Prime Crime Holiday Bundle

by Cleo Coyle; Emily Brightwell; Kenneth Blanchard

  “Four of you in pursuit and you still manage to lose that perp!”

  Langley sheepishly shrugged.

  “Fine. You and your partner can do some overtime.” He shook his head. “Me and Charlie aren’t going to be the only ones bracing local skells all night to find an ‘armed and dangerous’ stupid enough to actually pull the trigger—”

  “Excuse me, Sergeant, but what makes you think the mugger these men were pursuing is the same person who killed Alf? I found Alf’s body before the mugger ran through here.”

  Franco faced me, his denim-covered legs braced in the slippery snow. “Ms. Cosi, some scumbags work in teams. Some move from street to street in the same area, targeting victims. This perp hid Santa’s body pretty well from anyone passing on the street—it’s clear the shooter didn’t expect his victim to be found anytime soon, which would mean he was free and clear to keep looking for victims nearby. As to your friend here, his pockets were turned out, his wallet is missing, and the money box on his little green wagon was looted. Two and two is four. The motive here was obviously robbery—”

  “Unless the robbery was staged to make you think this was just a random mugging. What if it wasn’t? What if there was some other reason—”

  “Stop!” The harried detective spat his gum into a wrapper and stuck the wad into the pocket of his Yankees jacket. “Listen to me, Coffee Lady. You’re cold, you’re tired, and you’re probably feeling some level of shock or you’re not human. But I don’t see anything out of the ordinary back here in this courtyard—other than the mass of footprints from the police chase. There’s no sign of blood under the fire escape or anything else all that suspicious. The crime we’re investigating obviously took place in the alley and on the sidewalk, where the victim’s little cart was parked. So let us take it from here, okay?”

  “I fully intend to, but I do have a theory of the case—”

  “A theory of the case? Jesus—” Franco laughed, short and sharp, then glanced at Langley. “She’s a cute one, isn’t she?”

  “Sergeant!” I cried. “I’m serious.”

  Franco faced me. “Honey, if you and me were in a nice warm bar, I’d let you talk to me all night about your theory. But I don’t have time to play here. This was obviously a street crime. The mugger led the poor son of a bitch into the alley at gunpoint and”—he made a gun with his thumb and forefinger—“Bang! Bang! Santa’s dead.”

  “Except your scenario’s wrong, Sergeant. Alf wasn’t forced into this building’s alley. The footprints I saw clearly showed he was coming out of this courtyard when he was shot.”

  Franco shrugged his shoulders. “So?”

  “So . . . find out why Alf was in this courtyard and you might find out why he was killed.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that maybe Santa Claus had to drain his pipe?”

  “What?”

  “This place is private,” Franco said, gesturing. “An old geezer like that likely had a prostate the size of a cantaloupe. Santa probably had to take a leak.”

  Officer Langley shifted on his feet as Franco exchanged a glance with him. “Maybe we ought to canvass the crime scene for yellow snow, eh, Langley?”

  Langley lifted a hand to hide a smile, then moved it to pat my shoulder. “I’ll find a paramedic to look you over, Ms. Cosi.”

  The second Langley left, I stepped up to Franco. “Listen, Sergeant, Alf was only fifty-two, hardly a ‘geezer.’ I’m reporting what I saw. I think it’s germane to your case.”

  “Good,” Franco replied. “The PD wants your germane statement. Okay? Feel better?”

  “Stop patronizing me.”

  The man’s jaw worked so hard I got the impression he was trying to pull his next few words out of the cavity in his left molar. “Let’s just say I see the events coming down differently than you do: a simple robbery gone very freakin’ bad, all right?”

  I sighed.

  Franco glanced toward the mouth of the alley as if to make sure Langley was out of earshot. “Look . . .” He took a step closer to me—a lot closer. “How about we make nice, you and I?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Franco’s dark eyes studied me some more. “I mean you and I should get together. I just came on for a night tour, but I’ll be off duty in the morning.”

  “I, uh—”

  His voice went low and soft. “You serve jelly doughnuts at that coffee shop of yours?”

