Opening my eyes, I glared. “Why are you here?”
“Excuse me,” she snapped, “why are you here?”
“Mike invited me!”
“Well, he invited me, too,” Leila said with a pout. “And you know what? Three’s a crowd!” She pointed to one of her wrists and, right in front of me, handcuffed herself to Mike’s bedpost!
My God. Matt was right. He’d warned me that Quinn was seeing some redhead . . .
“You know what, Leila?” I said. “Three is a crowd.”
Hurt, humiliated, and so angry I couldn’t see straight, I moved to the drawer Quinn had set aside for me, yanked out jeans, a sweater, socks. I didn’t have shoes here, but the black go-go boots would do. I went back into the bathroom, dressed, and began to storm out.
As I reached the front door, the man walked in.
“Get out of my way, you son of a—”
“Clare!” Quinn took hold of my shoulders, stopping me. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” Through a filmy blur of exasperated tears, I glared at the lying, cheating, jerk of a—“I just witnessed your ex-wife handcuffing herself to your bed, wearing a Mrs. Claus nightie, and you ask me what’s wrong?!”
For three mind-numbing seconds, Quinn’s confused expression dropped into horrified shock. Then his face flushed with pure fury.
“Wait right here,” he bit out.
“No! I’m leaving—”
“Please, Clare, wait. You need to see this!”
Swiping away my angry tears, I stiffly stood by the apartment’s open door, vowing to give the man no more than thirty seconds for whatever stunt he was about to pull.
TWENTY-NINE
QUINN kicked open the bedroom door.
“Get out.”
“Oh, calm down,” Leila replied with a little-girl voice. “You want me here, Mike. Admit it . . .”
“You have no right. No right to invade my privacy.”
“You gave me a key!”
“I gave you a key because you can’t seem to drop off our kids anywhere close to a time we’ve agreed on. I gave you a key for Molly and Jeremy, not to handcuff yourself to my damn bedpost!”
Quinn cursed a blue streak. I could hear him manipulating the cuffs, unlocking them. “Get dressed—”
“You’ll change your mind. You will—”
“Listen to me, Leila. I told you a dozen times over the last week. I don’t want you in my bed ever again. Have you got that?”
“You’re just acting like this because she’s in the next room listening.”
“Get out. Now. Or I swear to God I will have you arrested for trespassing.”
Leila laughed. “Go ahead. Why do you think I brought the toy handcuffs? Remember when we first got married? They used to be your favorite—”
Quinn cursed again. “Get out!”
I gritted my teeth as I listened to the scene, remembering too well how ugly things had gotten between me and Matt at the end of our marriage. As I heard Leila stomping toward the bedroom door, my whole body went rigid. A second later, her statuesque figure sashayed across Quinn’s living room. She was fully dressed now—a cashmere sweater and little skirt, a dainty box handbag dangling on her slender arm.
“Here!” Mike grabbed her overcoat off his couch and flung it at her.
I’d never seen him so angry. This was no act. He was absolutely furious.
Leila picked the coat up off the floor and took her time putting it on. Her big blue eyes connected with mine, then collapsed into slits. “He’ll change his mind about you.” Her voice was no longer girlishly saccharine. The tone was bitter, guttural, threatening. “And when he does, I’ll be there.”
I said nothing to the woman. This wasn’t my fight.
“Get moving, Leila. Get out.”
“I’m going,” she told Quinn sweetly, and with one last withering glance my way, she added, “For now,” then shut the door.
The room fell silent. I felt numb. Mike was still furious; his harsh breathing was audible. Finally, I got up the courage to meet his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Clare,” he said. “She just found out about you.”
“What? After all this time, you never mentioned me?!”
“Sit down, sweetheart. Let me explain.”
Frankly, I was tempted not to. This night had put me through the grinder, and all I wanted right now was a warm gingerbread steamer and a soft mattress. I’d wanted Mike’s arms around me, too, but that wasn’t going to happen. Not tonight. Maybe not ever again.
