by Cleo Coyle
Matt was about to speak again, but I put my hand on his arm, leaned forward, and spoke first. “I think what both of you have said is totally reasonable and logical. Matt here is still pretty upset about Ms. Boggs being shot last night, and you can understand how his worries would extend to the woman in his life.”
“Oh, sure,” Lori said, nodding.
Sue Ellen shrugged. “No problem.”
I could feel Matt’s muscles tensing under my hand. I wrapped my fingers around his arm and squeezed. Just shut up and let me talk.
“Anyway, the thing is, when he laid out his concerns to me, I thought you two should know about them, as well. As the detectives on the case, you want to be aware of all possible leads, right?”
Sue Ellen stared. Lori gave a weak nod.
“Now, if I were in your shoes, I’d be looking at that guy from the White Horse, the one who almost assaulted Ms. Boggs right before she was shot.”
“We are,” Lori said. “The bartender remembered him departing right after you, Mr. Allegro, and the victim left. He ID’d the customer from a mug shot. We have prints off a glass, too. When we get the guy in here, we’ll want you two to attend a lineup and pick him out.”
“The scumbag’s got a history of assaulting women,” Sue Ellen added. “This is the guy.”
“Have you arrested him?” I asked.
Sue Ellen frowned. “We haven’t caught up with him yet.”
“His girlfriend kicked him out of their West Side apartment two weeks ago,” Lori said. “She’s got a restraining order against him, so he’s been crashing with friends, and there’s no permanent residence or place of employment. But we’ll get him.”
“You can bet on it,” Sue Ellen added. “It won’t be long.”
“If he’s your guy,” I said meaningfully. “See, there are a few things that keep bothering me about this man.” I paused and waited.
Lori and Sue Ellen both leaned forward.
“What things?” Sue Ellen asked.
“The shooting was at night,” I said. “And the shooter fired from at least a block away. The witness called you to confirm it, right? His name’s Barry?”
Sue Ellen frowned. “How do you know about Barry?”
“I talked to him last night at the Blend. I’m the one who told him to call you. He said he heard the sound of the single shot right below his window, two and a half blocks from the Blend, which would put him a block and a half from where the victim was hit. Then he heard footsteps walking away right after the sound.”
“That’s right.” Lori nodded. “We have his statement.”
“Well, even if that tequila-soaked loser wasn’t too drunk to pull a trigger and hit a target in one shot, at night, from over a block away, then why did he walk clear of the scene?” I wrinkled my brow as if completely perplexed. “Wouldn’t a guy like that—angry and frustrated and half-drunk—wouldn’t he have run away after a crime of passion like that?”
Lori shared a glance with Sue Ellen.
“And another thing,” I said. “Hazel Boggs was done up to look exactly like Breanne Summour. Walking beside Matt with her arm wrapped around his, she could easily have fooled someone gunning for the famous editor.”
Sue Ellen shifted in her chair. “Okay, Cosi. We get your point. The suspect from the tavern may not be our perp; although, you have to admit, he looks real good for it. But your conclusion that the intended victim might be some other woman . . .” She shook her head. “It’s a long shot.”
“But we’re very glad that you let us know,” Lori quickly added. “Any information you can remember about last night is going to be helpful to us . . .”
Blah, blah, blah . . . I thought. The rehearsed patter for witness dismissal: i.e., You’ve been very helpful. (Not!) Now please go because we have to pursue a real lead.
I couldn’t hold it against either of the detectives. Considering the attempted assault on Hazel minutes before the shooting and the sleazy profession she was in, I would have been pursuing other leads, too.
Sue Ellen and Lori stood up from the table. That’s when I noticed someone had been leaning against the doorjamb—a very attractive someone.
He was two inches taller than my six foot ex with a lantern jaw and a street cop stare, which was currently fixed on me. The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up, and his service weapon was tucked into a leather holster hanging from his rock-solid shoulders. His sandy-brown hair had just been trimmed, his hard jawline closely shaved. The slightest tang of citrus aftershave slipped into the room. I could practically taste him.
My green eyes locked on his arctic-blue gaze, and for the slightest moment of time, an almost tangible spark of energy seemed to connect us.
