by Cleo Coyle
FIFTY-FOUR
THE next day’s dawn was frosty, and I dressed swiftly after my shower in comfortable jeans, a warm sweater, and (thank goodness) a happily worn pair of flats.
With Mike still in slumberland, I quietly opened the bedroom drapes. Soft light trailed in from the sleepy West Village streets. As I cracked the window, a salt breeze from the chilly Hudson refreshed the air and rustled the branches of a nearby elm, its yellow-gold leaves a primary contrast with the red brick of the low town houses and lightening blue of the coastal sky.
I breathed them in, these little beauties of the new day when all was quiet and peaceful and good.
Like most things in life, the moment wouldn’t last, but the calm center was worth finding, something to hang on to before life’s grind began with all its stresses and stumbles, mistakes and regrets.
Below me, a loud motor rumbled, and our baker’s van arrived, bringing me back to the duties of the day.
Texting my opening team of baristas, I asked if everything was on track downstairs. They assured me all was well. That’s when I noticed a familiar unmarked police car pulling up across the street.
In the front seat were Detectives Lori Soles and her partner, Sue Ellen Bass. The Fish Squad came by every morning for their caffeine fix, but today was an unusually early start for this pair. We wouldn’t be open for another fifteen minutes.
And since Mike and I were already engaged, I knew they weren’t here for another false arrest.
Texting down to Tucker, I asked him to have complimentary drinks taken out to their car: a cappuccino for Lori, and for Sue Ellen a triple espresso.
Tuck texted back, no prob, and asked if he could use our second floor for a morning read-through of his new superhero script.
As I typed OK, I noticed an unread message from Sophia. She’d sent it late last night . . .
Dad no better. Praying for improvement in AM . . . Thank you for sending Hunter to me. We are talking. Really talking. Finally!
They’re talking. Really talking? I thought. About what? Their rocky relationship? Gus’s condition and how he got that way? The mysterious man in Rome? Hunter’s deal with that creep De Santis? Or all of the above?
I knew a list of questions like that couldn’t be sent in a text message or over voice mail. So I tossed Sophia’s designer shoes and handbag into my canvas tote, carefully wrapped up her jewelry in a silk scarf, and went down to the kitchen.
My list of concerns continued mounting (and agitating me) as I fed my demanding felines. While Java and Frothy chowed down on cat chow, I preheated my oven, pulled out six loaf pans, and assembled ingredients.
By now, Hunter would have heard about Sophia’s share of that priceless inheritance. My worries increased at the thought—and I took it out on the eggs in my mixing bowl.
Certainly, I could see why Sophia had been drawn to her husband. Hunter was a sophisticated world traveler; a big, blond Viking who spoke her language when it came to her passion for those shiny, precious stones of the ancient earth.
But what were Hunter’s true intentions? Did he really love her? Or was he using her?
With renewed vigor, I whisked maple syrup and brown sugar into the beaten eggs. Next came vanilla, cinnamon, nutmeg, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Finally, I whisked in the pumpkin puree, stirred in the flour, divided the lumpy batter among my pans, banged my frustrations out on the counter (which also nicely removed air bubbles), and slid the quick bread into the oven.
After cleaning the mixing bowl and whisk, I got to work on the bacon. Not just any bacon—not for my new fiancé. Quinn would be getting my special Coffee Bacon with Maple-Espresso Glaze and my mustard and brown sugar variation, which drenched the tongue in a smoky-sweet tang of bliss.
The process for glazing complex flavors into plain old thick-cut bacon was incredibly easy. To start, however, I had to brew a pot of coffee. It would be the first of many this morning as I continued preparations for the upcoming Andrea Doria blend competition.
Ninety minutes later, with my pumpkin bread baked, my glazed bacon sizzling, and my thoughts about Sophia and Hunter still in knots, I heard Mike’s deep voice ask—
“What smells so good?”