“Please hear me out.” Mike’s face was no longer filled with rage. As he studied me, his expression crumbled into an almost painful helplessness. “Sweetheart, please . . .”
I finally did as he asked, moving to the sofa and sitting stiffly on its edge. “Talk.”
Mike took a deep breath, ran a hand through his hair. “Remember when Leila changed plans on me two weeks ago, dropped off the kids for Thanksgiving? You changed your own plans so that you could help me take the kids to the Macy’s parade, make us that incredible turkey dinner, play with the kids when I was called away to consult on the Pilgrim’s Daughter OD case . . .”
“Of course I remember.”
He began to pace. “Well, Molly and Jeremy loved you, Clare. When Leila saw them again the following night, they couldn’t stop talking about the food you made them and the games you played with them. It finally hit Leila that I had a woman in my life—” He stopped pacing and met my eyes. “An unbelievably good, incredibly beautiful woman . . .”
“Mike—”
“Leila lost it, sweetheart. She had to know everything about you—”
I closed my eyes, remembering all the times I’d seen the woman visiting my coffeehouse since Thanksgiving weekend. Had she simply been spying on me? Or had she been waiting for Mike to walk in so she could make some kind of scene? Probably both, I realized.
“She started showing up at my apartment,” Mike continued, “calling me at all hours, literally throwing herself at me.”
“Why?”
“Because my ex-wife is a spoiled brat, that’s why!”
“That tells me nothing.”
Mike shook his head and went back to pacing. “Clare, when Leila and I first met, it was professionally. She came to the city on her father’s money. She was a party girl, a model, and she had plenty of men drooling after her—”
“That’s not hard to believe. Matt said he saw you twice in restaurants with a gorgeous redhead—he didn’t know Leila’s name, but he remembered her from a Victoria’s Secret cover fifteen years ago.”
“Well, all that physical beauty attracted the wrong kind of male attention, too. She’d gotten herself a genuine stalker. A real creep. I was still in uniform back then, assigned to her case on a stakeout shift. I caught the guy, put him in jail, and then she called me for a date.”
“Okay, I get it. Police badge as knight’s shield—”
“It was role-playing for both of us. I liked the role of hero, protector. And she’d become skittish of male attention after the creep almost raped her. She clung to me, we dated for a while, got married. Everything was hunky-dory for a few years. Then I got promoted, earned my gold shield, we bought a brownstone in Brooklyn, and she woke up one day, realizing she was changing diapers in a borough that wasn’t Manhattan, married to a civil servant who had a demanding job. She wasn’t strong, Clare, and she was used to another kind of life—parties, travel, shopping excursions, male attention. What she got were crying babies and a stressed-out husband who lived for his job. So she began to cheat. It went on for years. I put up with it, told myself she deserved better. I expected her to leave me at some point, and finally she did.”
“But now she wants you back?”
“Not to marry.”
“I don’t understand. I thought she was happy, got what she wanted. Isn’t she engaged to some Wall Street whiz, a richer, younger guy—”
“Yeah and he’s lousy in bed because he’s sel
fish, just like her. Guys with no-limit credit cards expect the women they’re wining and dining and footing the bills for to deliver. Leila’s getting bored with getting him off and getting little in return of any consequence—a closetful of shoes and handbags, a trip to a spa, or an overpriced restaurant meal. She’s finally getting old enough to understand what’s truly valuable in this life. She’s comprehending what she lost when she dumped me. She wants my love back, Clare.”
“Oh, God.”
“You have to understand, she got used to the pattern. She’d cheat with some rich guy—use him to party in Manhattan, get back to that carefree life she’d had at nineteen—and then she’d come back to my bed. Cheat and come back. I’d always be there for her, always forgive her. This week was the first time she ever heard me tell her to take a hike. She can’t have me and she can’t believe it. But I don’t want her anymore. I want you, Clare. See, I finally realized that maybe I deserve better.”
I shook my head. “All those mysterious phone calls that made you turn into a zombie—”
“They were from her.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me what was happening?”
