”

  Turning south on Seventh, Franco suppressed a smile.

  “What’s so funny?”

  He shrugged his big shoulders. “When you’re on the Job, cooperative has a more . . . nuanced meaning.”

  “Oh, really?”

  Franco nodded.

  “Fine. Educate me.”

  “Okay . . . if you had told McNulty, ‘Gee, Lieutenant, I was sure I heard gunshots, but then I realized it was fireworks,’ then he’d consider you a cooperative witness.”

  “But that’s not what happened. I was sure it was fireworks, right from the start.”

  “That’s why he sent you home. We have a name for that, too: witness correction.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “As tactics go, it’s unofficial, but effective.”

  “I need more.”

  “Right. Say there’s a hit-and-run. You have four witnesses. Three will testify they saw a black car do the deed, and one says it was blue. It’s not smart to confuse the issue in your report by including the one dude who insisted it was a blue car, especially when you find a black car with a drunk driver and the victim’s blood on the grille. That’s witness correction.”

  “But what if you didn’t find the black car right away with all that forensic evidence? Maybe the three witnesses who saw the black car had a bad angle. But the guy who saw the blue car was right.”

  Franco took a breath and blew it out. “His testimony would be something we’d consider . . .”

  And ignore. The sergeant’s tone made that perfectly clear.

  “I just can’t believe Mike went along with sending me home.”

  “Aw, don’t go blaming Lieutenant Quinn. It’s not his crime scene. And he’s got to pick his battles—especially with McNulty.”

  I collapsed back against the seat. “I suppose if anyone actually wrote up my view of the incident, it would make McNulty’s men sound blind and trigger-happy.”

  “Not to mention tanked up.”

  “Well, I admit—I had a few drinks tonight, too. But I kept a cool enough head to figure out the truth of what was happening. Why couldn’t they?”

  “Because two members of McNulty’s special task force were shot.”

  “No, Franco. Just one—and it was a ricochet. I saw it.”

  “Not tonight. Ten days ago, give or take. They were the third and fourth victims of our cop-hunting shooter.”

  FIFTY-TWO

  I’D been slouched in my seat, gazing up at the city’s buildings. Now I sat up straight as a skyscraper and stared at Franco.

  “Two men from McNulty’s squad were shot by the same shooter who hit Sully? Can you be sure it was the same person?”

  “The ballistics are a match. One of McNulty’s men walked out of the hospital the same day; the other had a short vacation. But both were targeted by an active shooter in an elevated position, just like Sully—and me, too, the day they winged that poor traffic cop instead. And I can tell you, the feeling of being hunted can make anyone jumpy.”

  “I don’t doubt that. I’m just surprised the other two victims were also part of a special unit. Is McNulty’s team focused on narcotics, like your OD Squad?”

  Franco shook his head. “Something else entirely.”

  “What else entirely?”

  “It’s an elite grand-theft unit. The official name is a tad unwieldly.”

  “Try me.”

  “Specialized Felony Theft Investigations and Embezzlement and Extortion Task Force.”

  “SFTIEETF?”

  Franco laughed. “Nobody abbreviates it like that, Coffee Lady.”

  “Okay, so what’s the acronym?”

  “No acronym, either, just a nickname. You know, like everyone calls us OD Squad because we start our investigations with citywide incidents of illegal and prescription drug overdoses.”

  “Yes, Franco, I’m all too familiar with your squad’s work.”

  “Oh, yeah, of course. I guess Lieutenant Quinn and you . . .” He winked. “You know, pillow talk.”

  “I’ll forget you said that. Tell me more about McNulty’s unit. What exactly do they do?”

  “They investigate one-time or habitual thefts, including embezzlement or extortion, involving an office, store, construction site—whatever and wherever doesn’t matter. They catch the case when the thefts are suspected to involve someone who works for the company. That’s why their nickname is the Inside Job Squad.”

  “Inside Job Squad. I see . . . catchy.”

  “You think so?”

  “What I think is that I don’t remember the press reporting a single thing about McNulty’s squad. Not the work they do or the strange coincidence of two men from the same unit being targeted. In fact, they gave very few details about the incidents.”

  “What did I tell you? Witness correction at work.”

  “Yes, but why?”

  The big shoulders shrugged again. “McNulty primarily catches perps the same way we do—with surveillance and undercover work. When you’re using those kinds of tactics, the less the press and general public know, the more effective you can be.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. And I wasn’t all that surprised members of the NYPD brass were less than forthright with civilians. Quinn selectively withheld information from me on a routine basis.

  “Subterfuge must be the first subject they teach you at the Police Academy.”

