by Cleo Coyle
“So do you.” He tugged me close. “But right now I’m more concerned about your mind.”
“My mind?”
“Yes, your recurrently curious mind. You were asking Leila some pointed questions about Anya . . .”
For a split second, I was surprised he’d picked up on that, but I shouldn’t have been. Quinn might be wearing a G-Man suit these days, but he’d spent years reading into things—from witness statements to suspect denials.
“Are you going to tell me why?” he pressed. “Or do I have to . . . coerce it out of you?”
“Tempting as coercion sounds, I need to tell you what’s going on. But it’s a long story, and I’m not telling it out here on the sidewalk.”
Quinn nodded, “You’ve had a tough day. Let’s get you home.” Turning toward the curb, he raised his arm to hail a cab. I pulled it down. The cool night air felt refreshingly good against my flushed face, and I took a deep breath of it.
“How about we stretch our legs instead? I think we could both use a moment’s peace after that pressure cooker upstairs . . . and maybe a snack?”
“Great idea, but you’ll have to choose the restaurant. My stomping ground was the West Side, not Upper East. The only restaurant I’ve heard of around here is Babka’s.”
My mouth watered at the mere mention of that legendary eatery—a cozy, comfort-food paradise with lines around the block at its adjacent bakery.
“While Babka’s food would be amazing”—I tapped my watch—“we’ll never get a table at this hour. That’s true of most of the places around here.”
“Then let’s take a walk and see what comes.”
“Promise me one thing,” I said as Quinn looped his arm around my waist. “Wherever we end up, let’s sit in a back booth.”
“You want privacy, eh?”
The man’s thrilled little smile made me realize he’d gotten the wrong impression about my request. It wasn’t for intimacy. My festival costume might have been a turn-on for Quinn, but to the general public, I would still look like Eva Braun at a biergarten.
TWENTY-FIVE
WE headed downtown and toward the river, away from Park Avenue’s sedate royal forest of grand stone towers, and toward the “lesser” avenues of neon lights and bustling life.
“So how much did you overhear tonight?” Mike asked.
“Excuse me?” I snuggled closer for warmth—and camouflage.
The chic locals we passed smiled at me as if I were making a quaint Yorkville fashion statement. Cold as I was, however, I knew covering my peasant dress with Dalecki’s floor-length red cape would have pushed their passing glances into disapproving “What a kook!” stares, so I kept the cape under my arm and myself under Mike’s.
“You walked in on us while we were arguing,” Mike pressed. “I think you overheard more than you’re letting on.”
“Maybe a little . . .”
“Or maybe a lot?”
“Well, I did happen to hear her refer to me as a pastry pusher. What do you think that means?”
“My fashion plate ex-wife doesn’t eat carbs. In her world, Cosi, you’re worse than a drug dealer.”
“I see. What if I started giving out valium and diet pills with my espressos? Would I be in like Flynn with her pack?”
“Absolutely. The fashion-forward crowd adores pharmaceuticals. It’s brownies and scones that scare them silly.”
“That’s it then. The next time I see that redheaded vampire, I won’t bring a silver cross, I’ll wave a chocolate chip cookie.”
I was glad to get a smile out of Quinn, but the underlying sentiment was no laughing matter: the reigning royalty of Fashionista Land loved making women believe in order to feel superior they (ironically) needed to be reduced. In their world, any female over size 6 should be banished to “the racks.”
At my age, it was easy to dismiss their sneering attitudes with a mental eye roll. What I couldn’t forgive was their influence on young women. Anorexia, bulimia, diet pills, plastic surgery—I’d seen enough of it in this town to want to torch any billboard showing a model who looked like she’d stepped out of Auschwitz.
“You know,” Quinn confessed, “when I was a young, dumb rookie, Leila’s ‘poor me’ sobbing act worked like a charm. Tonight I just wanted to throttle her.”
“For Leila, old habits die hard.”
“Well, they’re wearing thin on me.”
“Speaking of Leila’s habits, do you remember that phone conversation we had this morning when you told me about your ex-wife’s flaky behavior, and you advised me not to spy on her?”
“Yeah, I remember. And I knew you would. Go on.”
“Wait.” I stopped him again. “You knew I would? Michael Ryan Quinn, did you want me to spy on your ex-wife?”
I studied the man’s face. Even in the dim street lighting I could see the amusement was back in his eyes.
Quinn shrugged. “Let’s just say I know you.” He put his arm back around my waist, urging me forward. “So what did you find out?”
“Actually, not much. I’m waiting for Tucker to get back to me. He has some kind of scoop on her, something that seemed to upset him, as mysterious as that sounds. What do you think is going on?”
“Nothing mysterious at all. I can’t tell you what upset Tucker. To me it’s a simple deduction. Leila is acting the same way she did when she cheated on me.”
“So you think she’s having a torrid affair?”
“I do.”
“Well, I don’t. She dumped you for a rich new husband, didn’t she? Isn’t this the lifestyle she wanted? Why risk jeopardizing it?”
“Why do you think?”
“I don’t know, unless . . . Where was that husband of hers?”
“Business trip. He’s gone all the time.”
