Through The Grinder

for work again. We’d gotten to know each other better, and I was looking forward to our next official dinner date.

I never imagined that when the moment finally arrived it would be under such bizarre and ambiguous circumstances.

“So, what have the two of you been up to?” I asked Joy, trying to sound casual.

“I told Bruce about that restaurant my friends want to open, and he drove me over to Brooklyn to see a great retail space that’s available.”

Drove her. In his SUV, no doubt. A very sick part of me remembered that SUV of Inga’s. The one Quinn told me she’d used in lieu of a hot-sheets motel. The one I was certain Bruce had not been in. (God, why was it murder victims had to have their most embarrassing peccadilloes exposed to the general public? Wasn’t being murdered enough?)

“Joy’s colleagues had their hearts set on a location in Carroll Gardens or Brooklyn Heights,” Bruce explained. “But rents are so high along Court, Henry, and Hicks Streets these days that they’ll pay twice as much for half the space, and Columbia Street is just too downscale for the kind of eatery they have in mind.”

Joy stepped forward and nodded enthusiastically. “Bruce showed me a wonderful vacancy on the other side of Montague Street — a location near the Brooklyn Promenade, the Brooklyn Academy of Music, and downtown.”

The Promenade was on the very edge of Brooklyn Heights. It was a long, narrow, tree-lined walkway on the edge of the East River that looked out across the water toward the spectacular towering skyline of lower Manhattan’s financial district — a view that was once dominated by the twin towers of the World Trade Center.

Bruce nodded. “The restaurantrification of South Brooklyn hasn’t penetrated that far yet, but with the new Nets stadium project in the planning stages and upscale apartments being constructed in the vicinity, that part of Brooklyn is earmarked for major improvement. Best to be a pioneer, get in on the ground floor.”

“That’s great,” I said, the tense smile still plastered across my face.

Joy looked up at Bruce. I could see in her face that she trusted and admired this man — just like me.

“We stopped at a great little place in Carroll Gardens for lunch,” said Joy. “A real Italian neighborhood place. I haven’t had veal that tender since you made it, Mom.”

“I did the design work for a restoration project on Clinton Street,” Bruce explained. “The workers told me about a local place called Nino’s. What a find! Veal Marsala that melts on your tongue, and the best garlic broccoli I’ve ever tasted. Fridays are my favorite, though. They serve up an array of seafood, including the best conch, squid, and octopus salad this side of Sicily. I can’t wait to take you, too, Clare.”

Joy glanced at her watch.

“Well, I’ve got to go,” she said. “I’ve got this cool ‘special menus’ class in a half hour. We’re covering Kosher, vegetarian, and lactose-intolerant. And the instructor’s already picked me to be part of a student team helping her cater this big vegetarian benefit thing at the Puck Building tomorrow night, so I don’t want to screw up and end up late for class. She’ll assume I’ll be late for the catering job, too, and that would be totally bogus because I’m never late.”

“Can I drive you to class?” Bruce asked.

“That’s okay,” said Joy. “It’s like a fifteen minute walk tops. No big. I still have time to grab an espresso to go.”

“Coming up,” said Tucker, who’d been working quietly behind the counter.

“Can I get you anything?” I asked Bruce, my voice not quite there.

“Actually I have to go, too,” he replied. “But I wanted to ask you something.”

Bruce motioned me to follow him through the coffeehouse to a far corner of the Blend’s first floor. The lunch crowd had pretty much dispersed, even Kira and Winnie had left.

We sat down at one of the marble-topped tables.

“I wanted to ask you to dinner, tonight,” Bruce said. “I know it’s short notice, but the Manhattan Borough President’s Office just cancelled a meeting on me and I figured I’d take advantage of the unexpected free time. You know I’ve been trying to find an evening for us to spend some time together, and tonight’s the first night I could manage it.”

I mentally checked my social calendar and came up empty as usual. Still, I didn’t want to seem too eager. And then, of course, there was that pesky little issue of my personal friendship with a detective getting Bruce Bowman’s name bumped up a suspect list in a number of recent homicides.

I wanted to tell Bruce everything, but I didn’t dare. Our relationship was still new and fragile. Trust was important. I could think of no way to bring up the subject that wouldn’t sound sordid and accusatory and possibly send him running.

As for being in any way worried about my own safety, that was ludicrous. I didn’t believe Quinn’s theory about Bruce. Neither could I let it ruin my chances of deepening a relationship with this man.

Bruce was one of the very few men that I’d been attracted to since my divorce, and I wasn’t about to let Mike Quinn do my thinking for me.

Here Bruce was, the suspect himself, sitting across from me in the flesh, for me to judge. I looked into his face, his eyes. I didn’t see a murderer. I just saw Bruce…

“When and where?” I said, smiling, finally, with conviction.

“My place, say seven thirty?”

“Your place? But I thought you said it was a mess inside, still under reconstruction…”

“I figured something out. Something cozy. You’ll see — and with your ex-husband back, you know we’ll have a better chance at privacy over on Leroy.”

Why not? I asked myself. Couldn’t a woman get to know a man better by seeing the place where he lives? And, who knows, maybe I could actually uncover something that would take him off that suspect list. That thought alone boosted my convictions tenfold.

After all, I’d solved the murder of my assistant manager, Anabelle Hart, hadn’t I? Whether Quinn liked it or not, maybe it was time to put more than one detective on this case.

“Can’t wait,” I told Bruce, and meant it.

Fourteen

An hour after sunset, autumn abruptly changed to winter in the Village, giving me my first New York snowfall in ten years. Icy flakes were falling, coating cobblestones, blanketing rooftops, and clinging to stately bare trees.

As eager as I was to see Bruce, I didn’t hurry as I made my way down Hudson. The next morning or afternoon, the temperature would undoubtedly rise again, and all of this would melt. Tonight, while I had the chance, I wanted to take my time and enjoy the radiant charm of streetlights glowing through gauzy lace.

They say time slows for people in this part of the city. The pace is more leisurely, the objectives more mannered than midtown’s lean, reaching towers of commercial sport. On a twilight evening like this, however, with a thick white blanket muting sounds of car traffic, ambulance sirens, and cell phones, time didn’t just slow, it stopped altogether. I was no longer in twenty-first century Manhattan. With the ghostly low clouds erasing even the tops of skyscrapers, I’d entered the pages of Henry James or Edith Wharton.

My boots crunched with every step as I walked, breathing in air that smelled fresh and crisp, enjoying the intimate stillness of the streets, the hush of all things around me.

The row houses of the eighteenth and nineteenth century looked more like dollhouses waiting under a Christmas tree, sweet as gingerbread; the snow, a final dusting of powdered sugar on delicate confections.

I turned onto St. Luke’s Place, one of the most desirable streets to live on in the Village. No more than three-quarters of a block in length, it carried an open and airy feeling, with dozens of tall ginkos lining a row of fifteen beautifully preserved Italianate townhouses. Facing a small park, these homes sat back from the wide sidewalk, their brownstone steps railed with ornate wrought iron, their arched doorways crowned with triangular moldings.