“I know. That’s why I took Esther with me last night to the courtyard.”
“But she left you.”
“That was my call.”
“Well, do me a favor, sweetheart; bring backup and keep it there, okay?”
“Okay. I will. Don’t worry.”
“Can’t promise that.” He smiled. “In the meantime, I’ll see what I can dig up for you on Franco.”
“Thanks. I mean it.”
He shrugged. “’Tis the season for favors. And you did tell me what you wanted for Christmas.” We both smiled at that.
“Speaking of Christmas,” I said, “we haven’t discussed plans for the holiday. Do you have time scheduled with your kids? I was thinking we could take them ice skating in Bryant Park, see the tree at Rock Center. There’s always frozen hot chocolate at Serendipity, and Macy’s windows are really nice this year. Is Molly too old for Santaland? Joy loved doing that until she was almost eleven.”
“Whoa—slow down.” Quinn shifted in his chair. “The kids won’t be around, Clare. My wife’s taking them to Florida. Her boyfriend’s family’s down there and she wants them to meet the kids—
“Ex-wife,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“You called her your wife.”
“I did?” Quinn frowned. “Habit, I guess. Anyway, since they’ll be gone for two weeks, I also agreed to be available for coverage over Christmas and New Year’s—favors owed, you know? The guys who have families know I’m divorced now, so I agreed.”
“Oh. You really are going to be off the map.”
“It’s no big deal, is it? I mean, you’ve been pretty excited about Joy coming back from Paris for the holidays. You warned me you were going to spend some serious girl time together, right?”
I nodded, smiling at the thought of seeing my daughter again, catching up with all the exciting things she was learning and tasting and cooking in France. “You’re right. I’ve really missed her.”
“I know you have, sweetheart. So look at the bright side: You’ll be so busy visiting with her, I doubt you’ll miss me much.”
My heart sank a little at that. Of course I would miss him, especially at this time of year. But I didn’t say so. I mean, I didn’t want to lay on the guilt. I understood about the demands of his job (it was one of the things that broke up his marriage), and it seemed to me what he needed most now was reassurance that overtime wasn’t going to hurt our relationship.
“You’re right,” I joked, forcing a smile. “I’ll be way too busy to miss you.”
Quinn’s reaction wasn’t what I expected. His smile faltered, and he actually looked a little hurt. I was about to clarify that I was joking when his cell went off.
“Excuse me,” he said, checking the Caller ID.
“Police business?”
He didn’t indicate yes or no, just said, “I have to take this.”
“I understand.”
What I didn’t understand was why he didn’t just take the call at the kitchen table instead of leaving the room. I moved to the doorway and cocked a curious ear.
“No. I’m having coffee.” Pause. “Yes, I plan to.” Longer pause. “Yes, I do. I
I frowned. The conversation certainly didn’t sound like police business.
Just then, my own phone rang—but not my cell, which was still recharging in the bedroom. This was the landline to the apartment. I picked up the kitchen extension.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Mom!”
“Joy!”
Her call couldn’t have come at a better time. Just hearing her voice made me feel grounded again. We talked a little about what she was doing and what I was doing, and then she said she had something to tell me. Her voice suddenly sounded strained.
“I’m really sorry, Mom. Really sorry, but...”
“What is it, honey?”
“As it turns out, I can’t come home for the holidays. I have to work at the restaurant after all. Forgive me?”
My heart went through the floor. For a few seconds, I had trouble finding my tongue. “Sure, honey,” I finally managed to get out. “I’m so busy this year... don’t worry about it.”
A few minutes later, she ended the call, and I went to find Mike. All of a sudden, I felt a little numb. I couldn’t believe it, but this would be the first Christmas, the very first, that my little girl and I would be spending apart.
I needed to tell Mike about it. Not that I expected him to change his plans—but I suddenly needed an empathetic ear, a sympathetic hug. I also needed to reassure myself that he and I were on solid ground. I was afraid he’d gotten the wrong impression from my reaction to his overtime speech.
But Quinn was no longer on his cell in the living room. I found him in the bedroom, fully dressed, shrugging into his shoulder holster.
“You’re not leaving already? I was about to whip up some of my Golden Gingerbread-Maple Muffins—I was thinking of adding a warm glaze with some holiday spice notes. I thought you’d like to sample a couple.”
“Sorry, sweetheart. Save me a few, okay?” His expression was unreadable as he grabbed his badge and wallet off the dresser. “There’s an issue. I have to take care of something.”
“What?”
“Nothing important. I’ll give you a ring later.”
“But I wanted to tell you—”
“Later, Clare. I promise,” he said. And with a too-quick kiss on my cheek, he was gone.
Fifteen
Like most New Yorkers, James Young was not an easy man to contact. For one thing, his phone was unlisted. On the Internet, I found plenty of info about Studio 19, including its address. But the only number I could find was for the general public. A message service answered when I called but refused to put me through directly to Mr. Young—although they did confirm he worked there.
The most maddening part was that I knew the man’s home address, down to his apartment number, but I dared not approach the place. If the Matt-battered doorman saw me again, I was pretty sure he’d find a way to have me arrested, most likely for “harassing” his tenant.
I didn’t have time for some half-assed stakeout of his place (to collar him before he went into or came out of his building), so I decided to contact a partner, just as Quinn advised.
Madame Dreyfus Allegro Dubois was more than my boss, my landlord, my former mother-in-law, and my daughter’s biggest champion. Madame was my very best friend. She also happened to be the most beloved (and elegantly dressed) snoop in the vicinity of Washington Square Park.
After Quinn left, I dumped the dregs of his java, which had grown unpalatably cold during our long talk, and pulled out my Moka Express pot. In more ways than one, I needed to get some hot jolts into my system. Using Alfonso Bialetti’s stovetop invention, I quickly produced the rustic version of coffeehouse espresso that Italians have been enjoying for nearly a century.
On my third energizing shot of the day, I phoned Matt’s mother and told her everything that had happened— from Alf’s murder to my arrest for trespassing the night before. She started out sounding a little sleepy, but with each new revelation, she became more animated.
“You actually climbed a fire escape in the dead of night and peered through a stranger’s window?” Madame said. “I certainly hope you saw something juicy.”