“Sounds like you believe Humphrey Reynolds is cheating on her.”
“Yes, and factor this in, Detective Cosi: Before Prince Humphrey of the Hedge Funds married my ex-wife, he insisted on a prenuptial agreement.”
“Okay, revised theory: You think Leila has found some replacement Prince Charming, someone to keep in reserve in case the old one reduces her to mere middle-class alimony?”
When Mike nodded, I told him about the key necklace in the purple gift box. “Do the initials BB mean anything to you?”
“No, but that’s probably her new paramour.”
“I don’t know, Mike. Something about the box and note seemed very peculiar to me.”
“Who else but a love interest would send a woman a diamond-encrusted key necklace?”
“The note wasn’t personal,” I pointed out. “It was very businesslike. ‘Invitations to come.’ Don’t you find that odd?”
“Not if some hapless assistant wrote it. These high-finance guys have a cast of thousands working for them, you know that. The assistant was the one who probably bought the necklace and wrote the . . . hot dogs!”
“Wrote the what?”
Quinn stopped me. We were standing on a desolate block between Lexington and Third. The shops were mostly dark. The few apartment buildings we passed looked quiet, their canopied doorways giving off little light.
He pointed past a bus stop poster for Red Riding Hood: The Musical, toward the corner of Third, where a papaya drink oasis glowed like a neon beacon in a midnight squall. It was a no-frills joint with a short-order grill and a few padded stools.
“When I was a precinct cop, these papaya joints were my second home.”
The place served good hot food and fresh-squeezed fruit drinks, and given my very odd attire—not to mention my growling stomach—my reaction was immediate.
“Sold, American!”
TWENTY-SIX
NEW York was the only city in the world where a big yellow sign that read Papaya automatically implied hot dog.
Over th
e years, dozens of these stands had peppered the city: Papaya Dog, Gray’s Papaya, Mario’s Papaya—all spin-offs of the original “Papaya King” on the Upper East Side, hailed by Julia Child, no less, as serving “the best hot dog in the world.”
We were about twenty blocks south of that eighty-year-old landmark to culinary doggery, waiting on line in a Papaya Palace, one of the knockoff shops.
“This is actually a very romantic choice,” Quinn claimed as I studied the giant menu board above the busy grill.
“Oh, I can see that,” I said. “The artful lighting”—bright as an operating room—“the clientele”—cabbies, ambulance drivers, tattooed teenagers—“the menu”—dogs, burgers, fried pickles, and paper cups of curly fries.
On the other hand, I had to admit, I was certainly dressed for peasant food.
“So don’t you want to know why I think this place is romantic?” he asked after we placed our orders.
“Um . . . because cops hook up with long-lost parole violators here?”
“There’s that, too.” He shot me a half smile that crinkled the crow’s feet around his eyes. “But this romantic story is about an immigrant named Gus and his wife, Birdie.”
“You’re talking about the original Papaya King?”
“You already know the story?”
“Vaguely. I remember something about hula girls?”
“Good memory.”
“Hula girls and hot dogs? This story isn’t obscene, is it?”
Quinn laughed, placed his strong hands on my hips, and gently pulled me back against him. As we watched our food being prepared, he put his lips to my ear—
“Once upon a time, a young Greek immigrant came to America . . .”
Like many New York success stories, especially in the culinary world, the Papaya King’s tale was one of grit and gumption. In Gus Poulos’s case, he’d come to New York in the nineteen twenties with no money, no family, no friends.
“He worked hard enough to buy the deli he worked in,” Quinn went on, the rumble of his voice sending vibrations all the way down to my Tyrolean peasant toes. “Then came his first vacation to Miami, where he fell in love with the papaya, came back to New York, and opened the city’s first tropical juice stand. Trouble was, nobody was buying. So Gus put young women in grass skirts in front of his store with free samples.”
“Let me guess. He had lines around the block.”
“He did indeed.”
“So when did the hot dog come in?”
“That’s the romantic part. A German-American woman named Birdie encouraged Gus to sample her favorite foods in their Yorkville neighborhood. Gus wedded Birdie, along with the idea of serving German frankfurters with his tropical juice drinks. And there you have it: The love of a good woman created one of the most iconic foodie combinations in the city.”
“The love of a good woman and a Miami papaya,” I pointed out. “It’s a classic New York fairy tale of rags-to-riches success. Funny, though, I don’t recall seeing any hula girls in Florida.”
“Maybe not, but they worked like a charm for Gus.”
“Lesson learned. If business gets slow, I’ll put grass skirts on Esther and Nancy.”
“What about Tucker?”
“Well, it is the West Village, but I don’t think he has the legs to pull it off.”
Our orders came up, and I sighed at the loss of Quinn’s warm hands on my hips. But he gallantly picked up my plastic tray before I could, carrying them both while I grabbed us stools at the counter running along the immense picture window.
As we sat facing east, I noticed a stretch limo coming from the direction of Second Avenue. It turned the corner onto Third, its sleek chassis moving uptown with the showy pomp of a sovereign’s white stallion. A few minutes later, I noticed another limo, this one black, taking the same route.