“Your breakfast,” I replied, my short tone revealing my anxieties. “Sit down. We need to talk . . .”
FIFTY-FIVE
WITH a relaxed stride, Quinn’s long legs moved into my kitchen.
Showered, shaved, and nearly dressed for the day, he hung his leather holster and suit coat on the back of a chair and, following the order of my pointing finger, rolled up his white shirtsleeves and settled his forearms on the table.
As I poured him a fresh-brewed cup, he surprised me by hooking one of his strong arms around my waist. “Can’t a guy get a good-morning kiss before coffee?”
“You sure about that? There’s no caffeine on these lips.”
“Let’s find out . . .” He tugged me closer, and I set down the pot. “Yeah,” he agreed after testing his theory. “No caffeine, yet incredibly stimulating . . .”
“That’s nice,” I said as our morning kiss ended—or so I thought.
When I began to move away, Quinn not only tugged me back, he pulled me off my feet and onto his lap.
“Mike! What are you doing?”
“I just remembered. We’re officially engaged, so . . .”
“So what?”
“So you deserve more than a ‘nice’ kiss . . .”
With a smile in his eyes, Quinn took over my mouth, his lips and tongue leaving me breathless. When his callused hands slipped under my sweater, I gave in to the moment, my fingers tangling in his short sandy hair.
Aromas of hot coffee, sizzling bacon, and fresh pumpkin bread filled the kitchen, but he was still hungry for me—a realization that convinced me, for the next few minutes anyway, that I was the happiest woman alive.
“I guess I better get my own pair of those shoes,” I rasped against his lips, a few minutes later.
He laughed. “It’s not the shoes. It’s the woman they’re strapped to.”
“Well, I’m sorry to tell you: this woman has a busy day ahead of her, and so do you.”
I gently pushed his chest, and he reluctantly let me go.
On shaky legs, I moved to the counter, fighting hard to rid my molecules of the need to either pull Mike back upstairs or (with last night’s suggestive cocktail coming to mind) unbuckle the man’s pants and initiate a slow, comfortable coupling against the kitchen wall.
I could see him wrestling with the same temptations, so I supplied another: a plate of glistening, sweetly glazed bacon. While I didn’t relish putting myself in competition with fatty strips of meat, the tactic was (to quote Franco) effective.
Quinn’s focus quickly shifted from me to the caramelized pork belly. Then his own belly took over, trumping his libido, and the kitchen fell silent, save for the sounds of meat being munched to that ancient but universal music—guttural sounds of manly pleasure.
The primitive noises roused Frothy and Java from their postbreakfast napping. Like a pair of hungry raptors, the two circled Quinn’s legs, little pink tongues licking their cat lips, long, straight tails petitioning like furry raised flags.
“Mike, I’m afraid you’re going to need a lint roller for your pants.”
“What?” he asked, emerging from his bacon trance.
I pointed to the fur-covered fabric below his knees.
Far from annoyed, he reached down and stroked the lucky felines. “Should I share some of my bacon?”
“No, I’ll take care of them . . .”
After bribing my nervy pair of pusses into the living room with a rattling faux mouse and an indulgent trail of catnip, I returned to the kitchen table, sliced up a loaf of my maple and brown sugar pumpkin bread, and slathered a few pieces with Quinn’s favorite high-fat I
rish butter.
My new fiancé closed his eyes as he sampled the fresh-baked slice. “Better than catnip,” he garbled around his stuffed mouth.
“I iced three more loaves for your squad,” I said. “And a fourth loaf for Sully—I know you visit him every day in the hospital. I’m sure Fran and the kids will enjoy the bread, too.”
“I know they will, sweetheart. That’s incredibly thoughtful.”
“I made one final loaf. But I’m taking it to another hospital.”
“What?” Quinn stopped chewing. “What hospital? What’s going on?”
“That’s what we need to talk about . . .”