  I folded my arms. “A jelly doughnut latte—we just added it to the menu for Chanukah.”

  “Coffee and no doughnuts?”

  “It’s not that kind of coffee shop.”

  “Jeez—”

  “Clare! Clare Cosi! Are you in there? Clare!”

  Matt’s bellow cut through the buzz of voices around the crime scene and echoed all the way into the desolate courtyard. I moved across the snow and around the corner of the building to find my ex-husband at the other end of the alley, shouting like a crazy man from behind the yellow crime-scene tape.

  Franco came up beside me. He tilted his head in Matt’s direction. “You know that guy?”

  “He’s my . . . business partner—”

  “Clare!” Matt shouted when he finally saw me. “Over here!”

  “Well, go shut him up,” Franco commanded, his sweet overtures immediately souring after one glance at Matt. “We don’t want to disturb the citizens in these nice, expensive apartment buildings any more than we need to, right?”

  I didn’t reply, just continued through the alley, now painted ruby red by flickering emergency lights. As a uniformed officer lifted the yellow tape to let me pass, I glanced one last time at the still figure lying beside the Dumpster. Alf’s corpse was surrounded by members of the crime-scene unit, examining him, taking notes, flashing photos.

  Swiping new tears away, I ducked under the tape and groaned—the bending had aggravated my bruised torso. Just then, Officer Langley appeared at my shoulder. “The paramedics are here, Ms. Cosi.” He pointed to an ambulance behind the half-dozen police vehicles. “They can check you out. If you’ll just come with me—”

  “Thanks, Officer Langley, but I don’t need a para—”

  “You got hurt?!” Matt interrupted, rushing to my side. “You said on the phone you were okay!”

  I shrugged. “I got the wind knocked out of me after I talked to you, that’s all.” I explained about following Alf’s boot prints and getting nailed in the process by a police chase across the courtyard. “My side’s pretty sore at the moment, but I’m fine—”

  “You don’t know that!” Matt insisted. “You could have a cracked rib!”

  Before I could prevent him, my ex pulled off his gloves, unzipped my parka, and began running his hands along my bruised body.

  “What are you doing?!” I cried so loudly several cops glanced in our direction.

  Matt ignored them. “Remember a few years ago, when I was in Rwanda and Timo flipped that Land Rover?” he asked, his fingers still busy probing my chest. “He cracked his rib and I had to wrap his torso with canvas to prevent his lungs from being punctured. We were stranded for a whole day and a night. Poor Timo could have died.”

  “So?”

  “So I know what to look for,” Matt said. He felt me up for another few seconds. “You’re okay, Clare. Nothing’s broken.”

  “Good.” I said. The examination was clearly over, but Matt’s hands remained planted on my hips.

  “We’re done, right?” I said.

  His eyes held mine. “Are we?”

  “Yes!” I assured him, nudging his hands away.

  As I zipped my parka back up, Sergeant Franco approached me again, this time with another man in tow. The man looked younger than Franco by a few years and appeared to be of Chinese heritage. He was also more conventionally dressed, his athletic frame draped in a suit, tie, and camel hair coat.

  “Give Chan here a statement, Coffee Lady,” said Franco. “Tell my partner everything you remember. Then you and your partner he
re can both go home and get on with your fondling in private.”

  “Matt was not fondling me,” I clarified. “It was purely medical. He was just making sure—”

  But Franco was already striding away. His partner shook his head as he watched him go. Then he turned to me and flipped a page on his detective’s notebook.

  “Your name is Coffee?” he asked.

  “Cosi,” I corrected. “And you’re Detective Chan?”

  “My name is Charlie. Charlie Hong,” he said.

  “Not Chan?”

  Hong smirked. “You’ll have to excuse Sergeant Franco’s sense of humor.”

  While I gave Detective Hong a statement, Matt hovered close by. The process took no more than ten minutes, and through it all my discomfort level grew. The flurries had stopped completely now, but the snow down my parka had turned to water, my side still throbbed, my nose was running, and my voice was raspy from the cold.