Limousines were common in this city and I didn’t think much (at the time) of seeing two in a row. Besides which, I was quickly distracted by Quinn, who was devouring his hot dog with relish—and yes, that condiment was slathered on his four frankfurters, along with every other extra on the menu: chili, cheese, sauerkraut.
My own stomach growled at the smell of sustenance and I took a hearty bite. My bun was fresh and my dog had a good snap to it; but compared to Mike, I was a purist on the extras with only a thin line of mustard and a simple splash of “New York onions,” which I found far superior to ketchup when it came to dressing hot dogs and hamburgers.
This one-of-a-kind New York sauce—a mix of onions cooked with spices, vinegar, and tomato—was much like the streets where it was born: sweet, sour, and ultimately complex enough to be satisfying. As I feasted, it occurred to me that was exactly how I felt about my life in this city.
To a Park Avenue princess like Leila, who wouldn’t eat in a working-class place like this if her life depended on it, my career managing the Village Blend would seem small and pointless. But to me it was hugely gratifying and, most of the time, pure joy. I loved mothering my baristas and creating new coffee blends for my customers, and I was especially proud of following in Madame’s footsteps, providing cups of cozy comfort for all the Village people (conventional and un-).
Meeting Mike Quinn during an accident investigation had been an accidental miracle of sorts. At my age, I honestly hadn’t expected to find a meaningful connection with a mature man. But Quinn’s sensibilities—especially after his failed marriage to that spoiled underwear model—weren’t that of a perpetual playboy. By his very nature, he was the polar opposite of my ex-cocaine-using ex.
Where Matt was reckless, Quinn was thoughtful. Where Matteo was emotional, Quinn was controlled. Where Matt was easily distracted and (at times) superficial, Quinn was steadfast and patient enough to look below surfaces.
Granted, Matteo Allegro was an exciting guy, full of fire and passion—not an easy man to turn down. When I’d first moved back to Manhattan after a decade raising our daughter in New Jersey, he’d even tried to win me back. But I wasn’t biting. When the choice came down to these two men, I chose Mike Quinn.
Now Mike was asking me to make another choice. Only this one wasn’t so easy. Two weeks ago, on one of my Washington weekends, he proposed that I leave my life and work in New York and move to DC to be closer to him.
I’d asked for time to think. So far, he hadn’t pressed me, yet I knew the subject of my future (our future) would come up again. Frankly, I was dreading it.
But there were more pressing dreads in tonight’s mental queue—for one, telling Quinn about Molly’s beloved Pink Princess.
As Quinn polished off the last bite of his fourth dog, he leveled his gaze on me and I could almost feel his mood shifting.
“So, Cosi. We’re sitting down. We ate our food. Are you ready to tell me that story now?”
I nodded. “Unfortunately, mine doesn’t involve frankfurters or hula girls.”
“I had a feeling it wouldn’t.”
I paused, taking a fortifying breath. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but when I went looking for Penny, I found the little dog guarding Anya.”
“Our Anya? Leila’s mother’s helper?”
“Yes. She’d collapsed in the Ramble . . .”
TWENTY-SEVEN
QUINN’S light mood left him. I could practically see the emotionless cop curtain coming down.
“Where is she?”
“In the hospital. The police say she was drugged.”
“Drugged?!” The iron curtain cracked, a rare thing for Quinn.
I leaned closer. “Mike, what can you tell me about Anya? Was she a drug user? An addict?”
“I spent most of my career as a narcotics officer, Clare. Do you think I would let a junkie near my kids?”
“She’s clean?”
“Yes. She came to Leila with good references, and believe me, I checked them out . . .”
“That’s all paper stuff. What about her lifestyle? If she didn’t take drugs herself, is it possible she had a boyfriend or another friend who used drugs? Someone you don’t know about?”
“It’s speculation but, yes, of course it’s possible.”
“I hope so, Mike, because if not, then something very bad happened to Anya in those woods, which is awful enough. But there’s more to the story.”
“It gets worse?”
I filled Quinn in on Matt’s arrest.
“And who did the honors?”
“Detective Fletcher Stanton Endicott. He even topped it off with a threat to throw Penny in the pound and me into Central Booking.”
Quinn’s frown deepened into dangerous territory. “Endicott threatened you?”
“Take it easy. I can’t imagine he was serious. In fact, Penny and I left a little warm puddle of affection next to his car door—just to show him there were no hard feelings.”
He shook his head. “You sure like to push it, don’t you, Cosi?”
“That man is an ass, and you know it. How did he get so far on the force anyway?”
“He’s a cousin of Mayor Stanton’s,” Quinn reminded me. “And he’s been paired with smart partners.”
“Now that you mention it. Endicott’s partner was the one who dug up Matt’s drug-related past.”
“I know you don’t want to hear this, sweetheart, but your ex-husband’s past is going to sink him.”
“Excuse me, but nobody’s past should sink him, not when he’s taken pains to reform and make amends. Do you really think it’s right to arrest a man based on nothing but his past?”
Quinn shifted. “The way you tell it, Matt was paired with Anya most of the day.”
“Yes, I grant you. The circumstances aren’t in his favor. But he didn’t do anything to that girl, and Mr. DNA will have zero physical evidence.”