Espresso Shot

“Captain Blunt strongly suggests you both return to Queens tomorrow to file crime reports with his detectives. It’s the 107th Precinct on Parsons Boulevard.”

“A police report? With my name on it!” Roman’s eyes bugged. “I’ll be ruined. No one will ever invite me to an underground restaurant again.”

Mike’s glance at me wasn’t amused. “Believe me, Brio, word about your little secret garden in Flushing is already out. The detectives of the one-oh-seven are all over the crime scene as we speak. It was the woman who owned the house, a Mrs. Weng, who called the robbery in. Several other diners have also filed reports, so I think you’ll be forgiven.”

Quinn turned to me. “No arrests have been made, Clare. Even the man you assaulted with hot sauce recovered enough to flee the scene. They did recover some of the stolen property. Maybe you’ll get your purse back.” He folded his arms. “And maybe Roman can identify the perp you dumped off the 7 train, or maybe the punk will turn up in the hospital or the morgue. Otherwise...”

“We’re not out of leads yet, Mike. We still have Monica Purcell. She lives near Sixty-ninth Street, on Amsterdam Avenue. I say we go see her right now.”

Quinn glanced at his watch. “Okay, Clare. But first we’ll drop Mr. Brio here and those one-of-a-kind rings he’s holding at his home, before something else happens that jeopardizes the wedding”—he met my eyes—“and any chance of ejecting Allegro from your living space.”

Ten minutes later, Quinn had double-parked in front of Roman’s Soho building, and we both escorted the man through the lobby and all the way up to the front door of his loft apartment.

“Are you sure you won’t come in?” Roman asked. “There’s a passable port and an exquisite Stilton in the larder, and I always have Dom Perignon well-chilled for just such an occasion.”

“What occasion?” Quinn asked.

“Surviving New York. What else?”

Quinn’s eyebrow arched (which, in my experience with the man, was as good as a hearty guffaw). “Maybe some other time,” he told Roman. “Just be sure to get a good night’s sleep. I’m going to dispatch a sector car to check up on you at ten AM. Answer the door, okay? Or I’ll have them break it down.”

I half expected a sarcastic retort from the acerbic foodie, but none came. Roman simply nodded. “Thank you, Lieutenant, for all of your help. Good night to you both.”

Fifteen minutes after that, Quinn double-parked again, this time on the West Side. (I did love parking with the man, since he essentially had a license to ignore New York’s draconian regulations.)

Monica Purcell lived in a nineteen-story apartment building on Amsterdam, a few blocks away from Lincoln Center. The ground floor was dominated by a national clothing outlet and a Go Mobile phone store. A door between the two storefronts led to the lobby and the apartments above. Mike showed the sleepy doorman his gold shield, and the man admitted us.

“Monica Purcell?” I asked.

“Twelve D.”

We rode the mirrored elevator to the twelfth floor. Quinn’s knuckles politely knocked on the woman’s door several times; then the meat of his fist took over. He pounded for a while, but no one answered. A small dog began yapping in another apartment. A middle-aged man opened the door; a tiny furry head poked out and back in again.

“Can I help you?” he said.

Mike flashed his gold shield. “Do you know if Ms. Purcell is home?”

“Sorry. I don’t know anything. I mind my own business.”

The door shut in our faces, and the little dog resumed its annoying yapping. I smirked, remembering Breanne’s comment to Roman, calling me a badly dressed Chihuahua.

“Mike, if I were a dog, what breed would I be?”

“Huh?”

“Forget it.” I checked my watch. “Monica really should be home. It’s almost two in the morning on a Tuesday night. The girl said something about clubbing. But tomorrow’s a workday for her.”

“She could be sleeping at a boyfriend’s house—or with a guy she picked up. Either way, there’s no way to find her now. Why don’t we go to Trend’s offices in the morning and question her there?”

I stifled a yawn. “Okay.”

“All right then, Cosi, let’s get going.” Mike’s long strides were already halfway down the carpeted hall.

I had to move double the speed to keep up. “Slow down, Mike. Where are we going?”

Mike shook his head. “How quickly she forgets.”

“Forgets? Forgets what? Seriously, Mike, where are we going?”

Mike jabbed his thumb into the elevator button. He braced his legs, folded his arms, and looked down at me. “Don’t you remember our little conversation this morning in Interview Room B?”

I folded my own arms. “I remember blaming you for getting me into this case.”

“And did I or did I not promise I’d make it up to you?”

“Your point?” My hands moved to my hips.

Mike’s blue gaze followed my hands. Then it dropped lower and traveled back up my body, taking its time moving over my new little Fen outfit. Ever so slightly, the edges of his mouth lifted.

“Simple, Cosi. A promise is a promise.”

With a bing, the elevator arrived. Seeing it was empty, Mike gave me a full-on smile. “C’mon,” he said, “we’re going to my place.” Then he reached for my wrist and pulled me inside.

When I opened my eyes the next morning, I felt something heavy draped across my bare midriff. Confused for a moment, I glanced around. Mike was lying beside me on his stomach, his arm curled possessively around my torso.

I relaxed and sighed. It was a good sound, a happy one—for the moment anyway.

Mike and I hadn’t been on a sugar sand beach last night, just the king-size mattress of his Alphabet City bedroom. There was no rhythmic pounding of Pacific surf, either, just smooth FM jazz and the occasional whine of an ambulance siren. None of it mattered, because the man made love like a dream.

I stirred, and he groaned, his arm pulling me closer in what felt like an autonomic response. Now my naked flesh was flush against his warm skin.

“Mike?” I called, glancing at the clock in the weak yellow splash of rising sun. “We should get up.”

“Mmmmmm...”

“Mike?”

The man’s hand moved as if it were independent of his heavy, sacked-out body. His fingers lightly brushed my curves, his hand seeking and finding.

“Mike!”

The strong hand began to play, determined fingers teasing, caressing.

“Oh, God. Don’t do that. We have to—”

“Sweetheart, we don’t have to do anything yet,” Mike murmured on the pillow, his eyes still closed. “But there are a few things we might want to do...”

The rest of Mike finally stirred; his head came up off the pillow, his mouth moved where his hand had been. After that, I made sounds that resembled speech, but my brain was already scrambled. For at least an hour more, nothing that came out of my mouth made anything close to sense.

Twenty-One

Hours later, my body was still humming, but my patience was getting thin. I was more than ready to interrogate Monica Purcell, but Quinn had an early meeting at the Sixth then another one crosstown with a DEA agent, so he dropped me off at the Blend.