French Pressed

“I think I had too much, too,” I said, massaging my temples. “So before I pass out, let’s get Esther back to the car.”

Twenty-One

I shuffled into the kitchen the next morning wearing tube socks, my oversized terry robe, and a St. Petersburg–sized hangover.

“Coffee?” Matt asked.

“Da.” I nodded. “With aspirin.”

He poured me a cup, handed me the bottle. Then he set a tall glass of clear liquid in front of me.

“Drink this, too,” he said.

“I hope to God it’s water.”

“What else would it be?”

I shook my head, picked up the glass. “You told me to drink water last night, you know, and I still have the hangover.”

“You didn’t drink enough. You passed out too soon.”

Matt was right. He’d been waiting up for me. I told him as much as I could manage about my night in Brighton Beach, then the room began to spin, and I was down for the count.

I drank the water, took the aspirin, sipped the coffee.

“Okay,” I said, feeling the caffeine hit my veins. “Update me. Tell me what’s happening on the legal end.”

“Joy’s arraignment is Monday—”

“I remember.”

“And Bree’s lawyers said they’re sure they can get our girl out on bail, but there are probably going to be restrictions.”

“Such as?”

“She’ll have to give up her passport. She has a roommate in Paris, and nobody wants her flying out of the country before her trial.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“Also…she may be released under our recognizance.”

“I think we can handle that, right? Joy’s not exactly a threat to society.”

“Worst-case scenario—and this is a real possibility, so we need to be prepared —”

“Just tell me, Matt.”

“House arrest with some kind of electronic monitoring, like a leg bracelet.”

I sighed, sipped at my coffee. “Joy will hate it, but at least she won’t have to rot in a jail cell, waiting months or more for a trial. Do you need me to do anything as far as the legal stuff?”

Matt shook his head. “I’m taking care of it. Don’t worry. But you might want to stop by her apartment, pick up her mail, get some clothes and personal items. If she’s released tomorrow under house arrest, the lawyer is giving them our address as the holding location.”

“Okay, will do. I’ll stop by her apartment later today—tomorrow morning at the latest.”

I got up, poured myself more coffee, feeling a little better already, especially with the prospect of my daughter’s being released from jail in just one more day. What I didn’t feel good about was my investigation.

I’d hit a dead end with Brigitte Rouille and another one with Nick from Brighton Beach. I’d have to sober up fast and start thinking about my other leads. In the meantime, I was grateful that Joy had good lawyers on her side. And I knew who to thank for that.

“Okay, Matt, I never thought I’d say it, but thank goodness you’re sleeping with Breanne Summour. That woman and I have had our differences, but she really came through for our daughter.”

Matt nodded.

“She must really care for you,” I said, giving him a little smile. Matt didn’t respond. His gaze fell to the pile of newspapers on the table in front of him.

“Got the Times there?” I asked, turning my thoughts to a certain someone who cared for me.

“Yeah.”

“Would you mind handing over the real estate section?”

“Why?”

“I’d just like to look it over.”

“Why, Clare?”

I hemmed and hawed, not really wanting to get into my plans with Quinn. But Matt finally pressed hard enough.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “Friday night, before Chef Keitel was murdered, before our daughter was arrested, Mike Quinn stopped by downstairs for a talk.”

Matt’s eyes appeared to brighten. “He broke up with you?”

“Almost. He gave me an ultimatum. Move out or move on.”

“Wow. That’s harsh. But then…” He shrugged. “What else could you expect from a guy like that?”

“Like what?”

“A guy who locks people up for a living.”

“He hunts down criminals and predators, Matt. He brings them to justice. He agonizes about making the world better, or at least a safer place for the innocent—”

“Spare me.” Matt waved his hand.

I frowned, took a long sip of coffee. “I understand how Mike feels. I mean, I’d feel exactly the same way if his estranged wife popped up unexpectedly and started gallivanting around his apartment.”

“Did you say gallivant?” Matt made a face. “I don’t gallivant.”

“It’s just an expression. Anyway, I’m going to move out of here.”

“What?! Why?”

“Because I don’t want to lose Mike Quinn. Why do you think?”

Matt folded his arms, regarded me with a look of pure skepticism. “You’re in love with the flatfoot?”

“I care for him. I want the chance to love him.”

“What about us?”

“Us?” I blinked, rubbed my eyes. My head was still a little fuzzy. I wasn’t sure I’d heard my ex-husband correctly. “Excuse me?”

“Us, Clare. You and me.”

“I don’t…I don’t follow. I mean, in case you’ve been Rip Van Winkling on me, we’ve been divorced for ten years. There is no us.”

“We’re living together again.”

I nearly spat out a fresh mouthful of joe. “We’re sharing a duplex. And you’re hardly here.”

“I could be here more often, if that’s what you want.”

I gaped at the man. “Matt, I can’t imagine what’s brought this on…”

“Well, I was just sitting here, thinking about us, and I think maybe we should be one big happy family again: you and me and Joy.” He leaned forward, grabbed my hand. “Honestly, honey, listen to me. You and I have been through so much over the last year.”

He raised his plaster cast just to remind me—as if I needed the reminder or the guilt trip.

“Matt, please—”

“We’ve worked so well together. You can see I’ve changed. I’m willing to change even more. I think we just need to try again.”

“No.” I gently extracted my hand. “Matt, how can I make you understand? The cocaine—”

“I’m not using anymore! I’ve told you a thousand times. I’ll never use again. You can believe me—”