by Cleo Coyle
I turned. “Run, Roman!”
“Run? Run where?”
“To the next car!”
I grabbed his wrist and pulled him up the aisle. When we reached the end, I slid aside the heavy steel door. The roar of the tunnel filled the car, along with a whooshing blast of musty underground air.
The Metropolitan Transportation Authority doesn’t like riders crossing between the subway cars. On every line in Manhattan, the doors between the cars are locked. But for some reason—tradition, maybe, or because it’s an elevated train—the doors between the cars on the 7 line are never locked.
That deviation in transit system procedure might just save our lives, I thought, but it wasn’t over yet. Roman and I had to cross a gap between one car and another while the rocking train flew across the ancient track at forty miles per hour. There was plenty of incentive to risk the move. Dragon Man had just entered the car we were about to vacate.
I turned to Roman. “Go!”
The heavy man stepped through the door and over the frightening gap. The thundering rumble was deafening, and the wind whipped through his thick hair as he moved to the door of the next car. He took hold of the latch, muscled the door open, and stepped through.
Now I moved onto the small, open platform, closing the door behind me. Through its Plexiglas window, I saw Dragon Man in the middle of the aisle. He paused to reach into his jacket, pull a gun from his belt, and take off the safety.
I moved quickly to the next car, realizing something awful. Even if we ran full out to the other end of this car, Dragon Man’s bullets would be faster.
“He’s coming!” I yelled to Roman over the roar of the train. “And he’s got a gun. We can’t outrun him. We’ll have to fight!”
I felt the temperature changing and realized the train had emerged from the underground tunnel. A blast of chilly nighttime wind ripped through my hair, and I saw we were racing up an incline to an elevated position, heading for the sprawling auto junkyards of Willets Point.
Dragon Man was stepping out now onto the ledge between the two train cars. Grinning at me, the punk waved the gun in the air, making sure I saw it.
He stepped forward, and I suddenly remembered that scumbag from the White Horse Tavern, the one who’d jammed his motorcycle boot into the back room’s doorway. Only this time, the door in my hand wasn’t flimsy wood, it was heavy steel on a sliding track. I reached up to release the overhead safety latch. As Dragon Man’s foot moved into the car, I slammed the door on the gunman’s instep.
The man’s bellow of surprise and pain was loud enough to be heard over the clatter of the metal wheels on the track. Cursing, the man slammed the butt of his weapon against the window. The Plexiglas cracked but didn’t shatter. He repositioned the gun in his hand.
“He’s going to shoot us through the window!”
Roman’s eyes narrowed. “The hell he is!”
The big man yanked the door back open, stepped around it, and with a shriek of pure fury lunged at the gunman, arms flailing like windmills.
Dragon Man’s weapon discharged, but the bullet went wild, ricocheting off the train’s metal framework. Roman kept flailing, and the gun was knocked free. It dropped down between the cars, swallowed up by the night and the ancient tracks.
The train kept rolling, and Roman continued fighting. Dragon Man lunged backward, desperate now to get away, but the door behind him was shut, and Roman kept coming, using his girth to slam the man like an angry bull.
With a string of raging curses, the robber was knocked off his feet. He tumbled over the chain-link guardrail, his screams diminishing in the shadows of the junkyards below. I grabbed the hem of Roman’s safari jacket and pulled with all my might to keep him from following the man over the side.
Panting, the two of us moved back into the car and collapsed on the orange seats. Then we stared speechlessly out the open subway door, watching for long minutes until our train was clear of the rusting graveyard.
TWENTY
MIDNIGHTcame and went, and the Blend had long since closed its doors to paying customers. But lights still blazed behind the coffee bar and the cozy, caramelized aroma of freshly pulled espressos was still going strong.
Roman Brio balanced on a tall stool, his heavy legs curled under him. Beside him, my laptop was open and connected to the Internet. I stood behind the counter, watching the food writer mainline his third espresso.
