Holiday Grind

by Cleo Coyle

  She hung up and faced me again. “Are we done? I have a session with my personal trainer in twenty.”

  “Just a few more questions. What happened after Alf spent your nest egg on the restaurant?”

  Mrs. Glockner exhaled with obvious impatience. “Alf wanted to take a second mortgage on our home, that’s what happened. We’d just paid off this house after twenty-five years. I wasn’t going to sit still for that, so I put my foot down and refused to allow it. Banks wouldn’t help him, so Alf took out that ridiculous loan from our neighbor.”

  “Ridiculous? Why?”

  “Because I knew the restaurant was dead by then, that’s why! I knew we could never pay Omar Linford back—not without selling this house! Alf was deluding himself, Ms. Cosi. He was a failure and a drunk, and only digging himself in deeper with that loan. That’s when I knew it was time to move on. So I had my lawyers draw up papers and I asked a judge for a separation.”

  I frowned, wondering how I might have fared with a marital partner like Shelly Glockner. Maybe it wasn’t very nice of me to judge the woman, since I hadn’t walked a mile in her cross-trainers. But I was a first wife, too. A bad marriage with an addict could hard-boil any woman’s heart, but it appeared to me, after all those years together—not to mention Alf being a father to their daughter—that Mrs. Glockner was suspiciously unaffected by her husband’s murder.

  Once again, I began to wonder about that blackmail letter . . .

  “I just had lunch with Omar Linford, Mrs. Glockner. Are you aware Mr. Linford is alleging that Alf tried to blackmail him?”

  “That’s preposterous.”

  “I heard the whole story from Mr. Linford himself.”

  “And you believe that pirate?”

  “Mr. Linford claims he has proof. In fact—” I checked my watch. “I’m headed over there right now to pick up the note and turn it over to the NYPD, where it will be analyzed. With forensic science today, they can determine if the letter was really sent by Alf—fingerprints, fibers, DNA. It’s amazing what they can do.”

  Frankly, I didn’t know what the police could accomplish, but I wanted to shake Mrs. Glockner’s brittle little tree, see what might come loose.

  It worked. The second I mentioned the NYPD, her face flashed redder than Rudolph’s nose.

  “Why are you doing this?!” she demanded.

  “I told you, your daughter asked me to find out—”

  “It’s Christmas, for heaven’s sake!” She stomped her running shoe. “Why don’t you just mind your own damn business and let Alf rest in peace!”

  I locked eyes with the irate woman. “Don’t you have something you want to tell me, Mrs. Glockner? Something that might help the police solve Alf’s murder?”

  That did it. Her face went from berry red to almost snow-white. She went quiet and her voice turned low and calm: “You have to leave now.”

  “Mrs. Glockner—”

  “I have a busy day ahead of me.”

  Yeah, with your personal trainer. Then there’s that highly lucrative moment when you sign off on the insurance policy and cash in on your husband’s murder.

  I rose. “If you change your mind about talking to me, you can reach me in the city at the Village Blend. Thank you for your time, Mrs.—”

  The door slammed behind me, sending the tiny holiday wreath tumbling to the ground.

  With a deep breath of wintry air, I retraced my pointy footprints across the snow-covered yard, back to Linford’s sunporch. I was hoping that I hadn’t been missed, but it didn’t work out that way. Approaching the solarium, I paused when I heard angry voices. Peeking around a manicured bush, I spied Omar Linford and young Dwayne arguing in the room that Esther and I had vacated.

  “. . . and I’m not going to stop! I told you already!” Dwayne shouted.

  “You have to listen to me, son,” the older Linford calmly replied. “This is your life I’m talking about. Your whole life. You’re gambling with your own future—”

  “I told you, Dad. I told you all weekend. I’m going to do this my way!” Dwayne shouted, and then he bolted from the room.

  “Don’t be a fool!” Linford shouted after his son, then shook his head and sat down heavily in the solarium.

  Better not go in that way, I decided, or he’ll know I was eavesdropping.

