French Pressed

“Okay,” I said, nodding to the big blond. I handed my martini to Simon Ward. “Would you hold on to my drink, Simon? I’ll be right back.”

“Please hurry,” he replied, appearing a little annoyed.

I followed the woman across the room to the ladies’. But as soon as we stepped through the door, I turned on her.

“Okay, what’s going on?”

She immediately reached into the bodice of her rhinestone dress and pulled out a gold shield. “Detective Lori Soles, NYPD. I’m on Lieutenant Quinn’s task force.”

“You’re hunting the May-September gang?”

I could have kicked myself the second I’d blurted that out. Mike had told me that in confidence.

The woman blinked, surprised. “Lieutenant Quinn told me you were a private detective. You are, right? You have a license?”

“I, ah—”

“Quinn also told me to tell you that he thinks you can handle this. He said I should emphasize that for some reason. Something about a conversation you had with him at a crime scene recently?”

Oh, God.

“He also told me that you solved some pretty hairy homicides, and this should be a walk in the park. Are you up for it?”

The door opened again, and another woman entered. I recognized her at once: the jealous one with the too-daring banana-yellow tank dress and the slicked-down ebony ponytail. She’d glared at me earlier, when Simon first began talking to me. I noticed she was clutching an oversized black handbag under one arm that in no way matched her outfit.

“This better work,” she grumbled. “I turned on the charm for forty minutes, then she walks in and the freakin’ perp dumps me!”

She appraised me, shook her head. “The little bastard is obviously going for the emeralds.”

Detective Soles rolled her eyes. “This is my partner, Sue Ellen Bass,” she said.

“Well, is she going to do it?” Detective Bass demanded.

“Calm down,” said Detective Soles. “I haven’t explained the sting yet.”

Before I could ask them, “What sting?” or even make an educated guess where this conversation was going, given Quinn’s current task force goals, the door opened, and two exceedingly tipsy young women entered the ladies’, tittering loudly.

“Into my office,” Detective Bass commanded. She shoved us into a marble-walled bathroom stall and locked the door behind us. The stall was quite spacious, a mercy, considering there were three of us crammed in there.

“Are you going to wear the wire?” Detective Bass whispered to me.

“The wire? What for?”

“That guy, the one who was chatting you up? He’s our prime suspect.”

“That kid, Simon? You’re telling me he’s a May-September gangster? He said he was a fashion designer —”

Bass snorted. “Simon, huh? And he’s a fashion designer? That’s real funny, because he told me his name was Richard, and he worked on Wall Street.”

“Sounds suspicious to me,” Soles agreed.

“Or the SOB is married,” Bass replied. “In which case, the situation’s even more pathetic than I originally figured, because it means I can’t even get a lowlife scumbag to be straight with me.”

“Please, Sue Ellen…” Soles shook her head. “Let’s not delve into your dating habits—”

“Easy for you to say. You’re a happy newlywed.”

Soles rolled her eyes. “And you’re the one with the commitment problem!”

“True.” Bass shrugged. “But there are too many cute guys on the force. Like Lieutenant Quinn out there. He’s pretty hot, but word is he’s taken.”

“Already?” Soles asked. “He just split with his wife.”

Sue Ellen shrugged. “Whoever the lucky lady is, the man’s got it bad for her.”

Oh, Lord.

Her partner hushed her, faced me. “Look, Ms. Cosi. We really need you to do this. Lieutenant Quinn told me to tell you something else. He said he wouldn’t ask if he didn’t need this.”

I nodded. The man had gone out on a limb enough times for me. The least I could do was return the favor. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

“There’s a risk,” Detective Soles warned. “These guys have been violent in the past. We’ll be on you like glue, but you could still get roughed up if we drop the ball—”

“We won’t,” Detective Bass declared.

“But it’s a possibility,” Soles added.

“What do you want me to do?”

Detective Soles glanced at her partner. “I told you she’d do it. This one can take care of herself.”

“You’re going to wear a wire, honey,” Sue Ellen Bass said as she reached into her bag. “Ask simple ‘Simon’ out there to escort you home. You live in the Village, right? We’ll monitor your conversation after you leave the club. We’ll follow you, too. If he tries to rob you, or rape you, or even look at you funny, we’ll know it and come running.”

“What if he’s innocent?”

Sue Ellen yanked a radio, battery pack, and a tiny microphone on a long wire out of her bag and untangled it. “Then you have nothing to worry about.”

Detective Soles fumbled with the buttons on my blouse.

“Excuse me? What are you doing?!”

“The wire goes under your clothes.”

It took several minutes, but eventually I was ready. The transmitter was tapped to my belly, the microphone wire running up, under my bra, to the microphone itself, which was nestled between my breasts.

“Did you bring a coat?” Bass asked, checking out my breasts.

“Of course. It’s freezing outside.”

“Well, don’t button it; you might cover the mike.”

“Okay, Ms. Cosi. Say something.” Soles commanded, slipping a headset over her tight blond curls.

“Say what?” I asked.

Detective Soles listened and nodded to her partner. “It works. Now we need a panic phrase—”

My eyes widened. “A what?”

“Something you say that lets us know that you’re in real trouble,” Sue Ellen replied in an exasperated tone, as if I should know this stuff already.

“Oh, sure, a panic phrase,” I replied flatly. “How about ‘Help, help, I’m being mugged’?”

Detective Soles rolled her eyes. “That won’t work. What if he’s holding a knife on you? If you yell that, he’ll just finish you off.”

“Can’t you just follow me and see that I’m in trouble?” I said.

“We can try to keep a visual on you,” Soles said, “but what if he pulls you into the shadows where we can’t see you? Or takes you into some private lobby, where our presence would tip him off?”

“We have to rely on the wire,” Detective Bass insisted.

“And the panic phrase,” Lori Soles reminded her. Then she looked down at me (a long trip) and put her large hand on my small shoulder. “If something bad starts to go down, and you want us to rush in, you have to say something that’s not at all appropriate, something that will confuse the perp long enough for us to move in. We’ll need about fifteen seconds, at least, and that’s enough time for a guy like this to kill you.”

“Okay, I’m convinced,” I said. “Like what?”

“Just say ‘Carnegie Hall,’” Soles replied. “We’ll understand.”

“Carnegie Hall?” I smirked. “Are you sure I don’t have to practice first?”

Soles laughed, glanced at her partner. “This one’s quick. I think she’s gonna do it for us.”