  “Not the first,” Franco said with an amused glance.

  I sighed and returned my gaze to the passing buildings. The farther south we traveled, the more they shrunk in size—from skyscraping offices to fifteen-story apartment houses. Now Franco made a right onto West 11th and the buildings reduced eve
n more, to human scale.

  That’s how the NYPD brass should be looking at this crime, I thought, in human terms . . .

  Two members of Quinn’s squad and two members of McNulty’s squad were targeted. Tonight it appeared someone was targeting McNulty and his people again. Maybe not with a gun, but those M-80s panicked his men enough to shoot wildly and cause a friendly-fire ricochet.

  “Franco, do you know if Eduardo De Santis was ever investigated by McNulty and his crew?”

  “No. Never. And I know that scumbag’s file from front to back.”

  “Then why would he bother going after McNulty’s men?”

  “Why not? If De Santis is out to make the NYPD look bad, I’d say he accomplished that tonight.”

  “I don’t know . . . It seems more calculated than that.”

  “Calculated how?”

  “I’m not sure, but there seems to be a strategic plan here.”

  “Yeah, to create chaos for revenge.”

  “I’ll agree the plan is to create chaos, but if he’s after revenge, why not kill the cops? Why just wound them?”

  “He doesn’t want to martyr us or make us into hometown heroes. He just wants to scare us. That’s my theory. Force us into making mistakes, looking bad to the public . . .”

  “That makes sense, and I understand De Santis’s resentment toward you and Mike and the other members of your squad. You all tried to put him in prison. But why would he go after members of McNulty’s squad ten days ago? And target them again tonight? I think there might be a connection we’re all missing . . .”

  “Maybe, Coffee Lady, maybe not. I just hope Lieutenants Quinn and McNulty find a way to bury the hatchet and move on to what’s important.”

  As the car swung onto Hudson Street, I made a point as close to home as we were: “You know, I could say the same about you and Joy’s father.”

  Franco seemed astonished. “Hey, I’m willing to powwow, anytime, anywhere. But I get the impression the only place Mr. Allegro wants to bury a hatchet is . . .” He tapped his shaved head.

  “I wouldn’t go that far. And I’m certain Matt’s hailed a taxi by now, but you should have tried harder to get him into your car. Maybe if you two sat down and—”

  “Face facts, Coffee Lady: he doesn’t like me.”

  “You arrested him. Twice. Have you ever apologized?”

  “Come on. You and I both know those false arrests are not why Mr. Allegro can’t stand the sight of me.”

  I didn’t have to go full-on Freud to know Franco was right. This wasn’t the rooster syndrome as much as Matt’s maturity issues. In his mind, he was still thirty and Joy barely ten, so . . . How dare this cocky cop try to steal the heart of Daddy’s Little Girl!

  Franco rolled into a parking spot within sight of the Village Blend and cut the engine.

  “Okay, you heard Lieutenant Quinn. I’m under orders to escort you—and your bling—all the way inside, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

  “Well, since you’re coming in anyway, I could fix you something to eat. Are you hungry?”

  Franco’s eyes lit up. “If you’re cooking, I’m always hungry.”

  “That’s very sweet. And smart. Flattery will get you dessert, too.”

  “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have any of those Fried Mozzarella Sticks, would you?”

  “How do you know about those?”

  “Are you kidding? Lieutenant Quinn wouldn’t shut up about them! At every crappy lunch for the past week, his eyes would glaze over and he’d talk about these unbelievable mozzarella sticks you made him, all hot and crunchy and gooey and—”

  “I get the idea . . .”

  I hated to disappoint Franco, but I was low on bread crumbs and completely out of mozzarella. Thinking fast, and with the memory of my own dinner’s cheesy béchamel still blissfully lingering on my tongue, I offered him a nice, big bowl of fettuccine Alfredo instead.

  “Wow, that’s four-star restaurant stuff. Isn’t Alfredo hard to make?”

  “Not at all. It’s so easy I could make it in these cruel shoes.”

  “You don’t have to do that for me, but . . .” Franco cracked a smile. “I know your new fiancé would appreciate it.”

  “Really? I didn’t think he liked the shoes.”

  “What? Didn’t you see his reaction?”

  “Reaction? All he did was stare with a blank face and say I looked ‘nice.’ I thought he was being polite.”

  Franco laughed out loud. “First of all, he didn’t say ‘nice,’ he said ‘very nice’—and he couldn’t take his eyes off your legs. HR translation, he thought you looked hotter than hell.”

  “Really?”

  “Scout’s honor.”

  “Sorry, what’s an HR translation?”

