“Believe me, I can,” I assured him. “Although I was lucky. Matt never contested my getting Joy.”
“That wouldn’t happen with me.”
“The rewards of full-time parenting outweigh the expenses.”
“Maybe so. But those attorneys still need to put their fat fees on a low-carb diet.”
“Well, look on the bright side. Lots of lawyers patronize this place. Ultimately, you’d be helping my bottom line.”
I smiled. Quinn’s grim demeanor cracked, and he laughed out loud. I laughed too, and squeezed his hand. I was about to pull it back, but he held on, caressed my fingers gently with the rough pad of his thumb. I met his eyes. What I saw there made my limbs weak.
Across the room, a throat loudly cleared. I looked up. Matteo was standing there, glaring at us. Quinn noticed. He released my hand, finished his coffee, and rose.
“I’ve got to go,” he told me. “But I’ll check back with you after I talk with this Fen character.”
“I’d appreciate that,” I whispered.
Then Quinn touched my arm. “Don’t worry, Clare. With a second murder using the same modus operandi, I predict Tucker will be out of jail in no time….”
I closed my eyes, praying he was right. “Thanks, Mike.”
Quinn gave me one last small smile. Then he was gone.
As I bussed the table, Matt approached. “What did the flatfoot want? Did he tell you he threw Tad in jail?”
I ignored the jibe, carried the cups to the coffee bar. Matt followed me behind the bar and pinned me to the counter. He tried to hug me, kiss me. But his gestures weren’t simple affection as much as raw possessiveness. Once again, I regretted the other night.
“Want to have dinner after we close up?” Matt asked. “There’s a new late-night Thai place on East Seventh.”
“Matt, I…” My voice trailed off when I noticed a scarlet smudge on my ex-husband’s collar. Lipstick, in a garish hue I would never wear.
Matt followed my eyes, found the smudge.
“Jesus, Matt,” I snapped, “we just slept together two nights ago—”
“Take it easy, Clare, this lipstick is Joy’s—”
“Joy was never here.”
“No, I ran into her on the street, an hour or so ago.”
I crossed my arms. “And I suppose you had that little talk? About Joy’s questionable friends and their drug use?”
Matteo looked away. “I didn’t have time. She said she was running late…”. He could see the doubt in my eyes. “Clare, honestly, I can explain—”
“Forget it.”
“Come on, it’s almost closing time. Give me a break.”
“I was stupid to have ever thought you’d change,” I shot back. But I didn’t really think myself stupid. I’d been smart—smart enough to have protected my heart from Matt. Smart enough to have already guessed this would happen.
“Clare!” he called as I strode away. But I just kept walking.
Nineteen
The next day was Saturday. I opened the shop, greeting the baker’s Yankee-jacketed delivery boy and my first customers of the morning in a near-robotic state. I couldn’t stop thinking of Tucker. I had run out of leads. Even worse, my own decidedly less than brilliant theory about Tad and the late Rena Garcia being the guilty parties now lay on the ash heap of history. I could not have been more wrong about the ill-fated couple, who were not suspects, but victims.
The morning rush came and went, the mail arrived, and I pulled espressos, mixed lattes and cappuccinos by rote. By eleven, Detective Quinn was too busy to return my calls—presumably because he was diligently tracking down the elusive fashion designer Fen. Matteo was off and running on his coffee kiosk planning. And Rena’s killer was still on the loose. Then, as I was preparing for the early lunch rush, a bicycle messenger arrived with a hand- delivered package.
“Are you Clare Cosi?”
I nodded and he offered me a clipboard. “Sign here…and print your full name here.”
I scribbled my name, then wrote it out in block letters. The man handed me a manila envelope; the return address read “Tanner and Associates, Attorneys-at-law.” The address was on Madison Avenue. Noting the delivery, Esther Best appeared at my shoulder.
“What is it? Good news I hope.”
“Something from Tucker’s lawyer, I think.”
I ripped into the envelope and found a letter and another envelope inside—this one from the Deputy Commissioner of Corrections, the New York City Department of Corrections.
“Be advised that this authorized pass allows Ms. Clare Cosi and Mrs. Blanche Dreyfus Allegro Dubois to visit prisoner #3244798909, Mr. Tucker Burton of—”
I ceased reading because Esther Best was whooping and
“As soon as I can,” I said, closing my eyes in grateful relief.
I quickly climbed the back steps and entered my small, second floor office to call Madame. I had been trying without success to arrange a visit with Tucker since his arrest, never imagining how difficult it could be to visit someone once he was incarcerated in what amounted to America’s only penal
I’d mentioned the problem to Matteo, who passed the information on to Breanne. Somehow Ms. Summour’s lawyer had managed to cut through the mountain of bureaucratic red tape and the authorization magically had appeared. Though I was no fan of Breanne Summour, at the moment, I was truly grateful for the pass, and I knew Madame would feel the same.
I dialed her number and Madame answered on the second ring. “It’s the maid’s day off, my dear,” she explained. I told her the wonderful news and Madame was as ecstatic as I was.
“I’ll be over in an hour,” I told her.
Fifty-two minutes later, I flagged a cab on Hudson, climbed in, and told the driver my destinations. “First I need to pick up someone on Fifth near Washington Square Park. Then we’ll be going on to Rikers.”
The driver did a double take, his dreadlocks flying as he turned his head. “Rikers? Mon, you mean the prison?” he said in a lilting Caribbean accent. He shook his head, his dreads taking flight again. “Lady, I don’t even know how to get there. It’s in Queens, no?”
“Yes, it’s on the north shore of Queens—in the middle of the East River.”
“Well, lady, this cab, she don’t float. So I’m gonna have to call my dispatcher.” While the driver headed over to Washington Square, I pulled out my cell and rang Madame.
“Apparently, cabbies don’t know how to get to Rikers Island,” I explained.
“Never mind, dear. I’ll call my own car service. I’m sure Mr. Raj can help us out.”
I informed the cab driver I’d be getting out at Washington Square, and to forget the trip to Rikers. He seemed relieved. On Fifth, I found Madame waiting for me on the sidewalk in front of her building. She was wrapped in an elegant belted, pecan brown coat with faux fur trim on the cuffs, lapels, and turned up collar.
“Mr. Raj insisted on driving us himself. He’s made the trip before.”
