“Is Ric associated with that discovery?”
“No. Ric’s living in Brazil now, but Matt tells me he did his own experimentation. He’s been interested in botany since he hung out here at the Blend back in college.”
“He went to college here?”
“He came as an exchange student from Costa Gravas for a year or so. He lived in the Village and took classes at NYU and Cornell, I think.”
“I thought you said he was from Brazil.”
“He and his family are living in Brazil now, but he was born and raised on Costa Gravas.”
“Where is that? Central America?”
“It’s a small Caribbean nation, near Jamaica, Spanish and English speaking. It was a British colony, which explains Ric’s surname. His father’s side held land there for generations. But now the island is independent and self-governing. Ric’s family left and went to Brazil. They reestablished their coffee farm there.”
“Don’t you know why his family left?”
“Not really. Matt and I were divorced when it happened, and I lost touch with Ric... until now.”
“What kind of a guy is he, would you say?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is he the kind who makes a lot of enemies? Does he have a temper? A short fuse?”
“No. The man’s as easygoing as they come. Five minutes after the mugging he was telling my daughter how beautifully she grew up.”
“If he’s not one to make personal enemies—”
“I didn’t say that... I don’t know him well enough, and...”
“What?”
“He’s a pretty smooth operator with women. At least he used to be, back in the day.”
Mike nodded. “Would he sleep with a married woman?”
“I don’t know...”
“Crimes of passion are at the top of the charts in my caseload.”
“I know... but it seems more likely that someone’s after Ric’s research.”
“As well as his life?”
“I don’t know that Ric’s
“How?”
“I’m pretty sure a police siren spooked the mugger first, and then when this robber came back, I was there with Ric.”
“Then you saw the mugger?”
“No. Before I had the chance, I was introduced to our back wall.” I lifted my bangs, showing Mike my bruised forehead.
“God, Clare...”
I dropped my bangs, but he reached out to lift them again. With one hand, he held back my hair. With the other, he tested the bruise’s discolored edges. The rough pads of his fingers were gentle, but the injury was sore.
I winced.
“Sorry...” he whispered. “Damn that ex-husband of yours. He should have called 911.”
Mike appeared to continue examining the bruise, but the affectionate way he kept stroking my hair was starting to scramble my brains. He just wouldn’t stop touching me, and for a moment I lost my voice along with my train of thought.
“It’s okay,” I finally managed. “Ric was the one who needed the ER. He was pistol-whipped pretty badly. When I first found him, he was unconscious.”
Mike’s hand released my chestnut bangs, but he didn’t pull away. Slowly, gently, he began to curl locks of hair around my ear. As his blue eyes studied my green ones, he seemed to be thinking something over. Then one finger drew a line down my jaw, stopping beneath my chin.
If he had leaned just a little closer, he could have kissed me. But he didn’t lean closer. He leaned back, taking the heat of his touch with him.
“I’ve got news for you, Clare,” he said quietly, “if the mugger hit him that hard, then it’s not a simple robbery.”
“What is it?”
“Attempted murder.”
Seven
“Is the flatfoot gone?” Matt asked.
It was almost midnight. I’d just climbed the back stairs and entered my duplex to find my ex-husband pacing the living room like a recently caged tiger. His expensive duds were gone. He was back to the sort of clothes I was used to him wearing—an old, knobby fisherman’s sweater and well worn blue jeans.
“Yes,
Matt seemed ready to retort with something snippy but stopped himself. After a few seconds of silence, he said, “You look tired...”
“I am.”
“Are you hungry? I warmed up some of my stew for Ric. There’s some left on the stove.”
“Great...” I turned to head into the kitchen. Matt stepped by me, touching my arm. “Take a load off. I’ll get it.”
I wasn’t going to argue. I’d set the bar low with the PB and Nutella simply because I was too tired to do anything more than slather my plain peanut butter sandwich with hazelnut-chocolate spread. I much preferred a hot, meaty snack—as long as I didn’t have to cook it myself. And, it appeared, I didn’t.
I dropped into a rosewood armchair, pulled off my low-heeled boots, and wiggled my sore toes inside my forest green socks. They seemed to disappear against the jewel-toned colors of the Persian area rug.
Madame had done an amazing job decorating this duplex. The richly patterned carpet provided a lovely counterpoint to the lighter motifs in the room’s color scheme. The walls were pale peach, the marble fireplace and sheer draperies a creamy white. The chairs and sofa were upholstered in a finely striped pattern of mandarin silk. Anchored above my head, in the fleur-de-lys ceiling molding, was a pulley chandelier of polished bronze and six blushing globes of faceted crystal.
Whenever Matt was in town, which was rarely more than one week a month, he had the legal right to use this apartment, too. Neither of us owned it outright. Madame had merely granted us equal rights to use this antique-filled West Village duplex rent free.
I’d tried arguing with Matt, but he wasn’t willing to give up his rights to the tasty piece of real estate with two working fireplaces and a newly renovated bath of Italian marble—and neither was I. Given the high cost of living in this neighborhood, and our own anemic savings accounts, we’d agreed on an uneasy truce.
Matt approached me with a warm bowl of his
“Mmmmm...” I murmured, “smells like sustenance.”
I dug in with gusto, appreciating the tang of the garlicky tomatoes and the brightness of the poblanos against the earthy combination of beef and coffee. Matt had placed a hunk of crusty French bread on top of the bowl. I dipped the bread in the thick, meaty gravy, and tore off a sloppy mouthful.
“How long have you been back?” I mumbled through my less-than-ladylike chomping.
