by Cleo Coyle
Off the parlor, the small dining room’s décor was more in line with the Colonial history of the neighborhood. But upstairs, it was right back to the romantic with two lavishly furnished bedrooms and a luxurious marble bath, which is where I was heading.
With no time for bubbles, I stripped down and turned on the spa-quality showerhead, praying the pulsing stream of hot water would beat the stress out of my tense muscles and wash away the awful visions I couldn’t shake since yesterday morning—
Sully bleeding on the cold concrete and Mike dodging deadly bullets aimed at his head . . .
Missing Quinn more than ever, I wrapped a bath sheet around me and checked my phone again. I’d invited him to dinner at seven and his terse OK, texted hours ago, was the last I’d heard from him.
With hope that he wouldn’t cancel, I attempted to make myself presentable by crunch-drying my shoulder-length chestnut hair into (hopefully) attractive waves, and putting on light makeup—with the exception of my under-eye concealer, which (after my near-sleepless night) I applied with the gusto of a house painter spreading spackle over the Grand Canyon.
In the master bedroom, the coming evening had chilled the air, and I started a fire in the hearth before pulling on a clingy but comfortable jersey knit sheath with three-quarter sleeves and a sweetheart neckline. (I remembered Mike saying the color brought out the green of my eyes, although his eyes appeared more interested in the short length of the skirt. Well, we both could use a distraction, so . . . on went the dress.)
Downstairs in the kitchen, apron in place, I was ready to roll.
The first order of business, however, was feeding my overactive kitties: coffee bean–colored Java, and Frothy—a fluffy feline version of latte milk.
Long ago these furry ladies had decided that every time I entered the kitchen it was mealtime, and I had absolutely no say in the matter.
With the little beasties happily smacking their lips, I began putting together a human dinner of old-fashioned comfort food for my soul as well as Quinn’s.
The first ingredient of tonight’s feast was the foundation of most Italian American soul food—tomato sauce.
My nonna would have made it fresh with the ripe fruit from my father’s garden; peeling the skins after flash-dips in boiling water; then de-seeding the insides; and finally cooking the mash down into a pot of sweet red bliss.
The smell alone of homemade sauce is like nothing else on earth. Tonight, however, I had no time for that particular joy.
While jarred sauce was convenient, it was nowhere near the quality I wanted for this dinner, so I began my 1, 2, 3 Magic Sauce, a handy little piece of alchemy that transformed canned tomatoes and three humble ingredients into a delicious pot of nearly nonna-worthy gold.
With the sauce simmering, I started the meatballs, mixing them by hand with just the right seasonings and binders. Thanks to my grandmother’s “secret ingredient,” they were fluffy perfection—as opposed to unappealingly dense.
Finally, I cooked the ziti, mixed it with three different Italian cheeses, and layered it into the casserole with my quickie sauce. After sliding the dish into the oven, I uncorked a bottle of wine, poured a few fingers, and sipped it slowly as I sat down to close my eyes for a minute or two . . .
* * *
THIRTY minutes later, the oven timer woke me from a nightmare of violent gunfire so vivid, I fell off my chair.
Two sleepy cats spied my backside’s connection with the kitchen floor and rushed over for what they assumed was playtime—or, even better, an encore of mealtime.
That’s when I realized someone was entering my apartment.
NINETEEN
SCRAMBLING to my feet, I grabbed my phone.
Finger poised to speed-dial 911, I flew to the main room, where I sagged with relief at the sight of Mike Quinn coming through the front door, using (oh, right) that key I’d given him.
Still wearing his clothes from yesterday, including the NYPD jacket that nearly got him killed, Quinn nodded his greeting in silence.
His face was drawn, his color off, his lips thin and tight.
I never saw the man so tired.
But after thirty-six hours hunting the bastard who’d shot his colleague and friend, what else would he be?
By now, the umami aroma of my sauce, mingled with the creamy scent of melting cheese, had permeated the duplex. And, despite his fatigue, Quinn lifted his head with the keen interest of a starving bear sniffing honey.
“It’s almost ready,” I assured him with a smile.
There was no smile in return, just another nod. And I saw more than exhaustion and hunger embedded in Quinn’s arctic gaze. Defeat was lodged there—and cold frustration.
I asked him about Sully, and the news was mainly positive. He was continuing to recover, although doctors were now closely monitoring an arrhythmia in his heart. But Fran and his family were keeping his spirits up.
I wanted more answers—about the pursuit of the shooter and Quinn’s visit to One Police Plaza—but I could see he wasn’t in any shape to be given a grilling, so instead I gave him a hug.
He wrapped his arms around me and dropped a kiss on my head. I touched his cheek and suggested he take a shower, although not for the reasons I’d advised my ex-husband to take one yesterday.
Holding my head under water had helped me feel like a new person. I hoped it would do the same for him. And, if I was lucky, the hot steam might just melt some of that blue ice.
* * *
TWENTY minutes later, Quinn was sitting at my kitchen table, his sandy hair still damp, his strong jaw freshly shaved. He’d grabbed a change of clothes from the bedroom, where I’d cleaned out drawers for his personals. Now his long legs were encased in NYPD sweatpants, his broad shoulders straining against the fabric of a light gray tee.
