by Cleo Coyle
It was the fourth floor that gave me what I’d come here looking for: Light from a bare window spilled onto the metal grillwork. The illumination wasn’t just bright enough to make the icicles glisten, it cast a spotlight on something peculiar just below the window ledge. A small, round hole had been punched into a mound of snow. The tiny crater reminded me of those chilling little sinkholes I’d spotted the night before on the layered sidewalk—random white resting places for the change that scattered when Alf’s “Santa Bag” had been broken open and robbed.
Careful to stay hidden beneath the brightly lit window, I dropped to my hands and knees and crawled up to the pitted snow. Something shiny and smooth sat in the center of that little indentation. As I snatched it up, a shadow suddenly crossed the light.
Someone’s moving inside that apartment!
I reared back—only to be stopped short when my hoodie snagged on a sharp object hanging just below the window ledge above me. It took me a moment to detach myself from what looked like a loose cable television hook.
Finally free, I sat back on my haunches and studied the object in my hand. It appeared to be a white button. A little larger than one of those old Susan B. Anthony silver dollars, it had four holes in its center and a bold TS design embossed on both sides.
TS—Traveling Santa . . . Oh my God.
This was the missing button from Alf Glockner’s Santa suit!
I’d assumed Alf’s attacker had ripped the button off while trying to get to the dead man’s wallet. But Alf obviously lost the button in front of this window, probably on the same hook that just snagged my hoodie!
“Okay, Alf,” I whispered, half believing his spirit was still swirling around me on the winter gusts, “what the heck were you doing all the way up here?”
“What did you say, boss?”
I swallowed hard and put the cell to my mouth. “Stand by, Esther.”
Think, Clare, think . . .
When Mike talked to me about his cases, he talked method, too; most of that method involved reconstructing possible scenarios of past actions based on discovered evidence.
“It’s really not that complicated,” he’d once told me, “not if you have an imagination.”
Right, I thought. Ask questions. Imagine the possible answers . . .
First question: Why was Alf in this courtyard? The evidence of his button, right under this intact window, pretty well answers that one. Alf was spying on someone in this apartment.
“And?” I could practically hear Quinn challenging me. “Next question? Isn’t it obvious?”
“Who?” I murmured into the night air. “Who lives in this apartment?”
I tucked the button into the pocket of my jeans and went back to my hands and knees. The metal was freezing. Suppressing a shiver, I crawled forward.
I could see that the window blinds were half open—enough to get a good look inside. Carefully, I peeked over the ledge and saw the corner of a cherry wood end table. On its glossy surface sat an expensive-looking man’s watch, a black leather wallet, a thick ring of keys, some loose change, and what looked like a photo ID badge on a cord. Beyond that, I saw a hardwood floor and designer showroom-esque leather furniture. A halogen floor lamp, mimicking fusion as bright as the sun, reflected off the polished coffee table, where several glossy little shopping bags were lined up in a row.
Hardly daring to breathe, I pulled out the tiny pair of opera binoculars I’d brought along. A few years back, Madame had given me and Joy the pair as a memento of the night she took us to see Cosi fan tutte (one of Mozart’s lesser-known works). I peered through them now to make out the writing on the glossy bags: Tiffany, Tourneau, Saks—all elite uptown stores. More shopping bags were labeled with the names of high-end boutiques located here in the West Village.
Looks like someone’s already doing the holiday shopping, I noted, very pricey holiday shopping.
Adjusting the magnification on the opera glasses, I moved my focus to the end table. Next to the black leather wallet sat a Rolex watch as well as a security ID badge for a place called Studio 19. Under the studio’s logo, I saw the photo of a handsome black man in his midthirties. The name on the badge was James Young. There was smaller writing on the card, but I couldn’t read it.
When I tried readjusting the magnification level again, the light streaming through the window flickered—as if someone were passing in front of the floor lamp. I looked up to see a man’s figure moving swiftly out of the room.
Had I been spotted? Probably.
“Uh-oh . . .”
I crawled away from the window and descended the fire escape stairs as quickly as I dared, which wasn’t all that fast because the structure was still icy. Then between the second-and third-floor balconies I heard a loud clang!
I stilled, realizing the building’s steel back door had opened and closed again. It was too dark to see what was going on below me, and with Esther now sitting in the White Horse Tavern, all I could do was cling to the handrail and wait.
A moment later, I heard the grinding squeak of that big, metal Dumpster lid, the one next to the blue recycling bins. With an exhale, I relaxed. Someone’s just emptying their trash again, I decided.
I let another few minutes tick by. Except for the winter wind, the courtyard fell silent. I waited for the sound of a steel door opening and closing again, but it never came, so I decided the person emptying the garbage must have departed by way of the alley, just like Esther, and I continued my descent.
A sharp gust of wind blew off my hood, but I didn’t pause to flip it up again. As soon as I reached the second-floor landing, I scrambled onto the ladder. Almost there. Rung by rung, I moved south. Just a few feet from those blue plastic recycling bins, I thought I was home free.
“Got ya, bitch!”
Two bruising hands closed on my upper arms.
“Ahhhhhh!” I shouted. “Let me go!”