“I’ll need another one,” he said, dabbing his lips. Roman set the napkin on the blueberry marble beside the demitasse. I noticed his hand tremble. I wasn’t sure if it was the result of too much caffeine or the aftershock of tonight’s events. Either way, I knew it wasn’t a good sign.
“Maybe you’d like a cappuccino instead,” I suggested. “I have one almost ready to go.”
“No, thanks, Clare. I haven’t lapped warm milk since my nanny force-fed me the stuff in the nursery. Make it a doppio, please. Rapidamente.”
I shrugged and went back to work at the machine. Twenty-five seconds later, the beautiful caramel-colored crema had oozed into the cream-colored cup, and I heard a knock on the front door. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a familiar silhouette through the beveled-glass window. I handed Roman his freshly pulled shot, stepped around the counter, and unlocked the front door.
“Hi, Mike.”
“Hi, Clare.”
Quinn stared down at me, blew out air. “You okay?”
“I’m fine, but it was pretty scary. I could really use a—” Mike pulled me against his chest. I closed my eyes and held on, soaking up his strength. He stroked my hair for a quiet minute, then broke our embrace and held me at arm’s length to look me over.
“Relax. Nothing’s damaged. Not even bruised. You know I can take care of myself.”
Mike didn’t agree or disagree. What he said was, “What the hell were you doing in Flushing?”
I didn’t care for his tone. “I was investigating the threat against Breanne. Just like you thought I should.”
He folded his arms. “And you were attacked and nearly robbed?”
“Not nearly. I was robbed. I lost my brand-new purse. And we have another I word to add to your list, by the way.”
“Sorry? Another what?”
“You remember that little list of attributes you look for in a detective? Well you can add incredulous to it, because that’s your expression right now. You’re surprised, and do you know why, Lieutenant? Because you never believed there was any threat to Breanne, did you?”
“Slow down, Clare!” Mike unfolded his arms and put his hands on my shoulders. “Listen,” he said, “I know you’re tired and upset, and it’s true, I am surprised—you’re right about that—but only that you were ever in any physical danger. Now, start from the beginning and tell me everything that happened.”
We moved to the counter. I made us a couple of lattes. The rote routine calmed my nerves (it always had), then I sat down beside Mike on a barstool and told him the whole story, starting with Neville Perry’s feud with Breanne and ending with the incident aboard the Number 7 line. Roman provided a few details here and there, but he wasn’t his usual loquacious self. When I mentioned that we’d both seen the robber’s face, Mike directed his next question to Roman.
“Did the man seem familiar to you?”
Roman shook his head.
“Someone you might have seen at the office, maybe?” Mike pressed. “A delivery guy? Someone from the mail room? The local deli? Or someone from your neighborhood? Someone you met in a bar? A club? Think.”
“No, no, no, and no, Detective. But I’m sure I could identify that rough beast if I saw him again. He had the face of a stone-cold criminal.”
“I’ll set you up at a terminal tomorrow,” Mike said. “But you might end up looking at mug shots all day. The files on armed robbers are extensive.”
“These were more than armed robbers,” I insisted. “These guys targeted us, Mike. They knew about the rings, they knew Roman had them. They ev
en knew precisely where and when to find us.”
Mike nodded. “They probably would have hit you in front of the Friends Meeting House on Northern if there hadn’t been so much traffic and a strong police presence nearby.”
I plopped my elbows on the counter, pulled my hair back. “I wonder why they didn’t wait for us to leave the dinner and rob us in the alley?”
“The punks got greedy, that’s why. They probably saw how many whales were inside that illegal restaurant and figured they’d just take it all.”
“Of course!” Roman said.
“It doesn’t matter.” Mike rubbed his jaw. “Figuring that out gets us exactly nowhere. We need to know who provided the inside information to the robbers.”
“I’ve been thinking about that, and I have a theory.” I told Mike about Breanne’s ambitious underling, Monica Purcell. “I overheard her talking about the rings with someone on her cell phone. It sounded suspicious at the time, so I snooped around her office.”
I reached into the inside pocket of my little Fen jacket and pulled out the folded paper of Monica’s cell phone numbers.
