French Pressed

He did. I poured him a second cup and gave him two aspirin.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

“You’re welcome.”

“So…” he said, his mind obviously becoming clearer. “You really like the cop?”

“It’s more than like, Matt.”

He rubbed his eyes and sighed. “I figured by now you would have gotten him out of your system, but I can see you need more time.” He shrugged. “So have your fling. Just don’t give up on us, Clare…not yet…”

I closed my eyes. “Please, Matt. It’s late. You’ve had too much to drink. I’ve had too much… frustration.”

I opened my eyes to find Matt leering at me. One dark eyebrow arched. “So my kiss did affect you.”

Before I could find another shoe, the phone rang.

“Saved by the bell,” I told him, picking up the extension. “Hello?”

“Mom! Thank God!”

“Joy? What’s wrong?”

Matt was on his feet before I spoke another syllable. “What’s the matter with Joy?”

“It’s Vinny!” Joy cried from the other end of the line.

“Vinny?” I repeated.

“Who’s Vinny?” Matt demanded, breathing down my neck.

“Vincent Buccelli,” I quickly whispered, covering the mouthpiece. “He’s Joy’s friend from culinary school. They’re interning together at Solange this year.”

“Mom? I don’t know what to do!”

“Slow down, honey. Where are you?”

“I came out to Queens after work, to check on Vinny, see how he was doing.”

“You told me he called in sick today.”

“I found him on the floor, Mom.” Joy began to sob. “And there’s blood, so much blood!”

“Blood!” I repeated.

“Blood!” Matt shouted.

“Mom, I can’t believe it, but I think Vinny’s dead!”

Six

Our yellow taxi rolled down a dim stretch of paved avenue that ran under the elevated tracks of the Number 7 line. At one in the morning, not even the flashing red beacons of the police and FDNY vehicles could penetrate the cold shadows beneath the subway’s rusty girders.

The three-story apartment house where Vincent Buccelli lived sat between an Irish pub that advertised the best hamburgers in New York City (according to the Daily News), and a Sherwin-Williams paint store, now shuttered with a steel mesh gate. The area was a typical working-class neighborhood of Queens, filled with immigrants from an array of countries: Korea, Ireland, India, Ecuador, Colombia, and dozens of others.

Tonight, the front door of the redbrick house was open, spilling yellow light from a gold ceiling fixture in the hallway. The building had white-trimmed windows and a short set of concrete steps that led to a roofless front porch. That’s where the cop was standing, a big Irish-faced officer in his thirties. He wore a dark blue uniform and a bored expression as he guarded the building’s entrance. Younger, smaller cops were patrolling the sidewalk, keeping a curious crowd of pub crawlers behind yellow crime-scene tape that had been stretched across the pavement.

“Looks like the national doughnut convention’s in full swing,” Matt muttered next to me in the cab’s backseat.

I tensed. The last thing I needed was for my authority-loathing ex to start a fight with the investigating officers, which could land us all downtown, or crosstown, or wherever the local precinct house was in this part of Queens. As Matt fumbled for his wallet with his good arm, I gripped his shoulder.

“Joy’s not a suspect,” I said. “There’s no reason to get upset.”

“Not yet,” Matt replied, thrusting a fistful of cash at the Pakistani driver.

Matt had sobered up fast the moment Joy had called for help. Knowing we’d be dealing with outer-boroughs cops, he’d grabbed an old Yankees sweatshirt from his bedroom closet. He ripped the bottom of one sleeve to accommodate his cast and—suddenly no longer needing my help—forcibly tugged it over his expensive cashmere sweater.

I’d found my brown pumps, pulled an older parka over my sheer blouse and tight skirt, and we were off, leaving Matt’s cover-model leather jacket back where it belonged, in a multimillion-dollar West Village town house.

Now I swung open the cab’s door, and the November chill struck me like a hammer. It felt much colder in the borough of Queens. This wasn’t my imagination. Frigid wind blasts flowed down from Canada and across New York’s waterways, but the buildings were lower in the outer boroughs. Manhattan’s moneyed skyscrapers couldn’t shield you the same way here.

By the time I’d climbed out of the backseat, Matt’s muscular form was already barreling toward the yellow tape. Two cops near the flimsy barrier saw him approach and tensed. Both officers were so young they had to be rookies, and both were at least a head shorter than Matt.

Behind them, on the apartment house’s front porch, stood that big Irish-faced officer. He was younger than Matt, but at least a decade older than the rookies. He also watched Matt’s approach, but his expression remained bored.

I hurried to catch up to my ex, which wasn’t so easy in high heels, and I cursed myself for not taking a minute to dig out my running shoes.

At the police line, Matt grabbed the tape and lifted it. But before he could step under it, a rookie jumped in front of him, jammed a hand into Matt’s chest. “Where are you going, sir?” the baby-faced policeman said. His tone was respectful but insistent.

“I need to get inside,” Matt forcefully replied. “My daughter’s up there.”

“It’s a crime scene, sir. No one can go in there until the forensics people are finished.”

Matt stared down at the kid. The officer’s left hand was still on Matt’s chest, his right clutched the top of a long nightstick dangling from his belt.

“I know it’s a crime scene,” Matt replied. “Now take your hand away before you lose it, flatfoot.”

Oh, damn. Here we go…

The big cop, guarding the apartment’s front door, tucked his hands into his belt and swaggered down the concrete steps and across the sidewalk. His bored expression had suddenly become animated; in fact, he seemed genuinely pleased by the ugly turn of events.

Great, I thought. And here he is, for your entertainment! A willing subject for a textbook takedown and arrest! My ex-husband!

“Flatfoot?” the older cop repeated to Matt with a smirk. His hands were still tucked into his belt, but his chest was puffed out like a bantam rooster. “That’s real quaint. Who are you, Damien Runyon?”

The younger cops chuckled. The pub crawlers laughed.

“That’s Damon Runyon, you moron,” Matt snapped.

“Uh-oooooh!” a drunk in the crowd cried. “He’s in trouble now!”

“Matt, please—” I whispered, tugging his sweatshirt, trying to get him to back down.

My ex turned and looked down at me. I expected him to bark something nasty. But he didn’t. He met my eyes and winked. “Go!” he mouthed, jerking his head in the direction of the now unguarded steps.

Matt had purposely lured the big cop away from his post by the building’s front door. If I was fast enough,