  Finally, the detective thanked me and closed his notebook. He gave me his card and told me to call if I remembered anything else.

  “And what about the footprints I told you about, Detective Hong? What do you think?”

  Hong shrugged. “I’m inclined to agree with my partner. What the victim may or may not have been doing in the courtyard is irrelevant. He was confronted, robbed at gunpoint, and murdered in the building’s alley, most likely by the man the police were chasing down Perry Street.”

  He offered me his hand, and I shook it. “Thanks for your help, Ms. Cosi.”

  As soon as Hong departed, Matt swooped in again. “You should really get your chest x-rayed,” he said, reaching out for me again.

  “Forget the hospital,” I said, stepping back. “And my chest. I just want to go to bed.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Alone.”

  SIX

  MORNING came, cold and bright, and I was outside again, but now the snow around me was much deeper than the low drifts of the city. The field I stood in was flat and continuous like an aerial view of unending clouds.

  Jingle, jingle, jingle . . .

  The bells surprised me. The cheerful sound swirled across the wind on a gentle gust. Then a voice called my name—an impossible voice—

  “Clare!”

  “Alf? Alfred?” Filled with hope, I turned. Sunlight struck my eyes. The glare off the snow was blinding. “Where are you, Alf? I can’t see you!”

  “Look up!”

  I lifted my arm to shield my eyes and finally did see him. Alf was alive, waving at me from the top of an enormous white mountain. He looked small up there, like a tiny Christmas ornament, yet every detail of his being appeared strangely clear to me—the red velvet suit, the shiny black boots, the big white Traveling Santa buttons down the front of his costume—all but one. One button was missing.

  “Alf!” I shouted. “I was looking for you!”

  “Sorry, Clare! I have to go!”

  “No, wait! I’m coming to bring you back!”

  I took off across the snow, but when my boots hit the base of the incline, my progress slowed. With every step north, the snow became deeper, the climb more difficult.

  Jingle, jingle, jingle . . .

  Alf’s bells kept ringing and ringing! The endless repetition soon made them seem tinny and hollow, until they sounded more like cash registers ringing up sales.

  Cha-ching! Cha-ching! Cha-ching!

  Slapping my hands over my ears, I kept moving, exhausting every muscle in a sweaty, angry slog. But with every foot closer, Alf seemed to move another yard higher. I felt so thwarted, I wanted to cry. Then I tripped, taking a hard, bruising fall before rolling down the slope in an unending tumble—

  “Ahhhhhh!”

  I opened my eyes.

  My body felt sore; my heart was still pounding, but I was no longer outside. I was inside, lying under a warm comforter, on a soft bed, in a dark room. My bedroom—and I wasn’t alone. Between the two mahogany pillars at the foot of my four-poster, I could see a shadowy figure moving suspiciously. The intruder was male, I realized. The man stood up and then crouched down.

  What’s he doing? Searching for something?

  Still groggy and disoriented, I swallowed hard and reached a hand out from under the covers. Groping at the side table for any sort of weapon, my fingers closed on the base of a Tiffany lamp—one of Madame’s heirlooms. I didn’t want to break it, but I had no choice.

  I slid the lamp base closer, trying to gain a better grip. The slight scraping sound gave me away. The intruder turned quickly, and I sat up, priceless weapon ready.

  “Clare?”

  I froze, watching a red orange glow suddenly rise up behind the man’s silhouette. That’s when I realized two things: This “intruder” was my boyfriend, Mike Quinn; and his “suspicious” movements were the result of his lighting a fire in my bedroom’s hearth.

  Quinn regarded me sitting up in bed, lamp base in hand, arm cocked to bash in his head. “You know,” he said, appearing more amused than alarmed, “if you’re having trouble turning that thing on, you might have better luck using the switch.”

  I blinked. “I thought you were a burglar.” Quinn’s dress shirt sleeves were rolled up, his tie pulled loose. I noticed his suit jacket draped over a chair.

  He folded his arms. “Did you forget you gave me a key?”

