by Cleo Coyle
Ignoring the pain in my leg, I clutched together the tattered ruins of my costume and hurried down the stairs, past one, two, three exits. Below me, I heard the fake nurse making a phone call. She was cursing, saying something about coming out. Her voice sounded closer, so I knew the call had slowed her down, and I was catching up!
At the ground floor she pushed through another steel door, and I was right behind her. We both ran through a hall lined with elevators, toward a glass door that exited to the street.
I was about ten steps from tackling the woman when an elevator opened in front of me. Mike stepped out and shouted—
“Clare, get down!”
No, I thought, I’m too close to give up!
But Mike’s strong arm hooked my waist. Momentum spun us and we tumbled to the sea green linoleum—just in time apparently.
I was so furiously focused on catching the nurse that I’d missed her accomplice. Now I spied the fat man at the exit, a wool ski mask over his face and a very large gun in his hand.
The shot was deafening inside the narrow hall.
I curled into a ball, Mike protectively on top, when the clock on the wall above our heads exploded, raining plastic and glass. Ears ringing, I saw Mike’s lips move as he ran his hand over me. I could tell he was asking if I was hurt, and I shook my head.
“I’m all right. Are you—”
He was already up and running. Two hands on his gun, he plowed his shoulder into the door and burst onto the chilly sidewalk.
I arrived in time to see a black SUV speeding away.
Legs braced, Mike was aiming at the wheels when an MTA bus lumbered through the intersection on Amsterdam, blocking sight of the fugitive vehicle. With a curse, he lowered his weapon.
By the time the bus passed by, the SUV had vanished into the night.
THIRTY
WHEN the police arrived, two uniforms separated us. Mike already called in a description of the suspects and their car. Now the cops wanted our full statements.
Meanwhile, Anya was moved to a new room, a security guard posted on her door. A doctor checked her over and deemed her fine—with the exception of her near-comatose state.
Then the Crime Scene detectives went to work. They searched Anya’s old room for evidence, retrieved the bullet from the hallway, and the sopping wet clothes from my body.
By the end of it, my festival costume was living in an evidence bag, and (thanks to the hospital staff), I was handed a clean pair of OR scrubs. I got into the dry clothes and went looking for Mike.
I found him in the hallway with his suit jacket off. Arms folded, sleeves rolled up, he leaned against a wall, watching the Crime Scene people work.
When he saw me, he tugged my hand, pulling me back into the waiting room where we’d started out.
After a day working in a Fairy Tale Village, and a night chasing through (what felt like) cursed woods, I thought I’d be ready for anything, even a wicked witch disguised as a Cuckoo nurse.
What I hadn’t expected was a goon with a gun, waiting in a getaway car. And when the dust settled, I realized the heavyset man in the ski mask wasn’t necessarily nearsighted.
“He deliberately aimed above our heads, didn’t he? To keep us from following.”
Mike nodded an affirmative, but I was no less grateful.
Who knew where that man would have aimed if I had continued running for the door? Mike had saved my “pastry pushing” rear, and I told him so. He touched my cheek.
“One time or another, sweetheart, even the toughest of us needs backup. Unless, of course, you’re a superhero.”
“Well, you may see that yet.”
I pointed to Delecki’s cape, still folded on the waiting room chair. “The police took my peasant dress, these OR scrubs are flimsy, and the only other thing I have to wear looks like I pinched it from Superman.”
Mike smiled and handed me his suit jacket. “In case you get cold.”
“Thanks.”
“So . . .” he said, leading us to two chairs. “Do you have an opinion about what happened?”
I rubbed my sore jaw. “Either it was the most aggressive health insurance broker in history, or some woman and her partner were trying to coerce Anya into signing a legal document.”
“I’m guessing the latter.”
“Me too. Did they find any of the pages I tore?”
Mike nodded. “One ripped page was mostly blank, but the other had a sentence about the undersigned waiving, quote, ‘all further litigation,’ and a space for Anya to sign.”
“If she’s involved in a lawsuit, it can’t be that hard to find out the details, right?”
“That depends. Both parties could have been negotiating in private. But someone close to Anya might know the facts.”
“It’s too bad about the ID photo, the one I yanked off her neck.”
“You said the photo was fake?”
“It wasn’t the woman I saw. Not even close.”
“Sounds like a semiprofessional job,” Mike concluded.
“Semiprofessional?”
“Yes, it would have been easy to take a picture of the woman with the wig on, and stick it on the ID. But this pair grabbed some anonymous photo off a social site. They knew enough to manufacture a convincing ID without exposing themselves—that’s professional-level thinking. On the other hand, trying to slap her awake was a downright stupid ploy.”
“Stupid and desperate,” I said. “Who would do something so risky?”
“A cut-rate private detective agency maybe.”
“What? Like someone good enough to close a divorce case, but out of their depth for this job?”
Mike nodded. “Or it could be private muscle in the employ of some shady law firm, even a respectable one. Or someone’s relative doing his or her cousin a favor. The possibilities are endless.”
“What about the SUV?”
