by Cleo Coyle
“That’s just it. What I thought wasn’t good enough. Now the trail’s gone cold, and we’ve got no leads. Not until the shooter strikes again.”
And that’s what my nightmares were made of . . .
TWENTY-ONE
A few hours later, my sleepy eyelids opened, not to morning, but a semidark place . . .
Flames were still crackling in the master bedroom’s hearth, casting their warm, red-orange glow on the art-covered walls. The feather pillows felt like clouds, softening the hard knocks of the last two days, and the mahogany four-poster was a solid ship for drifting away to dreamland.
But I wasn’t dreaming now.
Rubbing my eyes, I rolled over to discover Mike’s shoulder holster on the nightstand, its leather straps wrapped around his weapon. The empty bottle of Lambrusco sat next to it, along with a pair of drained glasses.
Mike and I must have brought the wine up here after dinner, I realized, although my memory was foggy. We must have done something else, too . . .
A simple conclusion, given my state of dress—or more like undress. No emerald sheath, no lacy nightgown, not even a shred of underwear. The crisp sheets and soft quilt were the only things covering my naked curves—
Until a heavy arm draped itself around my midriff.
Mike’s lips touched my neck, and I smiled into the shadows.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “Even with my eyes closed . . .”
Then his mouth and hands began to roam, exciting me all over again. I turned in his arms, and soon we were moving together beneath the bedcovers, making physical what we both felt in our hearts.
Breathing hard, our bodies finally collapsed against each other.
Exhausted but contented, that’s how we fell back to sleep, my cheek on his strong chest, his chin resting on my dark hair . . .
* * *
A short time later, a strange noise woke me.
Sitting up in bed, I peered into blackness. The hearth had gone cold, its orange flames now white ash. And the shadows in the room were thick as sea fog.
The noise came again—a strange bumping—and then I saw it.
“Mike, wake up!”
I shook his shoulder, and he slowly stirred.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I saw something moving, just outside the bedroom window—”
“A tree branch?”
“Not a tree branch. A shadowy shape, in human form . . .”
Mike sat up, awake now, and stared at the dark glass.
“I don’t see or hear anything, Clare. And there’s no fire escape on this side of the building.”
“I know that.”
“So how could someone be outside your fourth-floor window?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s okay . . .” Mike yawned. “You had a nightmare, that’s all. Go back to sleep.”
“But I saw something—”
Hooking my waist, Mike pulled me back down, against his big, warm body. I struggled lightly until one of his long legs curled possessively around the pair of mine, and his lips began whispering things to ease my worries—sweet, thrilling, very distracting things. And then . . .
BANG!
BANG-BANG-BANG!
Omigod. “Mike, someone’s shooting out there!”
By the time I sat up, Quinn had rolled out of bed and was going for his shoulder holster.
“Be careful—”
“Stay back!”
Crossing the bedroom, he pulled his weapon free of the leather and tossed the holster aside. With two hands on the gun, he approached the window from the side and quickly opened it.
Freezing night air swept in, and I shivered in bed, watching Quinn lean out the window to survey the street below.
“Be careful!” I warned. “There’s someone out there. Not in the street. But much closer—”
BANG!
The shot rang out with horrific clarity, hitting Quinn directly in the head. He dropped his gun, and his body pitched forward.
I gasped in disbelief as the man I loved disappeared into the darkness.
Kicking off the bedcovers, I rushed to the open window and looked down. A body was lying in the street below, blood pooling on the concrete, but it wasn’t Quinn.
The body belonged to Sully Sullivan.
What? I rubbed my eyes. This makes no sense. What is going on?!
Sirens began to wail, and a helicopter dropped like a spider, straight down from the clouds, its blades battering my eardrums. Flashing red lights drew my attention to the street, where two paramedics were now loading Mike Quinn’s limp body into their vehicle.
“Wait!” I shouted out the window. “Wait for me!”
I threw on clothes and ran out of the bedroom, into the hall, but it wasn’t a hall anymore. Suddenly, I was standing in a small paneled room with no doors and no windows.
Frantic, I turned around and around, looking for a way out. But there was none. Then I looked up and saw Panther Man above me!
I screamed so loud I hurt my own ears—until I realized the ceiling was a mirror. When I moved, Panther Man moved. I looked down at myself and saw no costume. Yet my reflection told me . . .
I was Panther Man!
Just then the room lurched and vibrated, moving like an elevator. With another lurch, everything stopped. One wall parted, swishing open on a brightly lit hospital ward. That’s when I heard Mike’s voice.
“Clare!”
“Mike!” I called. He sounded far away. “Where are you?!”
“I’m here!”
Down an impossibly long hall, I saw Mike’s body, strapped to a gurney. Orderlies wearing white coats were wheeling him rapidly away.
“Stop!” I cried, chasing them. “Don’t take him away!”
But the orderlies ignored me, pushing the gurney through a pair of white double doors. I tried to follow, but the white doors were locked tight.