“Hi, Mike,” I said.
NINE
LORI Soles and Sue Ellen Bass turned and looked toward the door. So did Matt. For a brief moment, utter stillness descended over the small space. Then my ex-husband smirked, leaned back in his metal chair, and folded his well-developed forearms.
“If it isn’t Officer Quinn,” he said. “What poor slob did you mistakenly arrest today?”
“You volunteering, Allegro?” Quinn’s eyebrow arched a fraction. “We have room in the holding cell.”
Sue Ellen laughed. “If you need help cuffing this guy, Lieutenant, call me.” She jerked her thumb in Matt’s direction, threw him a flirtatious wink, and walked toward the doorway.
“By the way,” she told Quinn, passing him on her way out, “I have a bone to pick with you.”
“Me?” Quinn said.
“Yeah. What’s this ‘banned from the building’ crap I’m hearing in the squad room?”
Quinn raised his palms. “I don’t have any problem with you, Bass. It’s Sergeant Friar you should be bitching to.”
“Did Friar call me a bitch?!”
“Uh-oh,” Lori said.
“Don’t twist my words,” Quinn warned. “It’s just an expression.”
Sue Ellen tugged the lapels of her blazer and crossed her hunter-green arms. “It’s a simple question. Did Rocky Friar call me a bitch or didn’t he?”
Now Quinn looked like a doe caught on the West Side Highway. “Talk to Friar.”
With a pissed-off exhale, Sue Ellen strode back into the squad room, Lori Soles on her heels.
Quinn shook his head then sauntered into the room. I liked watching the man move. His tall frame was well muscled, but he was more lanky than brawny, and he operated with the patient ease of a stalking wolf. Without making a sound, he slipped into a seat at the metal table. His dress shirt was slightly wrinkled, his bronze and maroon tie well loosened.
I met his gaze again and pointed at the doorway that Sue Ellen had just stormed through. “What was that about?”
Quinn exhaled. “Oh, Bass got herself involved with a detective in the Fifth’s squad. They were under the radar for months. That was fine when Rocky Friar was living in Staten Island, but then he moved into my apartment building . . .”
Quinn lived in Alphabet City near the Ninth Precinct in a converted warehouse filled with divorced cops. The owner was a retired NYPD detective who believed guys on the job who got thrown out on the street by their wives should have a place to bond. A few months back, Quinn became one of those guys when his wife left him for a younger Wall Street whiz, and their jointly owned Brooklyn brownstone was put up for sale.
Quinn shook his head. “Someone spilled to poor Friar that Bass has slept with almost every man in our apartment house. He hit the ceiling.”
“Did Detective Bass really do that?” I asked, eyes narrowing. “Sleep with every man?”
“Not every man,” Quinn said. “Certainly not me. But Friar broke up with her anyway, mostly to save face. He’s pretty steamed, and he announced to the guys at our weekly get-together that from now on, Sue Ellen Bass is banned from the building.”
“That’s terrible. I mean, if a man really cares for a woman, he shouldn’t let her past wreck their possible future.”
“Sue Ellen’s been working her way through every available cop in the department, Clare. That’s her past. And she should have been up-front about that with Friar.” Quinn shook his head. “I’m sure she’s got a side, but I’m not her boyfriend, so I don’t have any interest in hearing it. Anyway, what are you two doing here? Helping ID the perp in last night’s shooting?”
“Not exactly,” I said.
Matt shifted in his seat and elbowed me lightly. “Tell him.”
“Tell me what?” Quinn replied, spearing my ex-husband with a far less friendly cop stare than he’d bestowed on me.
“Okay, fine,” Matt said. “I’ll tell him.” Then my ex-husband unfolded his arms, relaxed his bristling attitude, and leaned toward Quinn. “I’d like your advice.”
Mike Quinn’s still-as-stone face registered genuine surprise maybe two times a year. This was one of those times. He listened quietly as Matt laid out the whole Breanne-in-peril theory again.
Amazingly, Quinn didn’t laugh. He didn’t put Matt down. He didn’t even “handle” him with one of those canned cop speeches reserved for city paranoids who call the NYPD about official conspiracies and UFOs.
