by Cleo Coyle
ONE flash of his gold shield and the cackling stopped. When Quinn spoke again, his tone was dipped in steel.
“My partner here has a few questions for you. If you’re smart, you’ll give her your full attention—and respect—because this park is legally closed; from the smell of it, you’re not drinking soda pop; and I can have backup here in less than five minutes . . .” As Quinn finished, he casually opened his sports coat, just enough for them to glimpse the butt of his brand-new Glock nestled in its shoulder holster.
For a few seconds, the young men shared uneasy glances. Then they all stared at me, Quinn included.
“You’re on,” he whispered.
I cleared my throat, lowered my voice, and in my best imitation of “just the facts” Sergeant Franco, asked—
“Any of you see a young woman tonight?”
I went on to describe the dead girl; what she was wearing; height, weight, etc. But they all shook their heads.
“We didn’t see nothin’.”
“Hell, we just got here fifteen minutes ago.”
“We didn’t know the park was closed.”
“Yeah, we didn’t know.”
“Okay, gentlemen, we’re done. Move along. Out of the park . . .”
Quinn’s sweeping Maglite showed them the way.
Alone again, I noticed the edges of his lips were quirking upward.
“That was fun for you, wasn’t it?”
He arched an eyebrow. “You’re the one who said I should enjoy our little walk in the park.”
“I’ll enjoy it when we recover something to help that poor girl I found floating in the river . . .” I thought of the Groovy Murders again, all those families and parents waiting for word on their lost loved ones. “This is so frustrating.”
“I know, Cosi. I’ve been there—a thousand times. That’s police work. If you want to get anywhere, you have to be willing to make friends with the three P’s.”
“Permits, parades, and parking violations?”
He laughed. “Painstaking patience and persistence.”
“Believe me, Lieutenant, I’m willing.”
“Good. Then let’s keep at it.”
* * *
• • •
TEN minutes later, Quinn stopped at an overflowing trash bin.
“You’re not—”
“I am . . .” Reaching inside his jacket, he grabbed a pair of gloves. “You don’t know how many times I’ve found incriminating evidence tossed into the trash and forgotten.”
I plucked the gloves from his hand. “Must I remind you, this is my investigation?”
“Clare, I don’t want you going through—”
I moved the gloves out of his reach, and quite a long reach it was, given Quinn’s height.
“Listen, Mike, half the job of managing food service for the public is managing the garbage they leave behind, which makes me the expert here. Besides, you don’t even know what the shoe looks like. If it’s in this bin, I’ll find it.”
I slapped my flashlight into his hands, pulled on the gloves, and was about to dive in when we were interrupted by a loud clattering. We looked up to find a noisy shopping cart coming toward us, pushed by a rail-thin gray-haired man wearing a tattered tuxedo.
Neither Quinn nor I was surprised.
From the guitar-carrying Naked Cowboy of Times Square, to the strange, slick-haired Snare Drummer sticking out famous solos in his red velvet smoking jacket, to the break-dancing Santa, who used to frequent my shop, the variety of New York eccentrics was never-ending.
But then this city has always been a haven for oddballs and misfits, and (honestly) I hoped it always would be. In my view, everyone had a freak flag. Some of us just flew it higher than others.
The gentleman coming toward us tonight was a particular genus of street life: the rolling junk collector. This one had painted his rickety shopping cart in a rainbow of colors. He pushed it with pride in his natty tux, the squeak of its wheels joining the clomp-clomping rhythm of the stacked heels on his red and black snakeskin boots.
Halting the cart beside us, he gloated—
“Too late, kiddies. I got all the good stuff out of that one. You got to be fast if you want the good stuff!”
Playing along, Quinn nodded solemnly. “I guess you’re right. You were too quick for us. Did you happen to find a shoe?”
“A bright pink slip-on sneaker,” I quickly added.
“Nope. But I do have a pair of flip-flops in here somewhere.” He squinted down at Quinn’s legs. “Too small for Big Foot here, but they’ll fit you easy, girly. Want to try them on? I’ll sell ’em to you cheap.”