Mike’s expression was priceless—somewhere between amazed and amused. “Nice work, sweetheart.”
“There were five numbers on Monica’s call log,” I said. “Two of them had names attached, and Roman recognized them both. The first was Mrs. Muriel Purcell, in New Haven, Connecticut.”
“That’s Monica’s mother,” Roman piped up. “A divorced beauty queen on a Botox bender. Someone should really stop that woman.”
“The other call was to Petra, Trend’s art director. The final three didn’t have names in her log. I was going to run them through the Internet’s reverse directory.”
Mike nodded, and I went to work. The first two of the three numbers had Manhattan area codes, and the search engine revealed that one was for the Fitness Plus Day Spa on Eighth Avenue and Seventy-first Street; the second was a health food store on Amsterdam.
“The local numbers are a bust,” I said, disappointed.
I’d scribbled a star beside the final telephone number, because that was the call Monica had made outside of Fen’s boutique, when she informed someone not only where Breanne was but also that Breanne’s rings hadn’t arrived yet and weren’t scheduled to until Nunzio brought them personally.
I typed the number into the search engine.
“Information not available?”
“It’s unlisted,” Mike said. He scribbled the digits down in his notebook and pulled out his cell phone.
“Are you calling your precinct to have someone trace the number?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I’m calling the number.”
Mike listened for a moment then disconnected the call.
“What did you get?” I asked.
“An answering machine. No name or business. Just a canned mechanical voice telling me to leave a message.” He dialed another number. “Put me through to the one-oh-seven.”
While Mike spoke with the precinct’s night commander, I pulled yet another espresso for Roman—at his request. Then I dug up the Manhattan phone book. Monica Purcell was listed; her apartment was on the Upper West Side, not very far from the health club and veggie deli stored on her cell phone log. I wrote down the address and finished my own latte.
“Thanks for your help,” Quinn said, ending the call.
I set the cup down. “Well?”
“Captain Blunt strongly suggests you both return to Queens tomorrow to file crime reports with his detectives. It’s the 107th Precinct on Parsons Boulevard.”
“A police report? With my name on it!” Roman’s eyes bugged. “I’ll be ruined. No one will ever invite me to an underground restaurant again.”
Mike’s glance at me wasn’t amused. “Believe me, Brio, word about your little secret garden in Flushing is already out. The detectives of the one-oh-seven are all over the crime scene as we speak. It was the woman who owned the house, a Mrs. Weng, who called the robbery in. Several other diners have also filed reports, so I think you’ll be forgiven.”
Quinn turned to me. “No arrests have been made, Clare. Even the man you assaulted with hot sauce recovered enough to flee the scene. They did recover some of the stolen property. Maybe you’ll get your purse back.” He folded his arms. “And maybe Roman can identify the perp you dumped off the 7 train, or maybe the punk will turn up in the hospital or the morgue. Otherwise . . .”
“We’re not out of leads yet, Mike. We still have Monica Purcell. She lives near Sixty-ninth Street, on Amsterdam Avenue. I say we go see her right now.”
Quinn glanced at his watch. “Okay, Clare. But first we’ll drop Mr. Brio here and those one-of-a-kind rings he’s holding at his home, before something else happens that jeopardizes the wedding”—he met my eyes—“and any chance of ejecting Allegro from your living space.”
Ten minutes later, Quinn had double-parked in front of Roman’s Soho building, and we both escorted the man through the lobby and all the way up to the front door of his loft apartment.
“Are you sure you won’t come in?” Roman asked. “There’s a passable port and an exquisite Stilton in the larder, and I always have Dom Perignon well-chilled for just such an occasion.”
“What occasion?” Quinn asked.
“Surviving New York. What else?”
Quinn’s eyebrow arched (which, in my experience with the man, was as good as a hearty guffaw). “Maybe some other time,” he told Roman. “Just be sure to get a good night’s sleep. I’m going to dispatch a sector car to check up on you at ten AM. Answer the door, okay? Or I’ll have them break it down.”