  “No, of course not.”

  How could I? It was the same key Matteo had handed me the day he’d married Breanne. It had been big of Matt to do that, considering his mother had given us both permission to live rent free in this duplex above the Blend (one of Madame’s many failed attempts to get us back together). Eventually, however, Matt acknowledged my feelings (that I was never going to remarry him) as well as my dilemma (homeless-ness). With rents in the historic West Village among the highest in the city, I couldn’t afford a place of my own close to the Blend, and a commute would be hard on me, given the hours I put in running the place. So after he’d married Breanne, he gave up his key.

  “Sorry, Mike.” I set down the lamp. “I had a bad dream.”

  Without a word, he moved to the bed, his solid frame depressing the edge of the mattress. I put my arms around him and he pulled me close.

  Our embrace was far from glamorous. I wasn’t expecting him, so my nightwear was nothing fancy, lacy, or overtly alluring—just my usual oversized Steelers jersey and a pair of cotton underpants. With his leather holster still strapped across his shoulders, the butt of his service weapon dug into me a little, aggravating the bruise along my rib cage. I didn’t care. We hadn’t slept together in a week, and I missed the feel of him: the affection in his touches; the strength in his muscles; even the smell of his skin, warm and male and slightly citrusy from his aftershave. In a phrase, Mike Quinn felt good—and I liked hanging on to that goodness.

  After a minute, he leaned back and I studied him. His pale Irish complexion had gone to the ruddy side—no doubt from the business of starting the fire in my bedroom’s hearth. His dark blond hair was cropped (the usual) no-nonsense short. His jawline looked as square as ever, his chin dependably strong. Like most men in their forties, he had crow’s feet and frown lines etched into his face, badges of surviving life’s tragedies, fighting its battles. His blue eyes were as sharp as ever, too, and clearer than a glacial lake.

  On the street, Quinn’s eyes were stone-cold cop, unwilling to give away an iota of intention. For a long time, his true feelings were my own personal guessing game—at times a frustrating enterprise. (Is the man only mildly irritated? I’d wonder. Or pissed enough to start shooting up the room? Is he turned on by my risqué references to his handcuffs? Or am I just making an ass of myself?)

  That kind of bewilderment was rare now. When we were alone together, Mike’s chilly cop curtain was swept aside. Whatever he was thinking or feeling, he usually showed me. (Usually being a necessary qualifier—Quinn was, after all, still a man.)

  “You should have told me about Alf, Clare.”

  “You heard w
hat happened?”

  “Not until I was ending my tour.” He gently brushed stray locks of hair from my cheek. “Sully and I picked up the radio chatter about Santa being shot near the Sixth, and I asked about the DOA. Langley told me it was you who found him.”

  I nodded. “He was shot point-blank. I found him in an alley.”

  Mike shook his head. “I got your voice mail. You didn’t say a word, Clare. Not one word in your message was about why you were calling.” His voice carried a bit of annoyance, but his eyes weren’t flashing with anything close to rebuke. Instead, his brows were drawn together with concern.

  “You were on duty. I didn’t want to worry you—”

  “Well, I sure as hell wish you had. I called you back the second I played your message. Why didn’t you pick up?”

  “I should have . . . I was just so drained by then. I couldn’t handle telling the whole story one more time—not over the phone. By then I’d already given the account to so many people: Langley, the two detectives, Matt—”

  “Matt?” Quinn stiffened. “Allegro was there?”

  I nodded. “He showed up at the Blend for my tasting party. So I knew he was nearby, and when I called, he picked up right away.”

  Quinn’s jaw worked. “I’m sorry I didn’t.”

  “Stop apologizing. You were on duty. I knew if you weren’t answering your cell, you were probably in the middle of a crime scene of your own—”

  “I was.”

  I could tell from his tone it didn’t go well. “What happened?”

  “Our suspect was high when my guys got there with the warrant. He barricaded himself in his bedroom with his teenage girlfriend as a hostage, claimed he was holding her at gunpoint.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Your call came about the same minute I realized I had a fubar on my hands.”