  I turned, moved around the house, and headed for the front entrance instead. Barely a moment after I pressed the bell, the double doors jerked open. Frowning down at me was a big-boned, Caucasian woman with strawberry-blond hair and a line of freckles across her patrician nose.

  What’s with all these amazons on Staten Island? Must be something in the water!

  “Ms. Cosi?” the woman asked with a slight British accent.

  “Yes.”

  “We wondered where you’d gone off to!”

  “I’m sorry. My assistant had to leave,” I explained quickly. “There were things I needed to discuss with her in private before she left.”

  “I see. Well, I’m Mrs. MacKenzie, Mr. Linford’s executive assistant. Here’s the letter you requested.” She thrust a small manila envelope into my hand.

  “Thank you.” I stuffed the envelope into my bag. “May I wait inside to call a car service? I need to get to the ferry terminal.”

  The woman shook her head. “No need for a taxi. I was about to take Mr. Linford’s car out to run some errands. I’ll be happy to give you a ride. You’d better come in and get your coat.”

  As I did, I noticed the Linford boy standing a few feet away in the foyer, big arms folded. He said nothing, just glared. Then his pumped-up body brushed roughly past me and out the front door.

  A minute later, I heard an engine gunning and tires squealing. Glancing out the window, I watched Dwayne’s tricked-out SUV, with its fake bullet holes and airbrushed Viking raiders, disappearing down the tree-lined street.

  TWENTY-ONE

  “THANK you for the ride,” I said, popping the car door.

  “No bother, Ms. Cosi,” the unsmiling Mrs. MacKenzie replied. “I have many errands today. You were just one of them.”

  As I stepped onto the walkway that led to the St. George Terminal, Mac pulled away from the curb. I noticed, however, that she didn’t leave the area. Instead, she swerved the BMW toward the terminal’s parking lot.

  Odd, I thought.

  Either Mrs. MacKenzie was taking the ferry herself today and didn’t care for my company, or she was picking someone up on an arriving boat.

  As my gaze followed her car into the lot, it snagged once again on that garishly tricked-out SUV that could only belong to Linford’s son. Clearly, he’d caught a ferry to Manhattan already—or else he was waiting inside now and I’d be sharing my ferry ride with him, too.

  The crowd was light inside the terminal’s neo-deco waiting area. The vast space with the soaring ceiling reminded me of one of those big-box Costco-type warehouses, except this structure was trimmed in Jetsons-like polished steel and illuminated by flood lamps.

  A ferry was docked and waiting, and I quickly boarded, although I needn’t have hurried because it wouldn’t actually take off for another ten minutes. In the interim, I traversed the flat decks of floating metal and found the little refreshment stand onboard. I stood in line to buy a cup of hot cocoa and was just taking my first sips as the ferry finally chugged out of its slip.

  There weren’t many passengers for this twenty-minute journey—not surprising at this time of day. Most riders were work commuters who packed the boat before nine and after five. As the engines throbbed, I moved quickly through the cavernous interior, skipping rows of sparsely populated benches for a choice position near the stern.

  Despite the near-freezing temperature, I took a spot outside, close to the rail, just above the lapping waves. With the Blend now packed from morning till night and my mind working overtime to decipher the truth about Alf Glockner’s tangled life, a few moments of peace was exactly what I needed.

  I closed my eyes, and as the cr
isp salt-tinged wind whipped through my hair, I imagined it was clearing my mind, too. Then I leaned against the metal railing and relished the contrast of cold bracing sea against my cheeks and steaming hot chocolate against my lips.

  If I commuted every day on this route, I might have become jaded about the ferry-crossing experience, but I wasn’t. Not even close. As the boat swiftly cut a wake through Upper New York Bay, I opened my eyes again, drinking my fill of the cobalt blue chop, glistening in the afternoon sun.

  In the distance, a black ocean liner smudged the pale horizon, its most likely destination the renovated docks of the Upper West Side. A sleek white pleasure craft zoomed by at twice our speed, slicing the water with a groove of froth as it veered toward the East River. Behind us, a little orange tug chugged along buoyantly; an FDNY fire boat motored steadily behind it.