“Leila’s poison, Clare. I didn’t want her to poison us—”
“Aw, Mike. That’s just a cop-out.”
“No! I have to deal with her if I want to see my children. But her calls and demands and complaints are my problem, not yours. You and I weren’t getting enough time together as it was—I didn’t want the time we had poisoned by discussions of Leila and her drama-queen act.”
“But if she’s your problem, she’s mine, too. I thought we were in this together. Until tonight, I thought you trusted me . . .”
Quinn studied me for a long, silent moment. Seeing the pain on my face, he finally seemed to get it. “I’m sorry, Clare. The last thing I ever wanted to do was hurt you. I thought what I was doing was shielding you.”
“No, Mike, what you were doing was shutting me out. It’s your knee-jerk solution to crisis. You shut down emotionally, throw up a firewall—”
“I’m a cop,” he said quietly. “That’s what we do. We don’t . . .” He shook his head.
“You don’t let it all hang out. Yeah, I get that. It’s your conditioning, what’s required to survive the job. But if you want our relationship to survive—”
“I do. Please don’t doubt it.”
“Then you have to let me be a part of your life, share what comes at you—the good parts and the embarrassing parts and the toxic parts, too. It’s all or nothing.”
“All, Clare,” he said without taking a breath. “I want you in my life. Don’t you understand? Without you, I don’t have one.”
“That’s very sweet, but you do, Mike. You have your work—you’re absolutely devoted to it—and you have your kids. Molly loves you; Jeremy looks up to you so much. You have your mother who gave you that cherry cordial recipe—”
“You need to meet her.”
“I’d like to. I mean, the cat’s out of the bag now, right? I just met your cousin the fire captain, the other Mike Quinn.”
Mike scowled at that. “Let’s discuss him another time.”
“Okay, as long as you understand what I’m asking.”
“I do, Clare. Please, can we get beyond this now?” He paused, exhaled, ran a hand through his hair. “Have you eaten?”
“No. I’m starving, but I don’t want to stay here tonight.”
Mike’s face fell. “Clare, please . . .”
“Just drive me home, okay? I need to process all this.” I headed for the front door. “I need some time, Mike. Give it to me. Please.”
Quinn didn’t say a word, just worked his jaw, rubbed the back of his neck, and nodded. Then together we walked out the door.
THIRTY
AS we climbed into Quinn’s car, I noticed him give a quick wave to someone across the street. A short, loud whoop replied, and I realized Sergeant Franco had stuck around, waiting for a signal from Mike to depart. Now his blue sedan sped away, heading uptown.
“He’s going to the Dickie interrogation, isn’t he?” I said.
Quinn nodded. “They probably have him in custody by now.”
“I wish I could be there, too.”
Quinn started the car. “I doubt very much a man like that’s going to confess to anything, Clare. He’s got a lot of money. He’ll lawyer up.”
I slumped back in the seat, and we both fell into an unhappy silence for the rest of the ten-minute drive. When we pulled up to the Blend, the lights were still burning. Esther and Vicki—a barista team once more—were just getting ready to close up shop. (As it turned out, Vicki Glockner wanted to make some extra cash over the holidays, and I badly needed another trained barista. So we’d agreed to give our working relationship one more try.)
Boris Bokunin was inside, too, waiting for his Best girl to finish her shift.
As Mike pulled to a stop by the curb, I automatically reached for a handbag that wasn’t there. That’s when I remembered—
“My keys!”
“You don’t have them?” Quinn said. “Oh, that’s right. Your bag’s in that locker. Should we drive to the Public Library?”
“No . . .” My bag wouldn’t help me. I’d given Matt my key to the duplex. “I was going to pick up the spare at your place, but then I found Leila, and . . .”
Quinn reached out and put his hand on my leg. “Come back to my place, sweetheart. Just come back.”
“You have a key to my duplex, don’t you? I gave you one.” Quinn stiffened. “Yes.”
“Can I have it back, please?”
Quinn didn’t answer right away. For a long, silent moment, he just held my eyes. Then he rigidly reached into his pocket and brought out his ring of keys. With a heavy silence, he worked my key off his circle and held it out.
