Through the Grinder

by Cleo Coyle

  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.

  November was far too early for carolers, but given the preservation of historic detail on this stretch, I could almost hear a group of girls singing at the corner, see their buttoned up boots, long, layered skirts, thick velvet coats, and matching fur muffs.

  As St. Luke’s curved, turning into Bruce’s street, Leroy, it crossed the line—and so did I. With a few steps, I was no longer in the officially designated historic district. This particular area of the West Village was not considered protected.

  Inappropriate demolitions, alteration
s, or new construction could legally occur at the whim of the property owner. The Greenwich Village Society for Historic Preservation, founded in 1980 to safeguard the architectural heritage and cultural history of the Village, had been working to change this, and extend the historic district protections.

  My steps slowed as I neared the address Bruce had given me. The house was a charming Federal-style with two full stories above ground, topped by dormer windows, indicating a usable attic. Basement windows were also visible below the short flight of railed steps leading to the high stoop and shiny green front door. To the left of that entrance, at street level, was a rustic little door of rough wood. Directly above that small door was a small window.

  “The horse walk,” I murmured aloud, watching my warm breath create a pearl gray cloud in the frosty air. I didn’t see this feature too often, but this home was archetypal Federal just as Bruce had said. The horse walk was simply a secondary entrance that provided access to a rear yard—during the 1800s, there would have been a stable in the back or even a second, rear lot house.

  Clearly, this property was a choice one, and even though it was beyond the historic boundary, it certainly appeared to deserve landmark status.

  I stood for I don’t know how long, watching the snow fall on the place, enjoying the refined simplicity of its lines, the straightforward elegance of its faded bricks and newly painted white-framed windows, and I could almost see it becoming a home—each wide ledge displaying a flower box in summer, a single candle in winter, a wreath on the door every year at Christmas.

  Suddenly, the brass lamp fixtures flanking the house’s entrance came brightly to life and the green front door opened.

  The light from inside created a silhouette of the man standing in the doorway. The dark shape moved forward, peering onto the sidewalk from the stoop above me.

  “Joy?” called Bruce sharply. “Is that you?”

  “It’s me,” I called back. His mistake was understandable, given my attire—the same bulky bright yellow and black parka he’d seen Joy wearing earlier today. I even had the hood up.

  “Oh, thank God,” said Bruce after hearing my voice. He stepped forward and descended the snow-covered steps. I could see him more clearly now. He wore faded jeans, a black cableknit fisherman’s sweater with a crew neck, and steel-toed workboots. God, he looked good.

  He stopped in front of me. “For a second there, I was worried something was wrong and you sent Joy to tell me,” he said softly. “What’s with the pregnant bee parka?”

  I shrugged. “I just couldn’t take the whining anymore—hell hath no complaint like a daughter forced to look uncool—so I simply swapped her winter coat for mine.”

  He smiled. “And you don’t care how you look, I take it?”

  “It’s a very warm coat, thank you very much. And it’s really not that silly, is it?”

  “Not if you like honey.”

  “In that case, you give me no choice.” I bent down, scooped up a handful of wet snow, and made a big, icy ball.

  Bruce folded his arms across his black sweater and raised an eyebrow. “You’re not actually thinking of throwing that at me.”

  “Try me.”

  “A snowball fight is a serious step, Ms. Cosi.”

  “Just make one more crack about this coat. I dare you.”

  “Only if you give me a peek at your stinger.”

  I cocked my arm. “You’ve got three seconds.”

  Bruce turned and beat it up the stairs. I let fly, nailing him right in the back of the neck.

  “Ow! Damn, that’s cold!”

  I laughed, walking up the steps to join him. “Never underestimate a former softball player’s ability to hit her target.”

  He was laughing by now, too—and a little bit darkly, but I didn’t suspect why.

  “Come on in, then…and get that arctic gear off,” he said.

  I unzipped and unhooded as he closed the door—and then, from behind, he struck.

  I never saw it coming.

  He rubbed the icy ball against my cheek first, then dropped it right down the back of my sweater.

  “Bastard! Ahhhh! That’s cold!”

  “Yes, it is, and I should know,” he said with a laugh as I jumped around his foyer.

  “How the hell did you manage that?” I demanded.

  “I scooped snow off the outside handrail as I was coming in. Never underestimate a man who knows how to improvise.”

  I managed to tear off my coat and lift my sweater enough to get the half-melted lump out. Bruce was still laughing—until he noticed what I was wearing beneath the puffy yellow parka.

  Suddenly, he stopped laughing.

  I hadn’t worn the outfit in years. The little red plaid woolen skirt had been hemmed to fall about mid-thigh. (Longer than the dancers in a Britney Spears video, hopefully, but short enough to show some leg.) Black ribbed, winter-weight tights, knee-high black leather boots, and a form-fitting sweater with pearl buttons and a daring décolleté completed the (admittedly) cheeky ensemble.

