Holiday Grind

A minute later, Detective Mike Quinn entered the fireboat’s cabin, pushing through a wall of doting firemen to get to me. Dropping down beside the stretcher, he hugged me tightly.

“Clare, sweetheart, are you okay? What happened?”

“I’m fine,” I said, soaking up his steady warmth. “I was on the ferry. My bag was snatched, then I got picked up and tossed over the side.”

“Who did it, Clare? Did you see the person?”

“No,” I said, then lowered my voice to a whisper. “But I’m almost positive I can hand you his head on a platter.”

“Good, I’m glad, and we’ll get to that. But first you’re going to an ER—”

Before I could reply, Sean stepped up. “She’s a tough one, Detective. Managed to make it to the surface after that arctic plunge in the ferry’s chop. Saved her own life doing that.”

“No,” I clarified. “You did that, Sean. All of you did. Thank you.”

Mike joined me in thanking the men—and that’s when he noticed the big redheaded captain standing among the others.

“That’s what firemen do, Mikey boy,” the man declared with a smirk. “You hand out parking tickets. We save lives.”

Mike released me and rose stiffly, facing the other Mike Quinn.

“Michael,” he said flatly.

“Little Mikey,” Captain Quinn replied, folding his arms. “Are the traffic violations keeping you busy?”

The men around us glanced uneasily at each other, clearly picking up on the bad blood between the two cousins. I frowned at the tense exchange and almost blurted out: What’s the beef between you two? You’re family!

But I held my tongue instead. This obviously wasn’t the time or place for an in-depth history lesson on the mighty Quinn clan.

Fortunately, a pair of female paramedics interrupted us. “Okay, let’s get you to the hospital,” said one of the women.

“What?” I replied, shaking my head. “I’m fine. I don’t need a—”

“Zip it, Cosi,” Mike warned and leveled a gaze at the medics. “Do not listen to her. Listen to me. Get her on a stretcher and get her into your ambulance. Now.”

The ER doc assigned me to a hospital bed for “overnight observation.” Once more, I tried to argue. Once again, Quinn wouldn’t let me.

He never left the hospital, either. While I was being examined, I could hear him on his police radio, then on his cell phone to his partner, Sully. By the time the hospital staff moved me from the ER stretcher to a proper hospital bed, he’d even retrieved my stolen handbag.

“The ship was already emptied out by the time our uniforms got there,” he explained, taking a seat on the edge of my hospital bed. “Your attacker was long gone, but they searched the ferry and recovered your purse. It was shoved under a bench on deck.”

I took my bag and examined it. The strap was ripped. My wallet, cash, and credit cards were gone. My brush, makeup, and other incidental items were still there; even my keys to the Blend and my duplex apartment were still zipped inside their little pocket.

With a jolt I realized something else was missing. “The letter!”

Mike frowned. “What letter?”

“I had a letter in this bag. It was evidence of someone trying to blackmail Omar Linford.” I was still pretty much convinced the note had not come from Alf. “It’s been stolen, too! And that proves my case!”

“What case, Cosi? You better start from the beginning.”

I brought Mike up to speed on everything I’d uncovered. “. . . and I’m sure it was Dwayne Linford who tossed me over the rail. I saw his tricked-out SUV in the parking area—I know it was his. Before he tore off, he was even fighting with his father about taking care of something his way. And that letter he tried to kill me to get was all about incriminating him.”

“So the punk tossed you overboard to shut you up, too.”

“He knew I was there with his father. He knew I was looking into Alf’s murder. His father handed me a letter that practically declared the kid a drug dealer!”

Mike nodded. “Motive and opportunity.” He reached for his police radio. “I’m calling Hong and Franco on this. It’s their case.”

“You think Dwayne Linford shot Alf, too, don’t you?”

“Or had him shot. Yes. And made it appear to be a mugging—exactly your theory, Detective.”

I shook my head. “Franco’s going to be pissed.”

“Why? He’s right, too, isn’t he? Think about it. If Dwayne Linford is a drug dealer, then he probably has known associates who are gangbangers. He could have hired one of them to do the hit on Alf and make it look like a street crime. We’ll get a warrant to search Dwayne’s property. Question him. If we’re lucky, we’ll get a confession, maybe the murder weapon, maybe the name of the person who did the hit.”

“Just get him off the street, Mike.”

“I will, sweetheart.” He smiled, then took my hand and squeezed it. “Looks like you’ll be getting what you want for Christmas, after all.”

As I leaned closer for something a little more intimate than a hand squeeze, a light knock came on the half- open door. The heavenly smells of fresh-baked crust, tangy tomato sauce, and floral oregano preceded a familiar voice—

“Someone here order two pies?”

I glanced up to find a pair of giant pizza boxes coming toward me. Above them floated the carrot-topped face of Detective Sergeant Finbar Sullivan.

“Loaded?” Mike asked his partner.

“Fully loaded,” Sully assured him with a grin.

Mike motioned him closer and turned to me. “Hungry?” he asked, lifting one of the box lids.

Closing my eyes, I inhaled the scent of pepperoni and sausage, roasted peppers and mushrooms. “Oh, Mike... ,” I gushed as my empty stomach gurgled.

As usual, the man knew just how to make me swoon.

Twenty-Two

“And then you what?!”

“I went into the water.”

My ex-husband gritted his teeth. “Clare, why the hell didn’t you leave with Esther?!”

“Because if I’d left with Esther, I never would have gotten the information to nail Alf’s killer! And I’m perfectly fine, as you can see.”

“Dumb luck, Clare. Emphasis on the dumb.”

The next day was Tuesday and the Blend was as busy as ever. Matt stopped by during a late-morning lull, and I took a short break, grabbing a stool next to him at our espresso bar’s marble counter. Sipping reviving jolts, I brought him up to speed on my adventures on Staten Island and literally in New York Harbor.

“So Dwayne Linford is in custody now?”

Matt pulled off his fisherman’s sweater, too thick for the warmth of the cozy coffeehouse, draped it over his broad shoulders, and began rolling up the shirtsleeves on his well-developed forearms, the ones that came in so handy for me when I was locked in that Dumpster last week.

Unlike Matt, the heat of the roaring fire and steaming hot java didn’t bother me. Not in the least. Frankly, after my freezing dip, I couldn’t get warm enough.