Holiday Grind

by Cleo Coyle

  “Where did it come from, then?”

  Hong shook his head. “Franco and I got hammered one night and he admitted what your ex-husband just guessed.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m really not old enough to remember, but apparently back in the seventies, the network news anchors kept announcing Spain’s dictator was near death. When he finally kicked, Saturday Night Live put a joke in their weekly fake news routine: ‘This breaking news just in . . . Generalissimo Francisco Franco is still dead.’ ”

  “Okay. Not actually funny. And what does it have to do with your partner?”

  “On his first day at the police academy, Franco had an instructor who was into that vintage SNL stuff. He’s the one who gave him the nickname Generalissimo. Franco hated it. Took him years and a few transfers before he finally got General to stick. That’s it.”

  I shook my head. “What is it with you men? Why do you let your egos dictate—”

  “If it’s all the same to you, Ms. Cosi, I’d rather you not lump us all in the same category.”

  I was about to reply when the door flew open, banging explosively against the back wall. With that preamble, I expected to see Sergeant Franco standing there again, but it was Matt—with Mike Quinn in tow, an unreadable expression on his still-as-stone face.

  “There she is,” Matt declared, pointing his finger at me. “You try talking some sense into her.”

  THIRTEEN

  “SWEETHEART, it’s almost midnight.”

  “I don’t care what time it is. I missed dinner.”

  My hair was still damp from the long, hot shower. My Dumpster clothes, down to the socks and underwear, were currently spinning in a double-strength detergent wash. With a sigh, I knotted the belt of my short terrycloth robe.

  “You could eat, too, right?” I asked.

  Quinn didn’t reply. One sandy eyebrow simply arched in a way that said he had the enjoyment of something else in mind.

  I turned and headed for the bedroom door. “I need to cook. I’ll be downstairs.”

  I really couldn’t blame the man for his spicy train of thought. After all, he’d just finished showering, too—with me. I’d been under the pulse setting of the Water Pik so long he’d stripped down and joined me. Under the warm spray, the man’s shoulder massage felt wonderful, but I was too wired about the events of the evening to just let go and “get with him,” as my current crop of collegiate customers liked to put it.

  Quinn saw I needed time and let me pull away. Now he was pulling a white T-shirt over his torso and a pair of gray sweats over his long legs. Barefoot, he padded after me down to my duplex’s kitchen. His dark blond hair looked even darker in its dampness; his rugged expression was turning a lot less readable than I’d been used to lately.

  I uncorked a chilled bottle of Riesling and poured us half glasses. He sat back in silence at the kitchen table, sipping the crisp, sweet nectar, his glacial blue eyes on me as I began following my grandmother’s recipe by heart—putting the water on to boil, mincing the scallions and garlic, chopping the parsley.

  It was so quiet in the little room. Every so often I’d glance over, just to make sure the man was still there. He was—his eyes remaining fixed on my movements, his mouth taking slow sips of wine.

  Unhappy with his silence, I flipped on the radio.

  Christmas 24/7 was still going strong—and, presumably, still driving Gardner Evans sugarplum crazy.

  Not me.

  Frankly, I’d endured enough upheavals in my life to consider the seasonal loop of old chestnuts reassuring instead of boring, like an old family recipe you’ve made a thousand times and will happily make a thousand more, just because it reminds you of a time or a place or a person that you loved with all your heart.

  So “The Little Drummer Boy” accompanied my sautéing of onions and garlic. “O Holy Night” orchestrated the addition of flour and milk, and “Winter Wonderland” provided the beat to whisk my white sauce lump free. Next came the clams, reserved juice, and “Merry Christmas, Darling.”

  On a refill of Riesling and the umpteenth replaying of “Jingle Bell Rock,” I tossed in salt, pepper, and parsley, then stirred and sipped; sipped and stirred . . . and when the white clam sauce finally thickened enough, I turned off the burner, covered the pan, and allowed the flavors to blend while I boiled the linguine—just the way my Nonna had taught me (in a big ol’ pasta pot with a splash of olive oil to keep the noodles from sticking and enough sea salt to mimic the Mediterranean).