“Thanks.”
As I took it, he leaned toward me. “Clare—”
“Good night!” I climbed out, shut the door, didn’t look back. I could hear his car continuing to idle as I walked quickly through the Blend’s front entrance.
Jingle-jingle . . .
“Hey, boss!”
“Clare Cosi, Clare Cosi, the West Village posy . . .”
I said a fast hello to Boris, then Esther and Vicki, and headed right for the back service stairs. Emotionally drained, I was about ready to burst into tears and I didn’t want them to see.
None of this was easy. I was tired and hungry, badly disappointed in Mike for not trusting me, freaked out by his conceited ex-wife’s crazy behavior, and still unbelievably frustrated that after all of my efforts I wasn’t able to bring Alf’s killer to justice.
As I hauled my tired body up the stairs, a strong sensation came over me that something familiar was cooking—heavy and savory with hints of garlic and herbs. It reminded me of the holiday aromas in my Nonna’s house, and for a minute, I thought maybe her ghost was in my kitchen now, fixing me a much-needed snack.
“Don’t be silly, Clare . . .”
It’s a hunger delusion, I decided. My stomach was so empty that some kind of foodie flashback was hijacking my senses. I slipped Mike’s key into the lock, turned it, and even imagined hearing sounds coming at me from another room of my duplex: pots and pans, laughter and voices—
“You have too many in the pan!”
“I do not.”
“You have to be patient, Daddy! Fry small batches. If the oil cools off, the shrimp will soak it up and be greasy . . .”
“I know how to fry shrimp, little girl.”
“I’m the pro here. You should let me cook for you—”
“Oh, I will, muffin. I expect a full-course French meal this Sunday!”
I rushed toward the lighted kitchen. It was true! This was real. My daughter was back from Paris!
“Joy!”
“Mom!”
She looked so beautiful, so grown up, standing there cuddling Alf’s little white kitten. Her chestnut hair was much longer now, spilling loosely over h
er shoulders. Her green eyes were bright, her wide mouth smiling in her fresh, heart-shaped face.
Her father was a few steps away, working at the stove, frying something with lots of garlic and oil.
“Am I dreaming?!” I murmured.
Matt grinned. “Glad you finally made it!” He was still in his tuxedo pants, his Armani jacket draped over a chair, his black tie undone and hanging around his partially unbuttoned white shirt.
I opened my arms. “My Joy to the World!”
Stepping up, she hugged me tight. “I wanted to surprise you, Mom. I tried your cell but I couldn’t reach you, so I called Daddy.”
“I had your key,” Matt said, “so I came back to let her in.”
“And he brought two pounds of this amazingly fresh shrimp!”
“I’ve been so sick and tired of sushi and raw bars and vegan fare—when I got Joy’s call, I decided what I really wanted was to cook my little girl up a nice big batch of Italian fried shrimp.”
I shook my head, still amazed Joy was home. “Where’d you get the fresh shrimp at this hour?”
“Easy, I was already at a private party in a restaurant. I just ducked into the kitchen and slipped a staff worker fifty bucks to grab me two pounds from their walk-in.”
Joy and I laughed as we sat down. Matt fried up those jumbo, bread-crumb-encrusted babies and we popped the hot, deliciously crunchy results into our mouths. Then I brewed up a big pot of our Holiday Blend, opened up my cookie jar of home-baked biscotti, and for the next two hours we were a family again. Matt and I caught up with our daughter about so many things!
Finally, Matt began to yawn.
“I better get back uptown. I told Bree I’d meet her at the apartment.” He checked his watch. “I’ll see you girls tomorrow, okay?”
Joy kissed her father’s cheek. I gave him a hug.
Then, arm in arm, she and I climbed the stairs together. As I made up the bed in the second room, I sensed there was something on her mind—and I remembered what Madame had assumed about Joy’s initial change of plan. Had the grande dame been wrong? (She hardly ever was.)
Prime Crime Holiday Bundle Page 25