Unfortunately, the shower and change of clothes hadn’t changed his mood. He remained stiff and uncharacteristically sullen.
The baked ziti was bubbling nicely as I removed it from the oven, and it still needed to set, so I served up an appetizer of what I hoped would be literal comfort food: freshly fried mozzarella sticks, each encased in panko seasoned with rosemary, thyme, garlic, oregano, and sea salt.
To wash down these hot, crunchy, gooey-hearted treats, I poured us the Lambrusco I’d uncorked. Fruity and sweet, it was a bright complement to the unctuous appetizer—and, hey, if it also loosened Mike’s tight detective lips and let me in on some NYPD secrets . . . even better.
As he munched the mozzarella, he sent me grateful nods. The wine appeared to relax him, and . . . sure enough, by the time I dished up my baked ziti and meatballs, he began to talk . . .
“The Crime Scene Unit searched the abandoned building where you saw the shooter, but found no evidence the suspect used anything but the fire escape . . .”
When he paused for more hungry forkfuls, I noticed Frothy and Java staring up enviously, their tails sweeping the kitchen floor with pre-pounce eagerness.
I quickly rose and pulled cat treats from the cupboard before Quinn became the victim of an eight-legged stampede.
“So this Panther Man got away clean?” I asked, bending down to placate my felines.
“Looks that way . . .”
When his voice trailed off, I turned around to see why. His attention had strayed from his plate to my short skirt. With unabashed interest, his focus continued moving up the curves of my clingy dress to the shiny waves in my hair and gloss on my lips.
“You look . . . very nice.”
His blue eyes were much warmer now—and so was my face. I could feel the heat rising inside me, along with my (nearly lost) hopes for the night ahead.
“So,” I pressed, sitting back down to dish up my own dinner. “Did you pursue any leads?”
Quinn snorted. “Where do I begin? How about with Sergeant Sitko’s advice for CSU to gath
er up every discarded garbage bag in our perimeter to check for DNA . . . They did. And believe me, DNA is one thing those bags have plenty of.”
“Stop—” I raised my hand. “My garbage bag discussion with Sitko was a theory at best. What I want to know is exactly how the shooter tricked everyone with a badge into running into the wrong building.”
“Buildings. Plural. You remember the pyrotechnics I mentioned yesterday?”
I nodded.
“These bangs also came from two additional rooftops. As soon as SWAT realized they hit the wrong building, they were diverted to another—and another, all leading us away from your lone gunman sighting.”
“Sounds like a professional.”
“A high school kid could have made the devices. The noise came from M-80s—fireworks you can buy on the street in Chinatown. But the way they were deployed?” Quinn nodded. “You’re right, Clare. It was sophisticated. The explosives were wired to timers with disposable phones as triggers so the shooter could control the blasts. One call and boom, instant diversion.”
“Couldn’t you get anything else from the devices?”
“Forensics looked for fingerprints, clues to where the items were purchased, anything they thought could be a lead . . .” He shook his head. “We ran down everything—all dead ends.”
“No leads at all?”
“We’re still canvassing residents of the decoy buildings, and detectives reviewed plenty of digital recordings by the waterfront, but so far all they found were violations of the public urination statutes.”
As Quinn drained his wineglass, my spirits drained with it, until I remembered my visit with Gus.
I told Quinn about Gustavo Campana’s willingness to ask around about the shooter. “How his very ‘diverse’ clientele might have some useful information.”
“He sells to the criminal element?”
“He sells to people with the money to buy. He doesn’t question where the money comes from—in his view, that’s for people like you.”
Quinn snorted. “Guess I should get to know the man.”
“I don’t doubt he has a reach. You should have seen the woman who pulled up while we were walking away. Her driver was this big guy with a U-shaped scar on his cheek—like something out of The Godfather Saga. The Campana family’s compound is really something, too. It’s hidden off the street in one of those secret Village courtyards.”
“Did you see Panther Man hiding there? Up a tree maybe?”
“No, but Gus’s home wasn’t in your dragnet, was it?”
“Too far north and east. Unless your superhero can teleport, there’s no way he could have gotten by the police presence on Hudson.”
“First of all, he’s not my superhero. He’s obviously a coldly calculating killer with professional skills—and some kind of dedicated plan or purpose.”
“That’s not what they think downtown. The brass believe we’re dealing with a psychotic with a Panther Man fixation, like that nutjob—excuse me, ‘troubled youth’—who dressed up as a comic book character before opening fire on a theater full of innocent people. They think our nutjob is only injuring cops because he’s such a bad shot.”
“That’s not what I think.”
“I don’t, either. Neither do some of my men. They think it’s revenge. Remember Eduardo De Santis, the one that got away?”
“How could I forget—I was tripping over stacks of his surveillance photos for weeks . . .”