“We’ll take a rain check. But we are interested in one thing, if you have it—a little information . . .”
Quinn’s glance told me I was “on” again, describing the girl with the heart tattoo.
“Ain’t seen nobody like that. Saw a six-foot lady of the evening with a tiara, yellow wig, and ball gown. A BMW picked her up on Twelfth and drove off.” He scratched his chin. “’Course my eyes ain’t so good these days. Can’t be sure she was a she.”
“Right. Well, thanks for your trouble,” Quinn said, slipping the man a fiver. “You have a good night.”
“Oh! Thank you, sir! Bless you both!” Tipping an imaginary hat, the man with the cart trundled away. “Good luck finding your girly friend!”
Our next encounter came quickly after that, but it wasn’t nearly as cordial . . .
We reached an area across from 28th Street called Habitat Garden. The name had to be ironic since there was nothing garden-like about it—no flowers or plants—though the small concrete plaza did feature a few eccentrically sculpted habitats.
There was a square pavilion, made of metal, with permanent chairs built into the supporting poles like seats on a bizarre merry-go-round. A few yards away, a massive, oddly shaped slab, with seats cut into it at irregular intervals, looked like a breakfast nook from the Bronze Age.
Both “habitats” were uninhabited at this hour, but we approached them with high hopes. These were just the sort of landmarks people might use to arrange a meeting.
As we entered the deserted area, I noticed a male silhouette swiftly detach itself from beneath a cluster of trees. Without a word, the man fell into step behind us.
I leaned into my fiancé. “I think we’re about to be mugged.”
No smile this time. Quinn’s lips were tight as he replied—
“I know.”
Twenty-one
“HEY!”
The call was sharp, the voice low and gruff.
We turned to find a youngish man, early to mid-twenties. The stranger’s face was unnaturally pale, his eyes close-set. A scraggly goatee sprouted from his recessed chin, and an oversize jacket crawled around on his skinny shoulders.
“Give me your phones and wallets. I got a knife . . .”
“What are you hooked on?” Quinn quietly asked as he nudged me behind him. “Heroin? Oxy . . .”
The signs were there, and Quinn had seen them countless times. The emaciated physique, the sickly look. Dark circles under eyes with extremely small pupils, even in this shadowy light.
“You don’t need to do this,” Quinn pressed. “I can get you help.”
Shaking with agitation, the mugger stepped closer. “Give me your phone and your money. Hers, too. Or I’ll cut you both!”
Despite the threat, the mugger’s hands remained in the pockets of his black denim jacket.
Quinn’s grip tightened on the Maglite. “Show me your knife first.”
“You’ll see it when I stick you in the gut and cut your girlfriend’s throat!”
“Naw, I don’t think so. Not after I show you my gun and shield.”
The mugger’s eyes went wide when he realized his mistake. But as he turned to flee,
my fiancé’s Big Foot hooked the punk’s ankle, tripping him.
Our mugger hit the concrete with an audible “Oof!” Then in a move practiced more times than a Yankee infielder’s double play, Quinn tossed me his Maglite with one hand while whipping out cuffs with the other. Before the dazed kid could react, he was shackled and on his knees.
“Call 9—”
“Doing it!”
To free my hands, I quickly pocketed my flashlight and bent to set down the Maglite. Suddenly, I heard Quinn curse.
In a last burst of defiance, our mugger put up a struggle. I jumped out of the way as Quinn subdued him. Now the kid was flat on the ground with Quinn’s knee in his back.
“Stay down. Stop moving,” he ordered.
As I talked with the 911 operator, Quinn continued speaking with the kid on the ground. No more orders. He was back to being the social worker, getting him to come clean about his addiction, his identity. Where was he from? Did he have any family? What drove him this low?
With the police on their way, I knew our shoe searching was over for the night. It seemed pointless now—even dangerous—to continue.