  Soon we were coming up on Liberty Island and its adjacent partner, the old immigration station of Ellis Island, now a historic landmark run by the National Park Service. Finally, there she was, Lady Liberty, soaring right above me, continuing her watch for the world’s wretched refuse.

  I gawked at the steel-framed sculpture, her copper sheeting oxidized green after more than a century at her post. She looked so strong and sturdy in the middle of the bay, lifting her lamp to light the path to our harbor. Emma Lazarus had called her the “Mother of Exiles,” and I thought how right she was as I imagined how millions of immigrants to this country (my grandmother included) must have felt when they first saw her rising from the water, her gold-leaf torch held high.

  When the Lady’s noble features finally receded, I turned my attention back to a business that wasn’t so noble. Reaching into my shoulder bag, my gloved fingers carefully fished out the manila envelope Mac had handed me.

  Inside I found a smaller envelope, this one plain white. Linford’s name and address were printed by what appeared to be a standard computer printer. A Santa Claus stamp carried a postmark from Manhattan’s busy main branch on Eighth Avenue.

  I’d hoped the letter would be handwritten, but no such luck. The writer typed the note and appeared to have printed it with the same computer printer used to address the post-marked envelope:

  Dear Omar: I have a new proposition for you. If you care about your son’s future, you will read every word of this note and do what it says. I know all about Junior Linford’s little hobbies. Do you know what he is up to in those clubs? I do. If you don’t want the NYPD and DEA to know too, then forgive my debt. Just call it an early holiday gift! While you’re at it, wire 50K more into my account by Christmas and I will stay quiet for good. My bank account number is below. That will finish our business forever. Bother me or fail to pay and I will tell what I know to the right people. Your son’s future is now at stake. Do not try to contact me. Just do what I say in this letter and you will never hear from me again.

  I read the letter twice. It didn’t sound like the Alf I knew. Not at all. There was no signature, either. But the bank account number, typed at the bottom of the letter, was a clear lead. The NYPD could definitely check that out—make sure it really was an account controlled by Alfred Glockner. I suspected it wasn’t. And if it wasn’t, then another name would need to be added to my list of murder suspects.

  My trip to Staten Island had yielded good information. I knew then that I’d made a smart decision waiting around for this letter. With the sense of a job well done, I carefully refolded the note and slipped it back into its envelope. Then I placed it into my shoulder bag and firmly zipped it closed.

  I’d show the letter to Mike Quinn first. Then we could go to Detective Hong. (I still didn’t trust Franco.) I only hoped Omar was right about his son’s innocence, because I knew I couldn’t stop Hong from tipping off the narcotics division and DEA, just in case.

  I took another sip from my cooling cup and turned my thoughts to Shelly Glockner. Frankly, she struck me as likely a suspect for murdering Alf as Omar Linford. Her husband’s life insurance policy was an obvious motive—though I couldn’t imagine she would have pulled the trigger on Alf herself. No, for that, someone like Shelly would have used an accomplice—

  My mind was so preoccupied with puzzling out the possibilities that I barely registered the clanging steps crossing the deck behind me. Before I could fully turn around, I felt a jolt at my shoulder. Someone had snatched my shoulder bag!

  As if in slow motion, I saw my cup of cocoa tumbling from my gloved hands into the churning waters below. Then I followed it—but not of my own accord.

  Strong hands lifted me like a sack of green coffee and tossed me right over the rail! The sunny harbor blurred for a moment; then I struck the churning waves. Frozen concrete would have been softer.

  The ferry’s roiling wake began spinning me literally heels over head. My nose, ears, and mouth filled with freezing water. The cold was mind numbing, but I was so angry I used my rage to fight against the shock of it.

  Don’t panic, Clare! You’re a good swimmer! Don’t panic!

  But I couldn’t even tell which way was up. The water was dark and murky, and I was still spinning! I was running out of air, too. I had to do something—

  My coat!

  The long, thick material was heavy with salt water and already half off. I ripped it free, letting it go. Feeling more than seeing, I noted which way the garment began to sink.