I half expected a sarcastic retort from the acerbic foodie, but none came. Roman simply nodded. “Thank you, Lieutenant, for all of your help. Good night to you both.”
Fifteen minutes after that, Quinn double-parked again, this time on the West Side. (I did love parking with the man, since he essentially had a license to ignore New York’s draconian regulations.)
Monica Purcell lived in a nineteen-story apartment building on Amsterdam, a few blocks away from Lincoln Center. The ground floor was dominated by a national clothing outlet and a Go Mobile phone store. A door between the two storefronts led to the lobby and the apartments above. Mike showed the sleepy doorman his gold shield, and the man admitted us.
“Monica Purcell?” I asked.
“Twelve D.”
We rode the mirrored elevator to the twelfth floor. Quinn’s knuckles politely knocked on the woman’s door several times; then the meat of his fist took over. He pounded for a while, but no one answered. A small dog began yapping in another apartment. A middle-aged man opened the door; a tiny furry head poked out and back in again.
“Can I help you?” he said.
Mike flashed his gold shield. “Do you know if Ms. Purcell is home?”
“Sorry. I don’t know anything. I mind my own business.”
The door shut in our faces, and the little dog resumed its annoying yapping. I smirked, remembering Breanne’s comment to Roman, calling me a badly dressed Chihuahua.
“Mike, if I were a dog, what breed would I be?”
“Huh?”
“Forget it.” I checked my watch. “Monica really should be home. It’s almost two in the morning on a Tuesday night. The girl said something about clubbing. But tomorrow’s a workday for her.”
“She could be sleeping at a boyfriend’s house—or with a guy she picked up. Either way, there’s no way to find her now. Why don’t we go to Trend’s offices in the morning and question her there?”
I stifled a yawn. “Okay.”
“All right then, Cosi, let’s get going.” Mike’s long strides were already halfway down the carpeted hall.
I had to move double the speed to keep up. “Slow down, Mike. Where are we going?”
Mike shook his head. “How quickly she forgets.”
“Forgets? Forgets what? Seriously, Mike, where are we going?”
Mike jabbed his thumb int
o the elevator button. He braced his legs, folded his arms, and looked down at me. “Don’t you remember our little conversation this morning in Interview Room B?”
I folded my own arms. “I remember blaming you for getting me into this case.”
“And did I or did I not promise I’d make it up to you?”
“Your point?” My hands moved to my hips.
Mike’s blue gaze followed my hands. Then it dropped lower and traveled back up my body, taking its time moving over my new little Fen outfit. Ever so slightly, the edges of his mouth lifted.
“Simple, Cosi. A promise is a promise.”
With a bing, the elevator arrived. Seeing it was empty, Mike gave me a full-on smile. “C’mon,” he said, “we’re going to my place.” Then he reached for my wrist and pulled me inside.
WHEN I opened my eyes the next morning, I felt something heavy draped across my bare midriff. Confused for a moment, I glanced around. Mike was lying beside me on his stomach, his arm curled possessively around my torso.
I relaxed and sighed. It was a good sound, a happy one—for the moment anyway.
Mike and I hadn’t been on a sugar sand beach last night, just the king-size mattress of his Alphabet City bedroom. There was no rhythmic pounding of Pacific surf, either, just smooth FM jazz and the occasional whine of an ambulance siren. None of it mattered, because the man made love like a dream.
I stirred, and he groaned, his arm pulling me closer in what felt like an autonomic response. Now my naked flesh was flush against his warm skin.
“Mike?” I called, glancing at the clock in the weak yellow splash of rising sun. “We should get up.”
“Mmmmmm . . .”
“Mike?”
The man’s hand moved as if it were independent of his heavy, sacked-out body. His fingers lightly brushed my curves, his hand seeking and finding.
“Mike!”
The strong hand began to play, determined fingers teasing, caressing.
“Oh, God. Don’t do that. We have to—”
“Sweetheart, we don’t have to do anything yet,” Mike murmured on the pillow, his eyes still closed. “But there are a few things we might want to do . . .”