“They’re looking for it, but I’ll bet a steak dinner at Peter Luger’s the vehicle was stolen for this job.”
We both fell silent, and then I said what we both were thinking.
“This doesn’t change anything for Matt, does it? I mean, these two wanted some kind of legal release. It’s unlikely they were the ones who drugged Anya, only to pull this stunt to get to her again.”
“I agree. I doubt they had anything to do with her overdose.”
“Then I’m right. This doesn’t let Matt off the hook.”
“No, but the toxicology report might. We’ll have to be patient. The lab results should be back within the week.”
I cocked my head. “And the doctors are absolutely certain it’s drug intoxication?”
“According to Anya’s medical records, she has no history of illnesses, although they’re running more tests. But there was no sign of violence. Anya wasn’t molested in any way. No needle tracks were found on her body and no bruises, only some minor scratches on her leg, which they attribute to the brush in the woods.”
“Her leg . . .”
I flashed back to the disturbing vision I’d had on the sidewalk outside that club. Anya had been bleeding from a hole in her leg—her lower left leg.
“Clare? What’s wrong?”
“Was it Anya’s left leg where they found the scratches?”
“Yeah.” Quinn nodded. “Her lower left leg. They bandaged it up.”
“And no needle tracks?”
“None—not that visible tracks prove anything. Intravenous narcotics can be shot under the tongue, where the tracks are harder to detect.”
I shuddered. “I can’t imagine.”
“I don’t have to imagine. I’ve seen it.”
“Can’t the doctors find a way to wake Anya up?”
Mike rubbed his eyes. “She didn’t respond to flumazenil, which is unusual.”
“That�
�s what they used on Matt all those years ago when he nearly died of an overdose.”
“Which means it may not be cocaine or heroin, and that’s good for Matt. The specialists are ready with more specific treatment once they know what kind of drug they’re dealing with.”
Just then, a beefy young cop called into the room. “You two ready to go?”
“Go where?” I asked.
He shrugged. “That’s up to you, Doctor. My sergeant said to take you wherever you like.”
Mike arched an amused eyebrow. “Where to, Doc?”
“Home,” I said. “But before we go, will you do me a favor? Ask a real doctor to reexamine those scratches on her leg. I have a strong feeling they’ll find something there.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Call it a hunch.”
Mike studied me—seriously this time. “All right. I’ll ask.”
“It may mean nothing, but it bothers me, and—”
“It’s okay, Cosi. One thing I’ve learned on this job. Never argue with hunches.”
* * *
TEN minutes later, I was sitting in the back of a chilly police cruiser, tugging Mike’s suit jacket closer around my flimsy OR scrubs.
Delecki’s folded cape sat on my lap. I could have put it on, but I wasn’t in the mood to fend off one-liners from our chauffeurs in blue. Besides, I was getting too much respect dressed as a doctor, even if I was freezing my padded ass off.
Mike had been leaning forward, chatting with our driver and his partner, when he noticed my shivery shifting. Without a word, he sat back and put his arm around me.
“Thanks,” I whispered. “You’re getting pretty good at this.”
“Practice makes perfect,” he murmured in my ear.
The evening had grown colder with a low fog rolling in from the Hudson, yet up ahead the Village Blend’s windows glowed steadily golden through the shifting gloom, its flickering hearth making the red brick shop look like a welcoming cottage in a dark forest.
“Almost home,” Mike whispered.
Snuggling closer to his big, warm body, I sighed. Home was exactly how I thought of my coffeehouse, and I was glad to hear him use the word.
In all our conversations tonight, he had yet to bring up the question of my moving to Washington. Frankly, I was relieved. I was still holding out hope that he’d find a way around his difficult boss in DC and come back to New York for good.
As fairy tales went, that would be my wish come true.
Mike thanked our escorts as they pulled over the cruiser, then he took my hand, and we crossed the sidewalk, toward the four-story landmark building that housed the Village Blend.
THIRTY-ONE
MATT’S wife, Breanne, had called the Village Blend an asylum, and I thought of it that way, too, just not the kind of asylum she’d meant.
Like Greenwich Village itself, this century-old coffeehouse was a refuge, a safe place where people of all kinds were welcome without judgment. I even had my own private asylum upstairs. The beautiful duplex apartment came rent-free, as long as I managed the coffee business below.
That business had been close to ruin when I’d come back to it. These days it was purring along like an Italian sports car. Even now, twenty minutes before closing, nearly every table was occupied, and I wasn’t surprised. Gardner Evans was on duty.
A young, African-American jazz musician, Gardner was my star night manager. He always came to work with sultry playlists that enticed customers to stick around for an extra cup or two.
Athletically built with a trimmed goatee, cocoa complexion, and liquid brown eyes, Gardner was a favorite of NYU co-eds and jazz aficionados alike (and there were plenty of both in the Village).
Gardner sometimes spoke about missing his family back home, but he enjoyed his barista work, especially the late shifts, which gave him a chance to “caffeinate up” (as he put it) before going out to midnight jam sessions. He’d play all night with his group, treat himself to fried chicken and waffles at Amy Ruth’s in Harlem, sleep through the morning, and wake up, ready to pull shots by early evening.