  At last, with my wineglass nearly empty and my patience with Quinn’s Quiet Man act worn through, I turned off the Christmas music and turned on the cop.

  “Aren’t you ever going to say anything about my arrest?! You haven’t asked me one question all night!”

  Quinn slowly stood up. Without a word, he casually poured more wine into my glass then his own.

  “Well?”

  “I told you already,” he softly replied. “Allegro filled me in plenty.”

  “He also ordered you to talk some ‘sense’ into me!”

  Quinn cracked a smile at that.

  “What?” I prodded. “You find that funny?”

  “Yeah . . .” Quinn’s fingers brushed some damp hair off my cheek, curled it around an ear. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “And what exactly is so funny?”

  “Allegro. The guy was married to you for a decade and he still doesn’t realize that no one can talk sense into you. That’s what’s so funny. It’s a complete waste of vocal cords.”

  “Ha. Ha.”

  “Listen, Cosi . . .” Quinn reached around me and began using the tips of his fingers to work the stiff tendons in my neck. “The day I met you—” He stopped, smiled. “The minute I met you I knew you had a mind of your own. I accept it. I like it. I’m not about to lecture you on the fact that you put yourself in a precarious, even unduly dangerous position tonight. You know that already, right? No one needs to tell you that.”

  “But you know why I did it.”

  “Yes . . . I just wish you had waited for daylight, asked permission of the doorman. You know, done it legally.”

  I might have been annoyed at the subversive way Quinn was putting across his censure, but his magic fingers felt too good.

  “The trouble with doing it safely is hearing the word no,” I pointed out. “Then what? Another freak evening storm, this time with rain instead of snow, and that button I found would have been washed away.”

  Quinn’s eyebrow arched. “True.”

  “And don’t forget, Lieutenant, it was you who taught me to bend the rules. Remember how you lied to that super up in Washington Heights so he’d let us illegally search an apartment?”

  “I can see I’ve been a bad influence.”

  Before I could argue, Quinn’s fingers encircled my wrist and he tugged me toward the kitchen table. Sitting back down, he coaxed me onto his lap.

  “Now what? Am I supposed to tell you what I want for Christmas?”

  Quinn grinned. “That’d be a good start.”

  “I want to discuss Alf’s case with you.”

  “That’s what you want for Christmas?”

  “Now that you mention it, yes—Alf’s killer brought to justice with a jingle bell bow on top.”

  “I see . . . and do you have a theory?”

  “Not yet. But I’ll tell you one thing: I do not trust Sergeant Emmanuel ‘Do-Rag’ Franco. Do you know Detective Hong practically implied the man was a vigilante? What do you think of that?”

  “I’ve heard rumors.”

  “Do you think it’s possible . . .” I hesitated, then felt Quinn’s fingertips return to working my neck muscles. I sighed. That spine slam I’d endured against that Dumpster wall was finally melting away.

  “I know this may seem out there,” I continued, “believe me, I do. But do you think that Franco might have been involved somehow in killing Alf?”

  Quinn went quiet for a long moment. “Why? Why
would Franco want to kill Santa Claus?”

  “What if Franco caught Alf doing something bad or illegal—or thought he caught him doing something like that. Maybe Franco decided to exact street justice.”

  “You want me to ask around about him? I know some guys in the borough precincts where he worked street crime task forces.”

  “Could you?”

  Quinn nodded. “I can make a few calls.”

  “There’s also another man, James Young. He lives in the apartment that Alf was spying on the night he was murdered. Franco says Young had nothing significant to add to the investigation, but maybe the man didn’t want to talk to the cops. Maybe, if he has something to say, he’ll talk to me.”

  “Good lead, Cosi. But guess what . . .” By now, Mike’s deep voice had thickened as beautifully as my white sauce. His lips were so close to my ear, his low, gravelly buzz felt downright ticklish. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore—”

  “You don’t?”