FIFTY-SIX
I started from the beginning, telling Quinn about yesterday’s trip to the Diamond District and the strange legacy left there in trust to Matt and Sophia—and my own daughter.
I told him how I found Matt’s godfather, Gus, alone and stricken. How he was still in the hospital, unconscious and unable to answer any questions about how he got that way.
I also reminded Quinn what Gus had told me last week. “He promised to ask around about the Panther Man shooter.”
Quinn studied me. “You think his condition had something to do with that?”
“I told you Gus made jewelry for people on both sides of the law, rap artists, and nightclub owners, including—I’m guessing—people like Eduardo De Santis . . .”
Finally, I told Quinn about Sophia’s husband, Hunter Rolf, and how he’d gone to see Gus just hours before we found the poor man close to death.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a picture of this guy?”
“I already sent it to you . . .” I showed him my phone with the photos I took at the 21 Club. “That’s him, the big blond. And, let me tell you, when Matt and I confronted him, he was a nasty piece of work.”
“Okay, Cosi,” Quinn said, eyes smiling with a cross between astonishment and admiration. “I guess you better brief me on your suspect . . .”
I did, and Quinn listened the way I imagined he did with detectives under his command—with a complete poker face. Even more annoying, in the middle of my little “briefing,” he pulled out his smartphone and told me to keep talking as he began to type a text message. Burying my frustration, I finished my spiel.
“So? What do you think?”
“Well . . .” Quinn began, face still frozen. “You know Eduardo De Santis is now under surveillance. Thanks to you.”
“That was luck.”
“No. Luck would have been you showing me a photo of your ex-husband with De Santis in the background, completely by chance. What you did was ID De Santis from an old case and meticulously photograph him and those around him. That’s not luck, Cosi. That’s good detective work.”
“Thank you. But in the light of a new day, I’m not sure it matters. Last night, I grilled Franco during my little mandatory ride home—”
“Listen, I’m sorry about that. I didn’t want to send you away. But McNulty and I—”
“It’s okay. Franco explained the reasons for it—or tried to, anyway. And I took the opportunity to find out more about that loudmouthed lieutenant and his unit. Franco says there is no history between McNulty or his Inside Job Squad and Eduardo De Santis.”
“That’s right.”
“So doesn’t that blow your current theory? I mean, if De Santis is out for revenge on you and your squad for trying to put him in prison, then why risk exposure going after McNulty’s men?”
“I don’t have to prove why De Santis did the latter. What I can prove is that he’s in town, he has a grudge, he has the money to hire a sniper, he was in proximity of last night’s fireworks display that ended in a wounding ricochet, and . . . after you sent me those photos, I had my squad do some more digging.”
“Is that so?” I leaned forward with interest at the sudden sharp glint in Quinn’s eyes. “What did they find?”
“Only that the owner of that empty building half a block away—the one you’d been complaining about; the one the sniper used to target my man Sully—”
“The one where I saw Panther Man descending on his trick rope?”
“The very same. That building is owned by a shell corporation.”
“A shell for whom? Wait. Not—”
“The building belongs to Eduardo De Santis.”
The news hit me like a physical thing. I sat back in my chair. “That bastard. It really is him.”
“Looks like it. But we need more than a theory and circumstantial evidence. We need the kind of proof that will hold up in court.”
“So what do you think of my concerns about Hunter Rolf?”
“He’s a known associate of De Santis. The surveillance now includes him.”
“Oh, okay. You already suspected him?”
“No, you did, Cosi, and you made a more than reasonable case. You found motive, proof of skill from that safari statement, excessive defensiveness when questioned, and proximity to last night’s fiasco.”
“But if I just made the case now, how could the man be under surveillance already?”
Quinn lifted his smartphone. “Because while you were talking, I ordered it.”
* * *
THIRTY minutes later, Quinn was heading for the front door. As he slipped his suit jacket over his shoulder holster, I hurried to catch him—
“Wait! You forgot something!”