Now I knocked on our French windows and waved good night. But when Gardner looked up from behind the counter, something bizarre happened.
As a crack of thunder shook the sky, a sharp shock rocketed through my body. The jolt came with a feeling of elation followed by loss, and then great sadness.
When it passed, Gardner was gone. He simply vanished before my eyes!
I blinked hard, trying to bring him back. But he didn’t come back, and I felt frozen in place. “Clare?! What’s wrong?”
I shook my head, unsure of where I was. Mike’s hands were on my shoulders, and I was gazing up into his furrowed brow.
“Are you okay? You zoned out. Didn’t you hear me calling you?”
“I’m fine. But Gardner, he vanished right in front of me. He’s gone!”
“No, he’s not.”
I looked through the window again. Gardner was standing behind the counter, chatting with a customer.
I tried not to panic. “Mike, you have your key to my apartment, don’t you?”
“Sure.”
“Go around to the back stairs without me. I want to check on the shop.”
“No, Clare, I think you should take it easy. Come up with me now. You obviously need to rest.” He took my hand and held my eyes. “I was hoping we could talk—remember that question I asked you two weeks ago? About moving to DC?”
Oh, no, not now.
“Have you given it any thought?”
“I have. But—” I swallowed hard, “can we please talk about it in the morning, after we’ve both had a good night’s sleep?”
He paused, face unreadable. Mike Quinn was a patient man, but even his patience was running out.
“Tomorrow morning,” he said tightly. “Now come upstairs. We’re about to get a downpour.”
I pulled lightly against his grip. “First I need to check on the shop. I have a feeling something’s wrong. This place is my responsibility. You understand, right?”
If anyone was familiar with the weight of responsibility, it was Mike Quinn. He didn’t like my answer, but he didn’t argue. Letting go of my hand, he turned away.
“I won’t be long,” I called after him.
Thunder rumbled again and the air filled with dampness. Wet drizzle brushed my cheeks and I squeezed my eyes shut. For weeks now, I felt as though my future was in the hands of a fickle fortune teller. I would decide one thing, sleep on it, and change my mind in the morning.
Okay, Clare, deal with the shop, then get it together and talk to him.
Opening my eyes, I headed for the Blend’s front entrance. As I reached it, the door swung wide, and an attractive young woman burst out.
“Excuse me,” she said, hurrying by.
Her face looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. Then lightning flashed, and I saw the streaks of red color in her soot black, chin-length hair.
The Red Princess!
She’d swapped her sparkly gown for black jeans and a scarlet sweatshirt, but I remembered her from this morning when she’d flirted with Matt and told him she was a friend of Anya’s!
“Wait!” I called.
Ignoring me, she flipped up her red hood, rounded the corner, and disappeared.
Dodging sluggish raindrops, I followed. “Miss, please wait!” But as I made the turn, the girl was already ducking inside a big Lincoln Town Car, the vehicle of choice for practically every car service in the city.
She slammed the door, and the driver smiled, greeting her in a friendly, familiar way. He was a thirtyish Caucasian male with shaggy brown hair topped by an English bowler—not something you saw every day, even in Greenwich Village.
As the two sped away, I saw the license was a standard Taxi and Limousine issue.
But it was the odd bumper sticker that drew my attention.
Many of these livery drivers hailed from other countries, and the bumper sticker looked like a national flag that was slapped on the car out of pride. This one displayed a right triangle on a field of blue with a line of five twinkling stars along the hypotenuse.
I mined my memory, running through all the UN flags on a scarf my daughter had bought for me during a grade school field trip. She and I had memorized them all, quizzing each other for fun, but the bowler-wearing driver’s flag eluded me, along with the obvious question—
What was the Red Princess doing at my coffeehouse?
As the downpour struck, I pulled Mike’s jacket over my head and dashed inside for answers.
THIRTY-TWO
AS I shook off the cold rain, smooth jazz washed over me.
The lights were low, the fireplace crackling, and all around me date-night Saturday was evident with couples nursing lattes and cappuccinos at our marble-topped café tables, their heads bowed in intimate conversations.
Moving behind the counter, I approached Gardner.
“Hey, boss, you okay?” he asked. “Esther said you had a rough night. What’s with the hospital clothes?”
“I’m fine—forget the clothes. Did you happen to notice the young woman who just left?”
Gazing down at me, Gardener gave me a little smile. “I always notice young women.”
“Not that kind of notice.” I described her. “Red hoodie, red streaks in her hair.”
Garner rubbed his trimmed goatee. “Sounds like the girl who was talking to Esther.”
“Wait, back up. Esther was here? Tonight?” I glanced around. “Did she leave?”
“No. She’s been here for the past few hours.”
“But Esther’s off duty tonight. Why isn’t she home with Boris, getting some rest?”
“Couldn’t tell you.”
“What about you?” I asked anxiously. “Everything okay with you?”
“With me? Never better.” He flashed a toothy grin. “In fact, I got some fantastic news today . . .”