“You know, Allegro,” he said instead, “I think you might be right to worry.”
“You do?” Now it was Matt’s turn to look genuinely surprised.
Quinn nodded. “I don’t like the mud on the SUV’s license plate. I don’t like the execution-style hit on the victim while she’s dressed up like your fiancée and walking right beside you. And I don’t like that your bride-to-be is a public figure who seems to make enemies of people who have something to lose.”
“Thank you!” Matt cried. He turned to me. “I could kiss him.”
Quinn’s eyebrow arched. “Sorry, big fella. It’s not the best neighborhood for that . . . unless you mean it.”
“So what do we do now?” Matt asked, palms up, brown gaze expectant.
I figured Quinn would volunteer to talk to Soles and Bass about running a side investigation on Breanne’s possible enemies. But he didn’t say anything close to that. What he said was, “Use Clare.”
“What?!” I said.
“Clare?” Matt repeated.
“Yeah, Allegro, at the moment, you’ve got nothing concrete, right? The PD can’t get involved with hunches. We need evidence. Have Clare stick close to Breanne this week, snoop around, look for something that might warrant police involvement.”
“I don’t have time for that! I have a business to run and a gourmet coffee and dessert bar to finalize before the end of the week!”
“Calm down,” Quinn said.
“Mike!” I wanted to throttle him.
“Allegro has some genuine hunches here, and you know I subscribe to the Blink theory on hunches.”
“Blink theory?” Matt said. “What’s that?”
“It means you know more than you think you do,” I replied before Quinn started gassing on about it. “You take in a lot of data in the blink of an eye, which is why you’re supposed to trust your flashes of inspiration. Those flashes are usually right. Malcolm Gladwell researched the theory and put it in his book.”
“Blink?” Matt nodded, looking pleased with himself. “Then I am right. Breanne is in danger.”
I shook my head. “That may not be true—”
“So find out,” Quinn said. His tone was pushy, almost taunting, yet his eyes seemed to be laughing, as if he were having fun!
“What is this? A schoolyard dare?”
Quinn ignored me and leaned toward Matt. “She’s good at it, you know. Clare has all the qualities we look for when we promote from the uniformed force, especially the four Is.”
“The four what?” Matt said.
“Inquisitiveness, imagination, insight, and an eye for detail.”
“That last one starts with an E,” I said flatly. “And what about intelligence?”
Quinn shook his head. “We don’t want intelligent cops on the force. We want smart ones.”
“There’s a difference?” Matt asked.
“She might be able to turn up a lead,” Quinn continued, ignoring the question. “Unless she does, the Fish Squad’s going to go after the usual suspects on the stripper.”
“Fish Squad?” Matt said.
“Soles and Bass. It’s what we call those two around here. Not to their faces, of course. Lori Soles has a sense of humor, but I wouldn’t repeat the term within ten feet of Sue Ellen—not if you value an intact skull.”
“Mike, come on!” I protested. “This is ridiculous—”
“Your ex-husband’s scared, sweetheart. Can’t you see that?”
Quinn’s tone was dead serious. His eyes were blue stone. I stared for a moment in dumbfounded disbelief. Oh, I didn’t doubt his words; I knew Matt was very worried. I just never thought I’d hear Mike Quinn express genuine concern for my ex-husband.
“It’s true. I am scared,” Matt confessed. “If you could have seen the way that SUV came right for Breanne on the sidewalk . . .” He shook his head and grimaced, his expression intensifying for a moment into a look of almost physical pain. “I think Quinn’s right. I think you should do this, Clare. Will you? For me? As a wedding gift?”
I couldn’t believe this was happening! “I’ll give it a day. But if I don’t turn up any leads, I’m off the case.”
That seemed good enough for Matt. He thanked me. Then he actually extended his hand across the table. “Thanks, Quinn. You’re not so bad.”
The detective shook Matt’s hand, declining to return the compliment. “Listen, Allegro,” he said instead, “can you give me a few minutes alone with Clare here? I’d like a word with her.”