  He shrugged. “Human resources. The new department brass made all the supervising officers go to Politically Correct boot camp. These days you couldn’t get the words you look sexy out of Lieutenant Quinn’s mouth if you beat him with a nightstick.”

  FIFTY-THREE

  “MY God, Clare, you look sexy.”

  “I do?”

  Three hours after Franco left my duplex, I was standing on my bedroom rug, watching Quinn snap on a nearby lamp and prop himself up for a better view. His smile spread slowly in the soft light, but his ice blue eyes were already wide, which surprised me.

  A few minutes ago, he was snoring away in my four-poster. Now he’d caught me in the light, blinking as blankly as the proverbial deer on a country road—not quite as buck naked, but close.

  “Do me a favor, sweetheart, don’t move.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m taking mental pictures . . .”

  I could feel the blush creeping up my cheeks, but Mike’s eyes took me in with such love, I let the moment linger.

  During my brief trip to the bathroom, I’d thrown on my short terry robe, which was now gaping open rather lewdly. Sophia’s stunning ruby earrings were still dangling from my lobes. And strapped to my feet, like Hans Christian Andersen’s red shoes, were Sophia’s stilts—the reason for the latter was a story in itself . . .

  A few hours earlier, I’d kept my promise to Franco and made enough creamy fettuccine Alfredo for two generous helpings plus leftovers. I fulfilled my dessert promise, too, by serving him a stack of our Village Blend “Globs”—fudgy circles of chocolate decadence with hints of espresso in the deep, rich background (a storied recipe once served in Soho decades ago, now insanely popular on our menu downstairs).

  Taking his coffee to go, along with a few Globs for the road, Franco wished me a good night. Then I cleaned up the kitchen and settled in on the living room sofa to wait for Quinn.

  I’d kept the extra Alfredo warm for his midnight snack. More than a thoughtful gesture, I hoped to grill him (between enriched forkfuls of pasta) about his feud with McNulty.

  But by the time Mike got back to my duplex, he wasn’t hungry for food. Or much interested in talking.

  I didn’t blame him. It was our first night together since he’d proposed. He’d even stopped somewhere between Midtown and the Village to pick up a bouquet of flowers.

  They never made it to a vase.

  The reason? Though I’d taken off Sophia’s stilts to make Franco’s Alfredo, the moment I heard Mike’s key in the lock, I decided (for the heck of it) to strap back into those stylish torture devices and strike a pose.

  My toes protested, but I persuaded them it might be worth it.

  Sitting on the sofa, I crossed my legs. When Mike’s broad shoulders filled the doorway, I attempted an alluring smile.

  “Franco claimed you liked the shoes. But I have my doubts. What do you think?”

  Mike didn’t say a word. He simply gave me the flowers, dropped a kiss on my lips, and lifted me in an old fireman’s carry. My feet were more t
han willing to accept the lift upstairs.

  As it turned out, they wouldn’t have to bear my weight again until I woke up, hours later, in the master bedroom, thoroughly naked, except for the ruby earrings and “very nice” shoes, which I realized, upon rubbing my eyes clear of sleep, were still strapped to my feet . . .

  And that’s how I came to be standing on those stilts in my bedroom’s low lamplight, watching the smile widen on the face of my new fiancé.

  “Looks like Franco was half right,” I told Quinn.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I can see you do like the shoes. But he was wrong about the beating.”

  “What beating?”

  “Franco said because the brass sent you through some kind of sensitivity training, the words you look sexy wouldn’t come out of your mouth if I beat you with a nightstick.”

  Quinn arched an eyebrow. “Sounds like fun. You wanna try it?”

  “What? Beating you with a nightstick? No need, Detective, you just said the words!”

  “Oh, sure, in the privacy of the bedroom. But outside that door, believe me, it’s back to ‘you look very nice’ . . . and, for the record, I haven’t carried a nightstick in years. So if you want to use one on me, you’ll have to find your own.”

  “Well, I am resourceful.”

  “That you are.”

  “And observant.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Which is why I’m fairly sure I’ll find a stiff object under those covers.”

  “Clare Cosi! I’m shocked, shocked at your bawdy insinuation!”

  “I’m sorry, Officer, did I offend your delicate sensibilities?”

  “I think I need a safe space.”

  “Hey, you’re the one who brought it up.”

  “Another actionable innuendo.”

  “I said brought it up, Quinn, not get it up.”

  “So you did . . .” He turned down the bedcovers. “Care to investigate?”

  “Absolutely,” I said and slowly walked toward him.

  I’m sure Mike thought I was trying for a sexy sashay, but (frankly) between the blisters on my feet and these cruel shoes, slow was the only speed possible.