  “No,” he whispered. “But I’ll make you a deal.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “We can talk all you want tomorrow.”

  Quinn’s nearness, his fingers, his lips were all getting to me, but I was reluctant to drop the subject. “What are we supposed to talk about tonight, then?”

  “Anything else.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I just want you to let go for a little while, Cosi. Give your head a rest.”

  “You think I can’t handle the stress of an investigation?”

  “It’s not you. It’s the job. Everyone has to learn to let go. Some guys lift weights. Some guys lift a bottle.” He tilted his head toward the Riesling.

  “You think I have a problem?”

  “No. I think you’re still new at this and you should take my advice. Let go. Give it a rest.”

  “Let go?”

  “Yeah, and guess what?” he whispered into my ear. “I’m going to help you right now. Close your eyes . . .”

  “Mike—”

  “Close ’em.”

  I did.

  “Now forget about anything related to evidence or procedure or even criminal mischief—”

  Quinn’s little teasing kisses were moving as he talked: from my earlobe to the back of my neck to the hollow of my throat. Finally, he reached for the belt of my short terrycloth robe, and his mouth continued its downward path.

  Oh, God, Mike . . .

  A few minutes later, I realized why Mike Quinn didn’t need free weights, a Nautilus machine, or a bottle to forget his stresses and give his brain a rest.

  His chosen method of distraction wasn’t exactly something one could do in public, but it wasn’t exactly torture, either, so I went with it; and for the next few hours, anyway, the Lieutenant and I had a deal.

  FOURTEEN

  “GOOD morning,” I whispered on a yawn.

  Quinn kissed my head. “Get enough sleep?”

  “I got what I needed.”

  The night had been a blur of sweet vino, creamy clam sauced linguine, 24/7 Christmas tuneage, and Quinn’s intense lovemaking. A dead-to-the-world sleep followed, and when I awoke the next morning, I was sure the light of leprechaun gold had found a shining path through the cracks in my curtains.

  Quinn’s mood, however, wasn’t even close to that good. He was still next to me on the mattress, wide awake, cradling me in the crook of his arm, but his gaze was far away—and not on the other side of the proverbial rainbow.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked when his good-morning smile faded too quickly. “You having second thoughts about being annoyed with my arrest?”

  “No. Nothing like it.”

  “What then?”

  “I didn’t want to bring it up last night. I needed to let things go for a little while, too, you know?”

  “Let go of what? What’s the matter?”

  “I’ve got a cold case heating up . . .”

  Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I sat up. “I’ll make coffee.”

  TEN minutes later, we were back at the kitchen table, but on opposite sides of it this time.

  With a freshly pressed mug of my Breakfast Blend in hand, Quinn started talking about his job—something he’d been doing with me for years now, first as a barista, then as a friend, finally as a lover.

  “You remember Thanksgiving night, when I was called in?” he began.

  “Sure,” I said. “I finally got some bonding time with your kids.”

  Molly Quinn was nine; Jeremy had just turned eleven. Typically, Mike would spend time alone with his daughter and son. He explained why, of course. After Mike’s wife left him for a slightly younger, much wealthier Wall Street whiz, she moved their children from their Brooklyn home to her fiancé’s Long Island estate. With new schools, a new home, and the new man in their mom’s life, Mike wanted his kids to get comfortable with visiting his new apartment in the city before introducing another new person into their already drastically changed world.

  I respected that. I also suspected, given Mike’s years of marital problems, that he wanted to make sure he and I were on solid ground before he started complicating our relationship.

  Well, the day before Thanksgiving, Mike’s ex-wife did that for us. Leila decided to accompany her super-rich fiancé to Connecticut for a Thanksgiving Day social gathering with some even wealthier people who suggested their guests leave the kiddies with the nannies. Leila had a housekeeper who also looked after the kids, but the woman had the week off, so Leila ended up dumping the pair with Mike.