“Yeah, sure,” Matt said. “And I’ll bet I know which word.”
“Matt!” I said.
He rolled his eyes. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”
As my ex stood and walked away, Quinn unfolded his lanky frame from the metal chair and crossed the little interview room to shut the door.
I rose, too, and stepped right up to him. “Why did you set me up, Mike? I don’t appreciate—”
His lips found mine before I could finish the sentence. Despite my complete and total annoyance with the man, my arms drifted north, circled his neck, and hung on. He backed me against the wall and got serious.
God, the man liked to kiss. He took his time with his lips and tongue, let my taste and smell roll over his receptor cells like a sommelier who’d finally found the time to get down to his cellar and savor the rarest vintage in his collection.
When we finally parted, he smiled down at me. There were stray locks of chestnut hair on my cheek. His fingers brushed them aside, curled them around my ear.
“Tonight, sweetheart,” he said softly. “My place.”
“No way. I’m not forgiving you for this.”
“For what?” He knitted his brow, a shameful attempt to appear clueless.
“Don’t even try to play innocent with me. You’re obviously pissed that Matteo’s moved back in with me for a few days. Hooking me up to investigate Breanne is your pathetic ploy to steer me clear of the man.”
“You’re way too cynical, Cosi. You know that? I honestly think Allegro’s theory is worth checking out.”
I might have believed him, if I hadn’t caught his fleeting half smile.
“You owe me, Quinn.” I poked his hard shoulder. “Do you hear?”
“Yeah, I hear. And I’ll make it up to you. I promise . . . starting tonight.”
I parted my lips to protest again, but once again Mike Quinn’s mouth was faster.
TEN
THERE are things you do for people you don’t like because they’re attached to people you do like. Take a sarcastic sister-in-law who drives you nuts with her barely veiled insults. She’s never once thanked you for all the Christmas gifts you’ve sent her over the years, but you keep sending them because if you drop her off the family list, it’s the brother you love who’s going to get his ear chewed off about the
slight.
Breanne Summour was like that for me now. She was not my favorite person. But she was about to become Matteo’s wife, and since he cared whether she lived or died, I was stuck caring, too. I know that sounds appalling, but I found the woman barely tolerable on a charitable day.
Still, I reminded myself, she did come through for Joy.
Last fall, when my daughter was falsely accused of murder, Breanne had used her VIP connections to secure Joy a top criminal defense attorney. I had to give Bree credit for that. After all, Randall Knox had taken embarrassing public swipes at the woman for being connected to Matt. It must have been mortifying for her, yet she hung in there. I tried to keep that in mind as my ex began hustling me from West Tenth to Hudson.
“Where are we going, Matt?”
“Uptown. Bree’s having a final fitting of her wedding gown. I got hold of her on the cell while you were with Quinn.” Matt shot me a smirking glance. “What were you two discussing up there, by the way?”
“Uh . . . the case . . .”
“Then why do you smell like the guy’s cheap drugstore aftershave?”
“Mind your own business.”
“I am,” Matt said, as we racewalked the tree-lined street. “You and Quinn are my business now that you’re going to help me figure out who wants to kill Breanne.”
“I wouldn’t count on Quinn this week. Not unless Breanne ODs on painkillers.”
“What are you talking about?!”
I told Matt about the OD Squad that Quinn was supervising.
“Well, then, Sherlock, I guess it’s up to you to figure this out.”
We reached the corner, and Matt stepped off the curb to look for a cab. Hudson Street was one-way uptown, and the traffic was sporadic. The April breeze was mild, and the sun felt warm on my cheeks, which was lucky, because I’d failed to foresee this private investigation gig, and I hadn’t worn a jacket.
At the moment, I was dressed for espresso bar work in hip-hugging Old Navy blue jeans, low-heeled boots, and a long-sleeved cream-colored jersey. I really liked the jersey ($26 at the Gap). It was super-soft cotton blended with clingy spandex; and the line of tiny cocoa buttons that marched all the way down the V-neck highlighted a somewhat sexy hint of cleavage—which, now that I think about it, was probably what provoked Mike Quinn’s cop stare in the first place, not to mention the “word” we had in private.