“Let me in!” I shouted. “Let me through!”
I beat on the doors, but they wouldn’t open. I was so frustrated, so angry, so scared. Tears were streaming down my face as I pounded and pounded.
“Excuse me? Can I help you?”
I turned to find a nurse standing there, reading a file folder.
“I’m looking for a shooting victim named Michael Quinn. I was told he was in this unit.”
The woman in white closed the file she’d been reading and gave me a hard, bureaucratic stare.
“You’re Mrs. Quinn?”
“No, I’m—”
“You’re his friend?”
“Yes.”
“Friendship has no legal status.”
“You don’t understand. I love him, and I need to know if he’s okay.”
“I can’t give you any further information. You’ll have to get it through the family.”
“But I’m his family!”
I turned to try the doors again, but they were gone; in their place stood a stout iron gate. As I reached to open it, a masked figure slammed through, striking me down.
Flat on my back, I tried to see who’d hurt me, but the shadows closed in and the world went black . . .
* * *
I opened my eyes to darkness. The flames of the fireplace had turned to ash, and the bedroom window was shut tight.
Mike was snoring softly beside me, his heavy body curled possessively around mine. My limbs felt languorous from our lovemaking, but my mind was spinning from my nightmare, so vivid and so awful.
The particulars of the dream might fade, but I knew two things would stay with me: the image of Mike being shot; and a phrase, seemingly harmless, now stuck inside me like a dagger—
Friendship has no legal status.
TWENTY-TWO
THE next day, I wo
ke to a warm kiss on my lips and a masculine murmur in my ear—
“Good morning, sweetheart . . .”
Yawning, I squinted against the golden sunshine pouring through the tall windows. Mike’s large frame was sitting on the edge of the bed, already dressed for work in chocolate brown dress slacks and a crisp white shirt.
My nose immediately detected two stimulating aromas: freshly brewed coffee and caramelized cinnamon. Sitting up, I spied two mugs of coffee on the nightstand, next to a plate of something that smelled amazing.
“You baked?” I asked, incredulous.
“I toasted.”
As I adjusted the sheet to cover myself, he proudly presented the breakfast-in-bed plate. I marveled at the stack of freshly made cinnamon toast—so simple yet so wonderful. I sipped the coffee and crunched the toast.
“This is delicious.”
“Yeah, but it should be smoked salmon on toast with champagne and flowers. You deserve it.”
“This will do just fine . . .”
The coffee was hot and perfectly balanced, the toast sweet and spicy with the beautiful bite of Saigon cinnamon. Extra good because the man I loved had made it with his own handcuff-wielding hands.
“Okay, I’m off to work,” Quinn said, getting up to pull on his shoulder holster. “I just wanted you to know how much I appreciated the TLC last night—the dinner, the wine, that dress . . .” He smiled. “Everything.”
“You’re welcome . . . but do me one favor.”
“What’s that?”
“Be careful out there.”
He grabbed his suit jacket. “Try not to worry.”
“Impossible.”
“Why? It’s a beautiful day. Focus on that. The sky is clear and the weather’s warmed up—” He crossed the room to crack the window. “Breathe in some of that fresh—”
“Get away from the window!”
The shriek of my voice stopped Quinn dead. When he turned around, he found me in a state.
“Clare? What’s wrong?”
I shook my head hard, trying to clear my mind of last night’s awful images. But I couldn’t. My fears and frustration finally got the better of me, not only because of the nightmare. My anxieties had been building since the first round of Cops Shot headlines.
Not knowing where he was, how he was—the weight of it was crushing.
“I’m sorry,” I said, swiping my wet cheeks. “Bad dream, that’s all.”
“That’s not all. Not if you’re this upset. Talk to me . . .”
He sat back down on the bed, and I told him about my nightmare. He listened patiently until I was done.
“You know, I’ve had strange dreams like that,” he said. “It’s actually a good thing. It means your mind is trying to process the events of your life, make sense of it all.”
“But it doesn’t solve a thing.”
“Solve?” Quinn sat back. After studying me a moment, he frowned. “Clare . . . you and I . . . we can’t ‘solve’ the work I do. You know that.”
“I know that.”
For another long moment, he held my gaze. Then he looked away and nodded—almost to himself—as if he’d just made a decision. Finally, he turned back, took my hands in his, and said—
“Clare, do you think maybe you and I should . . . think about a change?”
“A change? What kind of change?”
“The way things are going right now, our situation may not be the best thing for you . . .” He squeezed my hand, and my breath caught.
Had Quinn understood my dream that well? Was he about to propose that we finally fix our “legal status”? That’s it, I thought. He’s going to propose!
“Go on,” I said, leaning forward with hope.
“I think maybe we should take a break, you and I . . . for a little while.”
“A break!” I jerked my hands away. “You want to break up?”
“I didn’t say break up. I said break. A temporary cooldown between us. It might be the best thing—”
“For you?”