I was sorry, but grateful to Quinn for backing me up. Proud of him, too, for helping those homeless men and this lost soul. His promise to get this kid help for his addiction wasn’t idle. I knew he’d do it.
After the weak whine of police sirens grew stronger, and the 911 operator assured me that help was on the way, I moved to retrieve Quinn’s Maglite, which had rolled away during that last scuffle.
As I bent to pick it up, my gaze absently followed its stabbing light. The golden column reached across the concrete walkway, toward the railing along the riverbank.
What I saw there made me blink—then shout!
Beneath a low bench, spotlighted by the flashlight’s glow, was a pink slip-on sneaker, lying on its side.
Twenty-two
“BREAKFAST or dinner?”
It was a valid question at 4:35 AM.
“I could go for either,” Quinn replied between sips of my smooth and soothing low-caffeine dark roast. “Dinner, breakfast, glorified snack, whatever you like. You decide.”
We were back in my duplex apartment above the Village Blend. Dawn would soon be lightening the dark canvas outside my kitchen window, signaling the start of a new day. For me and Quinn, it was also the end of a very long one.
True to his promise, after I’d found my deceased customer’s missing shoe, Quinn had called his contacts in Night Watch. Once a patrol car took our mugger away, my newly discovered “crime scene” became an NYPD social scene.
Hand shaking and backslapping increased as more uniforms and CSU detectives appeared. Fellow officers, whom Quinn hadn’t seen in months or even years, congratulated him on our recent engagement.
That’s the way things were on the street. Whenever cops came together, they caught up with one another, talked about the Job, shared personal news.
As for business: NYPD tower lights went up, along with a perimeter of crime-scene tape, and the search for forensic evidence began. A female Night Watch officer took my statement, which (Sorry, Franco!) included not only the facts, but my theories about Richard Crest, and my strong suggestion that the police question the man as soon as possible.
As I expected, the officer told me the case would be assigned to detectives who would follow up with me in the next few days.
When we finally left the chilly gloom of Hudson River Park, my long-suffering lieutenant had offered to warm me up and “reward my good work” with a carb-fest at Veselka—a twenty-four-hour East Village diner that had been stuffing New Yorkers with stuffed cabbage and other Ukrainian soul foods, from cheese blintzes to potato pierogi, for over sixty years.
But I turned him down.
If I could stay awake a few more hours, I’d be able to open my coffeehouse on time and arrange coverage of the shop while I got some sleep. Given my goal, descending two flights of stairs from my apartment would be a lot easier than drowsily driving twenty blocks from Quinn’s East Village neighborhood.
Sure, a plate of warm blintzes was tempting, but I knew what would happen with my last bite of cheese-stuffed crepe. Quinn would start whispering sweet ideas about his king-sized bed—and that would be the end of my conscientious manager plan.
Instead, as we left the cold waterfront, I suggested he come home with me. I needed to feed my two furry roommates (Java and Frothy). And I had enough adrenaline left in my system to fix a human snack, too.
In fact, Madame had given me a wonderful recipe for Blueberry Blintzes. She’d gotten it from (of all people) the legendary abstract expressionist Jackson Pollock—another painter who loved the art of cooking. No doubt he also loved the splatter of blueberries on the blank canvas of folded crepes.
The question was: Did I have the ingredients for this foodie work of art? The answer came with a quick inventory of my fridge.
Pollock used a combination of cottage and cream cheeses for his blintz filling, neither of which I had. Farmer’s cheese would have been a good substitute (that’s what Veselka used), but I didn’t have enough.
So what did I have?
Italian cold cuts—check.
Mild provolone—check.
Flour tortillas—check.
“Okay,” I announced, “we’re on!”
“We are?” Quinn raised a lecherous eyebrow. “You’re ready to join me upstairs?”
“Behave, Lieutenant—at least a little longer—because I have all the ingredients for my famous Italian Sub Quesadilla.”
Intrigued, Quinn loosened his tie, sat down at my table, and stretched his long legs.