A slight man with a hawk nose, aggressively tanned complexion, and close-cropped white beard, De Santis was a wealthy nightclub owner and fastidious dresser, his suit jacket’s breast pocket never without a brightly colored handkerchief that always matched his silk shirt. After Quinn and his squad closed down Eduardo’s club for distributing cocaine and heroin, he hired the best defense team money could buy—and managed to escape conviction.
“You think Eduardo is behind the shootings?”
“Some in my squad think so, but there’s no proof, just a theory. He’s not even in the country. According to Interpol, he moved to Cape Town and then to Dubai—probably too far away to worry about.”
“Unless he hired someone to get even.”
“It’s possible, but it doesn’t seem likely, and without evidence the brass rejected that theory outright. It’s also conceivable this Panther Man stunt is connected to a known gang in the area who brands their drugs with superhero labels, Panther Man included. Remember that street dealer Sully and I flipped during our overnight interview? He’s part of that crew, and that’s the most reasonable revenge theory at the moment. But it doesn’t really matter to me because the shooter’s motive isn’t my concern.”
Quinn’s tone was clear enough and so was the look in his eyes.
“You don’t care why he’s shooting cops, do you? You just want to find him and arrest him.”
“Arresting is an option, sure. But if I see him take aim at another human being—in or out of uniform—I’ll shoot the bastard dead.”
TWENTY
I’D never seen such cold fury in Mike Quinn. It sent a shiver through me—and for more than one reason.
“Can I tell you something, Mike? You once said emotion has no place in police work. Wait. I misquoted you. Emotion has no place in good police work.”
“You have a point to make, Cosi?”
“Yes. One I learned from you. When you’re out for vengeance instead of justice, your judgment becomes clouded.”
He grunted. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I wish you would. Because I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t be. I spent years on the street. I can take care of myself.”
“It would kill me if anything happened to you.”
“Nothing’s going to happen.”
“And you know that . . . for sure?”
Despite the seriousness of our argument, the edges of Quinn’s mouth lifted at my choice of words. He had shouted the same phrase at me yesterday when we were under fire.
“Tell you what,” he said. “How about you trust me, like I trusted you. When you ran out, into the middle of the kill zone, to help Sully . . . you didn’t think I was terrified for you?”
I shifted uneasily, knowing he was right.
I’d been afraid out there, but fear hadn’t dictated my actions; something else had. Quinn was in the same position. How could I condemn that?
“Okay,” I said at last. “You’ve made your point.”
“Good. And if trusting me becomes too challenging, at least trust that I’m smarter than your Panther Man.”
“He’s not my Panther Man! Stop saying that.”
“Sorry, but . . . that’s how it’s playing out. You’re the only eyewitness.”
“Are you kidding me? With all the smartphones in this town, didn’t someone get a picture of this bizarre shooter? It’s starting to make me believe he really does have superpowers!”
“He doesn’t. At least not the power to be invisible. Two security cameras on private buildings caught Panther Man as he fled. But the pictures didn’t tell us anything we didn’t already know from your account.”
“Then there was a Panther Man? I didn’t imagine him?”
“You did not,” Quinn said. “And the press would have been apprised of that fact this morning, at an official press conference. Until that sketch got out . . .”
He reached for the bottle and refilled his glass—to the brim.
I didn’t blame him. The morning paper trumped the mayor with its front-page pencil sketch of the shooter and lurid headlines in comic bubbles, making the event into a joke and making the NYPD look ineffectual.
I hated to ask, but . . .
“What exactly happened when you were called downtown?”
“I caught hell, that’s what happened.”
“I’m so
sorry, Mike. I should have stopped Sergeant Sitko from tossing that sketch into the waste can, but I never thought a reporter would get in there and search the trash.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Clare. Sitko should have known better.”
“What’s going to happen to him?”
“Nothing. The pair of us were dragged through the ringer this morning, but that’s the end of it.”
“Really?” I studied Quinn. “I don’t believe you.”
“I didn’t say all was forgiven. It’s over because I took the fall.”
“But you weren’t even in the room when Sitko tossed that sketch! Why should you take all the blame?”
“Because Sitko is six months from his pension, and the brass would have fired him over this.” Quinn shrugged and dug back into his ziti. “Better me than him. They’re not going to get rid of me.”
“Because you’ve been decorated multiple times?”
“Because my case clearance rate is phenomenal. When I was off working in DC, my OD Squad’s effectiveness nose-dived. They weren’t aggressive enough at pursuing leads, circumventing jurisdictional roadblocks, building solid cases, or securing convictions. With me in charge again, they are.”
“So there are no consequences to your taking the blame today?”
He waved his fork. “A letter of reprimand tucked into my files. Not the first, by the way. I’ve forgotten it already.”
“That’s because you did the right thing.”
“Not where it counted, I didn’t.” He took another drink of Lambrusco . . . and continued drinking until he once again drained his glass.
“I let Sully down, Clare. I was just as fooled by that comic book shooter as the SWAT team.”
“You were set up. All of you were.”
“Maybe. But you weren’t fooled, were you?”
“I didn’t have a gun, Mike. I wasn’t looking to return fire. You were the one trying to give me and Sully cover. You did what any good cop would have done: glued your gaze to the gunman’s position—or what you thought it was.”