  If that way is down, then this way must be up!

  I kicked out immediately, shedding my blazer and slacks as I swam, giving my limbs the least possible drag as I propelled myself upward.

  Light! I can see light!

  I needed air. My lungs were burning so badly that I was ready to give in to the impulse and breathe in water. But I knew it would be the end of me, as good as giving up. So I fixed my gaze on that flickering sunlight above me, pictured the Mother of Exiles holding her golden torch, and stepped up my struggles.

  Breaking the surface, I gasped and sputtered, then stared in horror at the vast field of choppy blue waves. The ferry was gone! With hardly any commuters on board, no one had noticed I’d been tossed over the side!

  Desperately treading water, I cast about, wondering which way to swim. The cold was excruciating—like a thousand icicles stabbing every pore in my body. Already the bone-deep chill was stiffening my muscles, making it hard to breathe, harder to stay afloat.

  No, dammit! I’m not going to die like this!

  I thought of my daughter and fought harder to stay conscious, tread water, stay alive. That’s when I saw the orange tug and the fireboat! The two vessels had been sailing just behind the ferry!

  “Help!” I shouted, the weak sound seemed lost in the splash of waves, the cries of circling gulls.

  I yelled again and choked on a wash of briny liquid. I knew I was mere minutes—if not seconds—from freezing to death or drowning. That’s when I heard the tug’s loud horn, male voices shouting—

  “To the starboard, Sean!”

  “Donnie, toss me that hook!”

  “Get a safety line around her!”

  “No time, Connor. She’s about done. I’m going in!”

  I felt the rumble of an engine in the water, smelled diesel fumes. Something big, heavy, and canary yellow hit the water beside me. The splash itself almost sent me under again. Then strong arms closed around my numbed, nearly naked body.

  “I got you, honey,” a deep voice promised in my ear.

  I lifted my face to find a strapping man holding me, his big, reassuring grin wide under a prominent nose and bushy dark eyebrows. “Don’t pass out on me now! Hang on!”

  I tried to speak, but shivers overwhelmed me and my teeth were chattering like a dentist’s wind-up toy.

  “Haul her up! Come on, quick! Her lips are turnin’ blue!”

  I think I blacked out at that point because the next thing I felt was a cold steel deck behind my back and bare legs. My camisole was soaked and half torn off, my lace bra leaving very little to the men’s imaginations. I tried to speak, but strong, warm ha
nds were pushing down on my diaphragm—hard enough to force salty water up my throat and out.

  Gagging and sputtering, I finally realized that half a dozen burly firemen were standing around me, all in bright yellow FDNY life jackets.

  “You’re okay, ma’am. Let’s get you warm.”

  As I sat up, a number of large hands wrapped thick blankets around me.

  “Is there anyone we can contact for you?” asked one of the firemen.

  “M-m-m-mike,” I stammered. “Mike Quinn. He works at the—”

  “I know Big Mike!” The dark-haired man who’d jumped into the water to save me patted my shoulder. “I’ll put in a call. What’s your name?”

  I told him, my voice weak as I pulled the blankets closer around me. The deck was so cold! I tried to rise but stumbled. Several firemen instantly came to my aid. One simply hoisted me up and carried me inside the fireboat. The cabin was warm, and the man placed me on an aluminum-framed canvas stretcher and piled on another blanket, which I appreciated, even if I couldn’t thank him.

  I was shivering so hard now I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t see straight, either, but I think that was because my eyes were still stinging from the salt water. A new blanket was tossed over me, this one electric. The warmth felt delicious, like a fortifying drink I could gulp and swallow.

  A few minutes later, I was starting to feel better and began to sit up. The dark-haired fireman who’d pulled me out of the water had been watching over me close by. He quickly returned to my side in sweats and a T-shirt, a towel around his neck, and handed me a cup of strong tea.

  “No need to worry, pretty lady. You’ll be okay. You said your name’s Clare Cosi?”

  “Clare,” I repeated.

  “I’m Sean. I just talked to Big Mike, personally. He’ll be at the FDNY dock when we pull in.”