“In that case, I’ll wait.”
Twenty-three
TEN minutes later, Quinn’s eyes were closed in ecstasy.
No, we were not in the bedroom. We were still in my kitchen, where coffee-furred Java and fluffy white Frothy were feasting happily on Fancy Feast, and the good lieutenant was tearing hungrily into my crazy Italian-Mexican concoction.
“Cosi,” he said, between satisfying chews and swallows, “how did you ever come up with this?”
“Necessity is often the mother of foodie invention.”
“You were out of queso blanco?”
“Close. Back when I was married to Matt—and he was actually home—he liked to make traditional Puerto Rican–style pernil. One weekend, those amazing pieces of roasted pork were all gone, and a nor’easter was raging. I remember my Joy was only a few years old. She was so scared of the thunder that Matt convinced her it was nothing more than a big drum being played by a giant parading around in the sky. He had her marching around the apartment, pretending to play her own drum. ‘Boom! Boom! Boom!’ You should have seen the two of them—they were pretty adorable.”
“I’ll bet.”
“We didn’t have much cash for takeout, and I didn’t want Matt going out into the deluge, so I invented these.” (It was a cinch, given the stack of tortillas on hand for the pernil and my years helping my grandmother make subs for her little Italian grocery.)
“I know my squad would love them. Easy to make, right?”
“Sure, just a few tricks to keep in mind.”
“Which are?”
I suppressed a laugh. The only thing cops liked to talk about more than the Job was food.
“Tell them to warm the cold cuts first. Some of that luxurious, buttery fat will melt out of the meat and into the pan, which will boost the flavor.”
Quinn dipped the edge of a second quesadilla into the small bowl I’d filled with olive oil, vinegar, and herbs. “Mmm . . .” He closed his eyes again. “This salad dressing dip is inspired, too.”
I nodded. “A classic Italian sub comes with a drizzle of salad dressing. So I thought, why not turn it into a dip for the quesadilla? The bright tang perfectly complements the unctuous richness
of the meats, don’t you think?”
He licked his fingers. “What meats, exactly?”
“Whatever salumi you like: prosciutto, salami, soppressata—”
“Super-whatta?” `
“It’s what you’re eating, buddy: dried Italian sausage.”
“Well, it’s delicious, even if I can’t pronounce it.” He smiled. “What else am I eating?”
“Mortadella—that’s basically Italian bologna. It’s made with big chunks of fat that will melt like a dream in your hot pan . . .”
He raised an eyebrow. “Are you trying to turn me on, Cosi? Because if you are, it’s working.”
I laughed. “After your cold cuts are warm, take them out of the pan, drizzle in a little olive oil, and heat it through. Then you’re basically making a meat-stuffed grilled cheese, except you’re using tortillas instead of bread.”
“Got it—except the cheese. What kind? Mozzarella?”
“Thinly sliced provolone. Not the aged kind. You want the young, mild version. It melts as beautifully as mozzarella but has more flavor . . .”
As I spoke, Quinn took another bite. Strings of oozing cheese trailed from his lips. With sensual sounds of gustatory joy, he used his tongue to recapture those warm, delectable strands.
It was surprisingly erotic, and my mind paused a few seconds, contemplating what else the lieutenant might do with his tongue.
“Sweetheart? You okay?”
No, I wanted to say. I’m tired. I’m in love with you. And I’m ready to melt, too. Let’s go upstairs . . .
But I didn’t say that. Instead, I gritted my teeth against my weak flesh and checked my watch. I had responsibilities, even if my libido didn’t.
“Any dessert?” Quinn asked, licking his fingers clean.
Forcing my attention away from the man’s mouth, I did a quick dessert recon and came up with victory. The last two squares of my Italian Cream Cake.
Despite its “Italian” moniker, the cake was an American specialty (some say) invented by an Italian baker living in the South. That’s why the recipe I’d made came not from my nonna but Tucker’s Granny Chestnut in his native Louisiana.