“No, I didn’t. I have your wrapped pumpkin breads right here in the shopping bag you gave me. And, no, I won’t forget to take one to Sully at the hospital—that’s my first stop.”
“It’s not that.”
“Oh? You want another good-bye kiss?” He bent down. “Pucker up—”
“It’s not that, either, although I’m happy to go again.”
“Okay, I give. What did I forget?”
I pointed to the pressed pants of his charcoal gray suit. “Look down.”
“Really?” He arched an eyebrow. “You’re that ready to go again?”
“No, Mike, farther down, where Java and Frothy loved up your shins during breakfast, remember?”
“Oh, hell. The fur. Do I need to change my pants?”
“No, Lieutenant. I’ve got you covered. Because this”—I lifted my locked-and-loaded lint roller—“will get you un-covered.”
He took the roller, handed me the shopping bag, and got to work.
“You know, Cosi, when I’m done down here, I expect another kiss up there.”
“Keep your pants on, Quinn, I’m not going anywhere.”
Unfortunately, neither were Java and Frothy, who decided the lint roller “game” should include them.
I did my best to hold them off as Mike finished his de-furring.
Fearing a repeat offense, however, he planted the quickest ever kiss on my lips before bolting for the door—and left me holding the bag!
“Mrreeoooow,” my girls complained, watching their favorite playmate depart without my pumpkin bread!
“Mike, wait!” I shouted through the door. “You forgot the—”
Suddenly, the door cracked open and a long arm poked through.
With relief, I handed over the goods, and my fiancé finally left the building.
With a sigh, I gazed down at my girls. “You know, you two were no help at all.”
Their reply consisted of a lazy stretch, an aloof yawn, and a double-teaming herding of their gullible owner to the kitchen cupboard—the one with the catnip.
FIFTY-SEVEN
“SHOO! Scat! Move along!”
Shortly after I helped Quinn de-fur his shins, I was dealing with another cat problem, this one on the sidewalk.
“Go on! Get!” I shouted, waving my broom at the offending feline—a big one, on two legs.
“Please!” he cried. “I’m expected—”
“Not here, P
anther Man. Go climb a tree!”
Over the past week, we had no less than three different Panther Man impersonators stake out in front of the Village Blend at various times. They posed for pictures, aggressively shilled for “tips,” and generally intimidated our customers.
I’d had enough!
So had this Panther Man, apparently. He suddenly ripped off his cowl to reveal a darkly handsome face wearing an expression of wounded dignity.
“I’ll have you know I played the Marquis de Lafayette in the Hamilton road show,” he declared with a toss of his dreadlocks. “I don’t deserve such cavalier treatment.”
I was ready to poke him with the broom one more time when Tucker burst through the front door and snatched it out of my hand.
“Stop, Clare! That’s not a Panther Man imposter! That’s my Panther Man.”
Oops.
I’d completely forgotten that Tucker had scheduled a read-through of his superhero extravaganza. But honestly, none of the other actors showed up in costume, only this guy!
Tucker tried to smooth things over, but after my broom assault, this Panther Man was as skittish as a feral feline, and temperamental as an aging starlet.
“It’s clear I’m not welcome in this production!”
“Come on, Wendell. Don’t be silly. The play needs you.”
“I’m not sure I’m right for the part.”
“Of course you are. The role was made for you.” Tuck began quoting his own script in an old-time radio show voice—
“Dick Nelson, crusading DA from New Kirk City, was so tough on crime that he had to go. Kidnapped, shot, and dumped in the deep forest, Nelson was saved from death by a pride of mountain lions who bestowed on him the speed, strength, and agility of a predatory feline. Now, in the guise of Panther Man, he defends the innocent and wreaks vengeance on the corrupt.”
Tuck wrapped his arm around the big cat’s shoulder. “This is your hour, Wendell. This is your part. Get in there and give it a hundred percent.”