  As for my Thanksgiving Day plans, I’d already accepted Madame’s invitation to attend a party at Tavern on the Green. Mike was supposed to be my dinner date—until his ex changed plans on him. So I changed my plans, too.

  I bowed out of Madame’s dinner, went to Mike’s place instead, and cooked a turkey with all the trimmings. Mike offered to treat us to a restaurant, but I knew a homemade Thanksgiving dinner would help make his new apartment feel more like a home to him, Molly, and Jeremy. The kids couldn’t have been sweeter. We even bundled them up that morning to see the Macy’s parade.

  The dinner turned out to be a huge success. Like their dad, the kids practically swooned over my cooking. And when Mike was called out on a case that night, I sat with the pair. We stayed up till the wee hours, watching a Disney movie, playing cards and Scene It?, and eating slices of my pumpkin praline tart until Daddy came home again.

  “The kids are still talking about your food, you know.”

  “Good thing.” I laughed. “Because I’m lousy at cards. They beat the pants off me at Crazy Eights.”

  Quinn nodded, but his smile was fading fast.

  “So, anyway,” I said, trying to help him along. “You said something about a cold case heating up?”

  He nodded again. “It’s connected to the one I was called to consult on Thanksgiving night—”

  “You mean the Pilgrim’s Daughter case?”

  I listened as he recited the facts. A wealthy young blue-blood was found dead, alone in her apartment, the previous Thursday night. The woman, Waverly “Billie” Billington, was a Mayflower descendant and an heiress of the founder of Pilgrim Investments—a firm with the less-than-original catchphrase “Solid as Plymouth Rock.”

  Just like they did after Santa’s slaying, the tabloids had a field day with their Black Friday headlines: Pilgrim’s Daughter OD’s on Pills Instead of Turkey, Plymouth Rock Heiress Found Stone-Cold, that sort of thing.

  Up to now, Quinn hadn’t said much about the girl’s tragic death, and I assumed it was because the case was open and shut. Taking too many drugs or mixing the wrong ones was not a homicide—although it could very well be a suicide.

  I said as much.

  “There are complications with that conclusion,” Quinn replied.

  “Such as?”

  “Such as . . . the young woman’s family is friends with the mayor, the police commissioner, two state senators, and an influential city council
member. The Billington girl attended schools with some of their children and occasionally socialized with them in Manhattan clubs. So they want it all to go away as fast as possible. My captain’s down our necks with this one. He’s made it known the case should be cleared as an accidental death.”

  “Even though it could have been suicide?”

  “They want it closed.”

  I studied Quinn’s set jaw. “I get a feeling there’s a but coming . . .”

  “The details on this one started me thinking about a cold case from last Thanksgiving. Another attractive young woman, about the same age, living alone, died the same way. Cora Arnold had far less money and fewer connections than the Billington girl, so she didn’t make front-page news.”

  “She overdosed?”

  Quinn nodded. “Died Thanksgiving evening last year. Except the Arnold girl didn’t have a domestic, so the body wasn’t found until that Sunday night when she failed to show up for her sister’s birthday party.”

  “You think there are similarities in the cases?”

  “Not just the timing—both dying on Thanksgiving night. But both died from ingesting the same prescription drug, an opioid narcotic, one that neither of them had been prescribed.”

  “No other pills in the apartment?”

  “No. The girls were drinkers and known to be promiscuous. They both had a male guest sometime that day.”

  “Sex?”

  “They had sex. They drank. And he ate junk food.”

  “Junk food?”

  “Both girls were very slender and had hardly any food in their apartments. No junk food in the cupboards or fridge. Yet there were empty bags of potato chips, pretzels, Doritos—but none of that food was found in either of the girls’ stomachs.”

  “You have semen, I take it?” I paused. “That came out wrong. What I meant was—”

  Quinn smiled. “I know what you meant. DNA isn’t the problem. Finding the match is. These young women had a lot of people in and out of their lives—friends, relatives, strangers. Fingerprints were taken, but nothing matched perps with previous records. No matches on known boyfriends.”