“No. For you. Some distance between us should help lessen your anxieties.”
“Distance from you is the last thing I want—the very last. Please, don’t ever suggest we break up again. Look, the truth, the real truth about what upsets me is that we’re not closer.”
“Closer than last night?” Quinn’s eyebrows arched. “I don’t think that’s possible. Unless we join molecules.”
“No, but we can join something else.”
He blinked. “You’re talking marriage?”
I nodded.
“Clare, before we left Washington, I asked you to consider a next step for us. Do you remember what you said?”
“Yes, of course. I told you I wanted to wait, but only because we’ve had so many changes in our lives. I wanted to get back into a settled routine here in New York before we started planning our future.”
“Well, you might feel settled now. But at the moment, I’m in the middle of a manhunt that’s going to take most of my time and all of my energy. I can’t think about the rest of my life right now, especially when—”
He cut himself off.
“When what?”
“Never mind.” He got up and slipped on his jacket. “We should talk about this another time.”
“I know what you were going to say. You don’t want to think about the rest of your life right now because you’re not sure you’ll have a rest of your life—correct?”
“Let’s not do this, Clare. I’m running late as it is—”
“Mike, wait! Please.”
He turned at the door.
“Do you remember when we tried to see Sully at the hospital? Do you recall what that nurse told me?”
“No. Too much was going on—”
“She said, ‘Friendship has no legal status’—and it tore me apart. All I could think was: What if you had been the one shot up and in critical condition? What would I be then?”
“I don’t know . . .” Quinn rubbed his forehead. “Cops on the street, the smart ones, don’t spend their time imagining being shot and lying in a hospital. We focus on positive outcomes, on coming home in one piece.”
“That’s all well and good, but I’m not a cop on the street. I just happen to love one. And what happened to Sully has woken me up to the fact that I’ve put you off too long. There are consequences to my decision to wait. And I don’t want to wait anymore. I want us to be more than friends. I want us to have legal status.”
For a moment, Quinn stared wide-eyed at me, and then—he laughed. He actually laughed. I couldn’t believe it!
“What is so funny?”
He folded his arms. “Sorry, but any man who used that phrase to propose—‘Darling, I’d like to give you legal status’—would probably get a glass of champagne thrown in his face.”
“Don’t make light of this.”
“I’m not. But try to understand—I cannot have this discussion now. And it’s not something we should rush, anyway. Marrying a cop . . .” He shook his head. “It comes with a lot of baggage.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. At our age, who doesn’t come with a lot of baggage?!”
Just then, Quinn’s phone buzzed. He apologized, pulled it out, read the text, and cursed.
“What’s wrong? It’s not Sully—”
“No. A friend downtown sent me a warning.”
“What kind of warning?”
He showed me the screen. “Read it for yourself . . .”
Just got out of commish meeting. Members of mayor’s staff pushing idea that shooter dresses as superhero B-cause he has “legit” grudge, targeting “bad” cops. They R pushing for any officers targeted by shooter to be investigated by IAB for police misconduct. Watch your back, buddy.
“Are you kidding me!” I
cried, jumping out of bed. Oh, crap, I’m naked, I realized and snatched up a robe.
“These officers are victims! The mayor’s office should be pinning medals on them, not having them investigated by your Internal Affairs Bureau for suspicion of misconduct! This is outrageous!”
I expected Quinn to start yelling, too. If I were him, I’d be punching a wall. Instead, he seemed more fascinated with my emotional reaction.
In silence, he studied me as I angrily shoved my arms through terry cloth sleeves and furiously tied the robe’s belt. Whatever he was thinking, it seemed a cool, clear calculation. Only I had no idea what he was adding up.
“Don’t tell Fran,” was all he said in reply. “I don’t want Sully to know. It might give him that heart attack they’re trying so hard to prevent.”
“I won’t tell her, but please keep me updated.”
He pocketed his phone. “The next few weeks may get bumpy, Clare. Try to hang in there, okay?”
“I’m here for you. I always will be.”
“I know,” he said, touching my cheek. “And I know how lucky I am to have a woman like you in my corner.”
Then he downed his coffee and headed out the door.
TWENTY-THREE
“CLARE, look. Something’s going down on Hudson . . .”
A week after my “legal status” discussion with Quinn, my assistant manager was directing my attention to a pair of police cars rolling up in front of the Village Blend. More sirens wailed in the distance.
As rippling scarlet beams cut the magic-hour glow of the Manhattan twilight, my curious, caffeinated customers looked up from their smartphones—well, some of them did.
When a third squad car arrived, I stepped out from behind the coffee bar. But before I could join Tucker at the door, the touch of a gently wrinkled hand gave me pause.
I faced Madame’s violet gaze and genial smile. “It’s rude to rush off in the middle of a conversation, dear.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m worried there might have been another shooting . . .”
Leaving Madame, I stepped outside, checked with the officers out front, and quickly returned.
