Through The Grinder

Quinn’s thumb and forefinger caressed the stem of Madame’s Waterford crystal wine glass. “No witnesses. The platform’s security camera was mounted right above the woman’s head — so we’ve got no usable pictures. And the motorman claims he didn’t see anyone — but with the way that station slightly curves, and the place on the platform where the victim had been waiting, the pusher could have remained invisible behind a staircase.”

“So you think there was a…‘pusher.’”

“Can’t prove it.”

I nodded, having been down this road with Quinn before. From past experience, I’d learned that New York City detectives didn’t just investigate shootings, stabbings, and stranglings, but any suspicious death or accident that appeared might result in death.

According to Quinn, his department was routinely swamped and his superiors wanted what he called a “high case clearance” rate. They had no patience with Quinn’s marking time on cases that wouldn’t make an Assistant D.A.’s pulse race.

Quinn explained to me that the transit police statements to the press had played the death as a suicide in the public’s eye. So any other theory Quinn might wish to introduce would now be met with a great deal of political resistance within his own department — especially a theory with little evidentiary support. Even his partner on the case wanted them to close it out as a suicide.

After we finished our salads, I moved our bowls to the sideboard, ducked into the kitchen to retrieve the main dish, then set the platter of Chicken Francese down on the table between us.

“It smells delicious,” he said.

I served it up, and he began to eat.

“Save room,” I told him. “I’ve got a killer desert.”

Quinn closed his eyes, like he did every day when he took that first sip of my latte — but this time his mouth was chewing instead of sipping.

“Clare,” he finally said, “this is amazing.”

“It’s a crime how easy Chicken Francese is to make,” I told him between bites, “so if I were you, I wouldn’t be too impressed.”

“I don’t know,” he said, opening his eyes. “If I were you, I’d be careful with your confessions to crimes around me.”

I smiled. “And why is that?”

He took another sip of wine, a long one, and I’d swear that frosty blue gaze of his was drinking me in, too. “I’ve got cuffs, babe. And I know how to use ’em.”

I think I managed not to drop my fork — my jaw, I couldn’t account for. “I can’t believe you said that.”

Quinn’s dark blonde eyebrows rose, and he gave me one of those looks landscape surveyors reserve for choice pieces. He started at the top of my wavy, shoulder-length, Italian-roast brown hair, running down my heart- shaped face and lavender V-neck sweater, pausing just long enough on my C-cups to make me break a sweat.

Then he raised an eyebrow, tilted his head a bit, made a little sighing sound, and turned his attention back to his meal.

Taciturn bastard.

It wasn’t the first time we’d flirted, and I assumed it wouldn’t be the last. But I knew it wouldn’t go anywhere. Unlike my impulsive, outspoken, adventurous — and ultimately shameless — ex-husband, I could never consent to an extra-marital affair. And I sincerely doubted Quinn could, either.

On my part, I was raised a strict Roman Catholic. Even though I had lapsed in many ways, the sense of right and wrong (and guilt) had long ago been sewn into the lining of my clothing by the immigrant grandmother who raised me.

Still, unlike the St. Joseph medal affixed to the dashboard of my car, I wasn’t made of plastic. Testosterone wasn’t going to stop turning me on, and neither was Detective Michael Ryan Francis Quinn.

I’m sure I would have seemed far more sophisticated and mysterious if I had just sat there all enigmatic and silent like him. But I wasn’t a twenty-year veteran of poker-faced interrogations, and I suddenly couldn’t stop myself from babbling the entire contents of one of my old “In the Kitchen with Clare” columns from my Jersey days.

“You know, a lot people get frustrated trying to find the recipe for Chicken Francese in Italian cookbooks,” I yammered, “but they’re looking in all the wrong places. I mean, the recipe has antecedents, mostly in Italian- language Neapolitan cookbooks, but it’s really a New York dish. Francese, of course, means ‘in the French manner,’ but what you’ve actually got here is a basic chicken cutlet pounded out and dipped in flour and egg and more flour, then fried in olive oil, then dressed with fresh lemon juice. And since it’s best made in single portions, it seemed the perfect dish tonight for just the two of us…”

Just the two of us? Oh god. That came out all wrong!

“What I mean is, I’m sure your wife could make it for you — or for more people. All she’d have to do is under-cook the first batch, that way she can keep it warm in the oven without drying out the chicken while she’s cooking the additional batches. You see?”

“Clare.” Quinn put down his fork, and looked straight into my eyes. “There’s a personal reason I came here tonight.”

“Personal?”

“I wanted some advice…marital advice.”

Four

Getting in was easy.

This being a new building, few of the tenants would know each other by face — given the typical all-hours comings and goings of Manhattan life — and even fewer would know each other by name.

The Genius simply waited.

Within minutes, a well-dressed man and woman came out the door, arguing about directions to a nightclub. The Genius stood just outside the door, pretending to fumble with a wallet — and, presumably, the pass card. As the couple stepped out, the man politely held the door open.

And, just like that, the Genius was in.

The cheap chrome light fixtures that illuminated the building’s exterior were tediously present in its interior, as well, throughout the featureless space that formed the small lobby and down the short hall leading to the elevators.

The Genius pushed the UPbutton and waited.

“Just another slut,” whispered the Genius. “Like all of them…”

The Genius had followed the woman to the restaurant. Watched her dine with her new e-date. An expensive meal. A second bottle of wine. Finally, dessert. The woman had placed her manicured hand on her date’s, lifted it off the table, and brought it down underneath.

Surprise had registered on the man’s features as she’d made him feel what was there beneath her little black dress — and what wasn’t.

To the other diners, nothing had looked amiss. But the Genius had known what was happening beneath that tablecloth, and what would come next. A hastily requested check, the flagging of a cab. Fumbling in the back seat on the ride back to her building — and then the quick and feral mating.

An invitation had followed, of course, but the man had declined. His departure in a hired car had been expected…a signal for the Genius to act.

The mechanical bing of the elevator sounded, and the doors opened on the fifteenth floor.

With gloved hands, the Genius pulled the note from a pocket, opened it, and glanced at the first few lines.

Inga,

I saw you at the restaurant with him.