Through The Grinder

“Thanks,” I said.

Joy tugged my sleeve. “Mom, you go with Tucker if you want. I can lock up and take care of things here.”

Was there any more rewarding feeling for a mother than a daughter rising to the occasion? “Are you sure, honey?” I asked.

“Yeah. No problem,” she said. “Go. Take as long as you want. I can sleep over, if it’s okay with you.”

“Of course, Joy, you can sleep over anytime. You know that.”

Joy fetched our coats, then shooed the rest of the customers away. I took Tucker’s arm and led him forward, making sure he stayed steady on his way out the door and toward the back of the police car.

“God, it’s freezing out here,” he complained in a nasally voice. “And this damned ice pack isn’t helping.”

“Keep it on there,” I insisted. “You’ll thank me in a few days when your nose isn’t swelled up like a balloon.”

Demetrios held the back door of the car open. I climbed in and slid across the cold, black vinyl seat. Then Demetrios helped Tucker settle in next to me.

After the car door slammed shut, Tucker sighed. “You know, Clare, I was going to thank you for sending Percy my way. But now I have to tell you, I’ve got mixed feelings.”

“I’m so sorry Tucker.”

“Not as sorry as I am…you know, this really smarts.”

Between the back seat and front was a metal grill. Through its wiry squares I watched Demetrios climb into the driver’s seat and Langley settle in next to him.

The air was so cold in the dark car, our breath was condensing into little clouds. In the front seat, the radio was flickering with lights and a voice was chattering through static to another unit about the address of a tripped burglar alarm.

“Thank God for that Good Samaritan who body-slammed that jerk,” I said quietly to Tucker as we pulled away from the curb.

“Who was he? Did you get his name?”

“Langley did. I saw him taking a statement. I only remember him by his Cappuccino Connection label.”

“Which was?”

“Mr. Mama’s Boy.”

“You’re kidding me?”

“Nope.”

“Well, dear, sounds to me like you were way wrong about that one.”

“No I wasn’t, Tucker. He lives with his mother.”

“Clare, living with one’s mother means nothing these days, especially in this city, rents being what they are. Repeat after me: a guy who body slams a violent attacker is not a mama’s boy.”

I hated being wrong about people. But Tucker was right. That was one mild mannered bank teller I’d definitely misjudged and mislabeled.

“We better tell these guys to talk to Percy,” I said, tipping my chin toward the front seat. “If they don’t catch up to that jerk who hit you on the streets tonight, then they can catch up with him at his home tomorrow. Percy should at least have the man’s name, if not his current address.”

Tucker sighed. “I guess.”

I shook my head. “I just can’t believe this happened.”

“Crime of passion, Clare. Crime of passion.”

We arrived at the hospital in something like six minutes. While the Emergency Room doctor was checking over Tucker, I chatted with Langley and Demetrios in the too-bright fluorescence of the ER’s waiting area.

“Your assistant manager’s lucky that dude didn’t have access to a gun,” said Langley, propping his hip.

I shuddered. “Don’t say that.”

“Sorry, Ms. Cosi,” said Demetrios, folding his arms across his chest, “but its true. You said this jerk was ready to take a few more swings at Tucker, and, quite frankly, head injuries can be fatal. He was obviously ready to go the distance.”

“No…it wasn’t that serious an attack,” I insisted. “The jerk was just jealous.”

Langley and Demetrios exchanged a look.

“What?” I asked, lowering myself into one of the chilly plastic seats. Suddenly, I felt totally exhausted. They obviously didn’t. Ah, youth.

Looking down at me, Demetrios shrugged. “Jealousy’s a deadly motivator, Ms. Cosi.”

“Yeah,” said Langley, “You never heard of O.J. Simpson?”

“He was acquitted,” I pointed out, looking up at them.

The two officers exchanged another look.

I changed the subject. “So, have you two seen Detective Quinn around lately? I haven’t.”

“The guy’s been buried under his caseload as far as I know,” said Demetrios.

“Yeah, and the hottest one is that suicide over by the river. Lady took a dive off the roof of her new condo’s building. Only Quinn doesn’t think she jumped all by herself.”

Demetrios nodded.

“What’s he think?” I asked.

“Homicide,” said Langley with a shrug.

“A pusher,” clarified Demetrios. “And worse. He thinks the killer’s struck before — and might just strike again.”

Ten

Oh, my, my…

The Genius was impressed. Sahara McNeil was quite the chameleon. Marc Jacobs last night, and Frederick’s of Hollywood this morning.

Given the transformation, the Genius almost didn’t recognize her. Almost.

The flaming red hair had been the signal flag — so scarlet she didn’t even have to color it to meet the fashion demands of her flamboyant colleagues. It was, the Genius recalled, the first thing he’d noticed about her.

Moving casually across the street, the Genius watched as Sahara pushed through the glass doors where she’d said goodnight to him just the other night.

It had seemed friendly. Catching up on old times, talking about friends and acquaintances, they’d left the coffeehouse, then went to a bar, and finally walked together to this apartment building on West Tenth Street. And there they’d said goodnight.

But the Genius knew that Sahara would not leave it at that. She’d taken his card. She’d be contacting him again — and soon.

That’s why the Genius had waited for over an hour the next morning, across the street from Sahara’s apartment building, scanning the faces of the professionals heading uptown and the stay-at-homes walking their dogs.

Any less vigilant and the Genius would have missed her.

If not for the flaming hair, the woman in the tailored slacks and tasteful makeup of last night could never have been matched with the cheap thing who’d just pushed through the glass doors of the West Tenth apartment building.

The too-short, too-jejune skirt. The mesh stockings. The shiny black dominatrix boots and animal print jacket made her look more like an exotic dancer than a legitimate art dealer.

Yet Sahara McNeil was a legitimate art dealer, as the Genius well knew. And was listed as an agent on a major six figure sale through Sotheby’s just last month.

Pretty. Successful. Yet oh so sad and alone.

The Genius knew her type well. New York City was full of Sahara McNeils.