French Pressed

“Okay, honey,” Sue Ellen Bass said, slapping me on the back. “Get out there and break the little scumbag’s heart, so I can crack his skull.”

Detective Soles and I left the bathroom together. I could tell she was relieved to see that Simon Ward was still waiting where we left him. She made a big show of saying good-bye, making sure to mention that I would be going home alone now.

“Thanks, Clare,” Detective Soles said, squeezing my shoulder reassuringly as she pecked my cheek. “I’ve got to go find my man.”

I took the blue martini from Simon and drained it in one gulp.

“You’re friend seems a little…scatterbrained,” he said.

“She is.” I nodded. “She might be a little tipsy, too.”

“You’ve finished your drink in a hurry. You may feel a little tipsy soon, too.”

“That’s why I’m going home,” I told him. Simon frowned—until I took his arm and added, “But not alone, I hope. You know, I don’t live far at all, but I could use a chaperone on the walk home.”

Simon grinned and patted my hand. “I’ll be your escort—how’s that? I have far too many designs on you to be an effective chaperone.”

I laughed, only half faking it. I had trouble believing Simon was anything more than a charming young man who had a way with the ladies—which was also (eesh) a fairly accurate description of a May-September gang member, come to think of it.

We waited a few minutes at the coat check. Simon retrieved our stuff. As he helped me into my coat, he leaned close and gave me a light kiss on the back of my neck. I stiffened, remembering Mike was watching this—or, at the very least, listening.

Outside, the line was still long, but it was colder than I remembered it. We stepped onto Fourth Avenue, and a blast of arctic air hit us.

“Too cold.” Simon groaned, reaching for a cell phone. “I’ll call my driver.”

He hit a speed-dial button and waited a moment. “Bring the car around. I’m outside Flux on Fourth Avenue.” He paused. “What do you mean, traffic?” He faced Fourth Avenue. It was jammed with cars. “Fine,” he said, sounding annoyed. “I’ll meet you on Broadway.”

Simon pocketed his phone and took my arm a little roughly.

“This way,” he said, leading me down shadowy Eleventh Street. It was late, and all the businesses were closed. A block ahead, I could see traffic moving along Broadway, but where we were now, between Fourth and Broadway, it was the twilight zone, completely deserted.

“So where do you live, Clare?” Simon asked, his tone back to upbeat and pleasant.

“Above a coffeehouse, actually. On Hudson Street. I’m—”

The sucker punch came out of nowhere—which is probably why they call it a sucker punch. One second I was walking along, chatting away; the next I was reeling, down on my knees, thrown by force into a shadowy alley.

“Ca—” I began, but couldn’t get the word out! In about a nanosecond, strong hands grabbed me, lifted me up. A forearm was shoved against my throat. I can’t talk! Simon’s face loomed close. “Don’t fight,” he whispered, jamming a knee between my legs. I could smell his alcohol-soaked breath, hear the sound of a car pulling up.

“Come on, man! We got your back!” I heard someone call. “Bash her head in and let’s go!”

God, this guy was strong. He had me pinned against the wall like a butterfly to a board. But then his free hand moved toward my neck. He’s going for Madame’s emerald’s! The pressure on my windpipe finally loosened. Now was my chance.

“Carnegie Hall!” I shouted.

“Huh?”

“Carnegie Hall! Carnegie Hall!”

The hard smack seemed to come a moment later, a fist striking flesh, and my attacker was sprawled on the ground. Free now, I stumbled, almost going down myself when a pair of strong hands caught me.

Around me I heard shouts, feet pounding pavement, squealing tires. A police car rolled up to the curb. Another appeared at the end of the street, siren blaring, blocking the getaway car.

In the flashing red lights, I looked up, saw the rugged face. Finally, I understood. I was in Mike Quinn’s arms.

“It’s over, sweetheart,” he said, smiling. “You were wonderful. The way you handled that perp, reeled him in. It was textbook, Clare. Thank you.”

I clutched his neck, pulled him close, and whispered into his ear.

“Next time, we’ve got to have a better panic phrase.”

Two EMTs checked me out, but I didn’t need more than an ice pack. I would have accepted a stiff drink, too, but nobody was offering me anything stronger than Coke (the kind that came in a cold can).

Mike had paperwork, interviews, instructions for the detectives under him, who were handling the bookings. And then he was off, and we were free.

“You didn’t have to wait for me,” he said as we exited the Sixth Precinct house.

“Yes, I did. I’ve got some good news…”

I told Mike everything. How I went to Keitel’s funeral home viewing and questioned his wife. How I heard from Dornier about the threatening letters in the black envelopes. When I got to the Club Flux part, he was mostly caught up.

“I remember your debriefing,” Mike told me. “You said you went to Flux to speak with the beverage manager, Billy Benedetto.”

“He’s Keitel’s killer, Mike. I’m sure of it. He has a very strong motive: Keitel ruined his family’s business, and it led to a lot of heartache. Benedetto also has a history of threatening Tommy. And here’s the topper: Dornier was a witness to it. He saw the threatening letters. He saw how often they came and how many.”

Mike nodded, put his hands on my shoulders. “I think you did it, sweetheart. I think you saved your little girl.”

“But how are we going to get him, Mike? We need proof, don’t we? I’ve heard you tell me that a thousand times.”

“We’ll get it. We’ll find a way. We can start by going to Ray Tatum tomorrow—you and me together. Tatum will give me some leeway, I think. We can get warrants for Benedetto’s computer and cell phone. We can find incriminating evidence, use it for an interrogation, pressure him to confess. We might have to use you to bait him. Do you think you can handle that?”

“Sure. I already baited Benedetto once. I’m willing to do it again with you listening.”

Relieved beyond belief, I closed my eyes then. Mike misunderstood.

“Listen, sweetheart,” he said. “Tomorrow’s another day. You look tired. Do you want me to walk you back to the Blend?”

“No.” I opened my eyes. “I’m not tired at all. My daughter will be out on bail by this time tomorrow, and once we nail Benedetto, she’ll be free of this nightmare for good. I feel like celebrating.”

“Is that right? Have anything special in mind?”

I nodded. “Your place.”

Mike’s own expression had looked a little weary, but the sun dawned fast at my suggestion. He smiled down at me; then his smile became a grin. He slipped his arm around my waist.

“Let’s go,” he said.

We took a cab to Alphabet City. We could have walked to the next neighborhood, but neither one of us wanted to waste time. Mike paid the driver, grabbed my hand, and pulled me into his apartment building.

The place was eight stories, a converted factory with high ceilings and new windows.

“Nice building,” I said in the elevator.

“It’s spartan inside,” he warned.

“But you do have a bed? I remember you saying something about—”

“A nice big one, sweetheart.” Mike winked. “No worries on that score.”

I laughed, so did he, then I waited a week for him to unlock his apartment. We moved inside, closed the