  Being petite sometimes felt like a disadvantage in a town laced with Amazonian fashion models and long, lean dancers. On the other hand, Matt once told me that most men weren’t into height necessarily. What they were after was a shapely form, and my petite size and small waist did seem to call attention to the size of my breasts, which, despite my height, were not by any measure small. When I wanted to, my shape was easy to hide under large blouses and oversized T-shirts. But tonight, with Bruce, I didn’t want to hide. More than ever now, I needed to know how he really felt about me.

  With one brief, burning look of naked attraction, Bruce wiped out any guesswork on my part. I no longer had to wonder whether the man would notice my figure and like it, whether he was truly physically attracted to me. One searing look said it all.

  “Killer outfit,” he rasped.

  Damn. Why did he have to use that word? On the slow walk down, I had tried to forget my anxieties, that oppressive feeling of guilt for talking too much in front of Quinn. Now all I could think about was Quinn’s suspect list—and how to get Bruce off it.

  “Clare? What’s wrong? Are you feeling all right?”

  “Sure. I…uh…” I put my hands to my cheeks, which I didn’t doubt had gone pale. “I’m probably a little chilled from the walk, that’s all.”

  “Let me get you warmed up then.” He smiled, put his hand around my waist, and led me down the hall.

  The place was clearly still under interior renovation. Drop cloths, ladders, and construction materials cluttered the scuffed hall floor. In the back, beyond the stairs to the second floor, I glimpsed part of the kitchen and saw it was a complete mess with peeling, old wallpaper and dirty tile. He guided me through a doorway to the right and I found myself entering a long, rectangular space. This room was devoid of any furniture—but it was obviously finished. The vast wood floor was highly polished, the walls and moldings carefully restored, and the crowning achievement had to be the fireplace.

  “I’ve got furniture in the master bedroom upstairs, but nowhere else,” he explained. “So I thought we’d have a little winter picnic.”

  “It’s charming,” I said, and meant it. He’d laid a thick futon flat on the floor, in front of the fire. Big velvet and embroidered pillows were piled in a crescent shape on top. He sat me down in the arch of the crescent, wrapped a soft, chenille throw around my shoulders, and began to rub.

  “Warm yet?”

  Staring into the fire, I put a hand on his, stilling it. “Yes.”

  In that instant I knew that if I looked up, into his eyes, he’d kiss me. And if he kissed me, more would happen.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be physically closer to Bruce. I did. But for my own peace of mind, I had to push him away right now and find a way to question him about the women he’d known.

  This wasn’t going to be easy to do without admitting the reason, but I had to try. Coming out with “By the way, did you know you’re a suspect in a
murder investigation?” wouldn’t exactly inspire him to keep trusting me. Sure, I could try to explain it all away. But “I really didn’t mean to finger you in a conversation with my detective friend” wouldn’t inspire much confidence, either.

  “I’m fine,” I told him stiffly. “You can stop now.”

  I could feel the awkwardness of the moment, but Bruce did his best to respect my signals. Reluctantly, he removed his hands and moved to a covered basket warming beside the fireplace.

  “I bet you’re hungry,” he said, smoothing over what I’m sure he felt was a gentle rejection. “And have I got a special surprise for you.”

  A special surprise? Like Inga Berg’s special surprise on that rooftop? I suddenly thought.

  I closed my eyes. God, I wanted to strangle Quinn. Because of him, I knew too much—and not enough. And it was killing me.

  “Actually, maybe the dinner can wait?” I said. “I’m really dying to get a tour of this place.”

  “Really? It’s a huge mess.”

  “I don’t care. I love these old places. I was admiring your exterior, you know, that’s why I was standing out there in the snow so long.”

  “Thanks.” He cocked an eyebrow. “For admiring my exterior.”

  I laughed. “You’re terrible.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, anyway, you weren’t kidding about this place being archetypal Federal.”

  “Yeah. It’s hard to believe, but there are about three hundred of these Federal row houses still standing in lower Manhattan.”

  “Three hundred?”

  “Not all are in pristine condition, some have been altered almost beyond recognition. But many have maintained their integrity.”

  “You’ve been working with the preservation society, I take it?”

  “Yes. And they do good work. For this place, they’ve already finished the researching, documenting, and petitioning of officials. The New York City Landmarks Preservation Commission will most likely agree and grant this place its deserved landmark status. What most concerns me—and the Village Society for Historic Preservation—is that more than half of the three hundred Federal row houses have no protection at all. The other half either lie within the boundaries of an official historic district, or else they have individual landmark designation.”