The jerk who grabbed me didn’t. He ripped me from the ladder, literally tossing me into the air. I felt myself falling, yelling all the way, until I hit a low pile of plastic garbage bags at the bottom of the metal Dumpster. The lid had been left open, and the bin swallowed me up like a fetid, black monster. I’d barely hit the garbage bags before I heard a clang above my head.
That jerk closed the lid on me!
I scrambled up so fast I banged my head against the freezing metal.
“Crap!”
Crouching down again, I glanced around the smelly box, but the darkness was absolute. I reached for my flashlight and couldn’t find it. The thing was gone, most likely lost among the garbage bags under my feet, so my hands became my eyes. I reached up to feel the lid above me. The metal was colder than the shelves of a deep freezer, but the temperature did little to diminish the stench of rotting food and God knew what else. Nearly retching, I placed the palms of my hands against the heavy lid and pushed with all my strength. The lid rose about an inch—and clicked against the latch.
Locked! I’m locked in!
“Help!” I shouted, banging against the Dumpster’s side with a clang, clang, clang! “Let me out of here!”
“Shut up, bitch!”
I didn’t recognize the jerk’s voice. And I wasn’t about to listen to it!
“Let me out!” I shouted even louder, banging again and again. “Help! Someone help me!”
Then I remembered Esther and my mobile phone!
I’d shoved the cell into my pocket on the climb down. Now I reached into my clothes for it. In the pitch-darkness, the little screen glowed like a lighthouse beacon on a storm-tossed sea. I sighed with relief until I saw my iceberg—a single tiny bar in the screen’s upper left corner!
“Esther? Hello? Esther!”
Nothing. No partner. No connection. No cellular signal.
I went back to pounding (and gagging).
A minute later, I heard male voices shouting at each other. I stopped to listen.
“Let her out. Now!”
Matt? Is that Matt
’s voice?!
“Mind your own business and get the hell out of here!” The jerk’s gruff bark.
More yelling.
Then Matt and the jerk started to threaten each other. Something was slammed against the Dumpster with enough force to rock the heavy container. I yelped and fell backward, my spine hitting the wall with a hollow thud. More pounds came from outside, and over the echoing din I heard angry voices, too.
“Matt!” I shouted. “HELP!”
A meaty thwack! More scuffling. Finally, all motion ceased. I listened hard, peering into the dark. There were more male voices—none that I recognized—and I couldn’t make out the words.
“Bastards!”
That word I’d heard. It was Matt’s, his curse followed by a scuffle.
Finally, the lid was thrown open. Beams from a half-dozen flashlights blinded me.
“NYPD!” bellowed a male voice. “Show me your hands now!”
Blinking against the glare, I raised my arms above my head. Someone reached out and snatched the cell phone from my fingers.
“Grab her,” another man commanded. “Get her out of there!”
Still blinded, I felt rough hands seize my arms. Two uniformed officers half lifted, half dragged me out of the bin and set me on the ground.
Relieved, I exhaled. “Thanks, I really appreciate—Hey!”
A large African-American officer was pulling my arms behind my back.
“What are you doing?!” I yelled.
“You’re under arrest!” he yelled right back.
“For what?!”
“Trespassing, for starters!”
The cold click of cuffs snapped around my wrists.
“What do you mean, for starters?!” I demanded—no longer yelling because my voice was getting hoarse.
The cop turned me by the shoulders and pointed at a paramedic a few yards away, taking care of a six-two, two-hundred-eighty-pound (at least) guy wearing a torn doorman’s uniform. The man was sitting on the ground, his head tilted back, blood seeping out from under a pressure pad the medic was holding against the man’s nostrils.
“A doorman?” I said. “Is that the doorman for this building?”
“He’s the one who reported a burglar on the fire escape,” the cop informed me.
“So he’s the jerk who locked me in that Dumpster! You should arrest him!”
“Let’s go,” the cop said, tugging me—none too gently—along the alley. “Your partner in crime’s being charged with assault.”
“My partner in what—?!”
“And before the night’s over, I’m guessing breaking and entering’s going to be on both of your sheets. For now, let’s just get you to the precinct.”
Two more uniformed officers flanked me. On my way to the curb, someone read me my Miranda rights, which I already knew—including and especially my right to remain silent.
A crowd had gathered on the sidewalk, and no fewer than three police cruisers and an FDNY ambulance were parked on the street. Among the bystanders, I spotted Esther, her eyes bugging.
“You okay?!” she mouthed.
Fearful the cops would see my original partner for the evening, I used shifting eyes and jerking head to signal her to take off. One of the cops opened the back door of the police car and pressed down on my head so I wouldn’t bump it.
Climbing inside, I finally confirmed what I already suspected. Right next to me on the cold vinyl car seat was a bruised, cuffed, but unbowed Matteo Allegro.
New York’s finest had been wrong. They hadn’t arrested my partner. They’d arrested my ex-partner (not counting our business arrangement, but I’d never considered that a crime).
“Are you all right?” I whispered.
“Yeah,” he said, short and sharp. “You?”
“I’m fine.”
“Good.”
“Well . . . thanks, Matt,” I finally added after a long, chilly silence. “I mean for trying to help.”
On the short drive to the precinct house, I considered babbling an explanation, but after all we’d been through together, I knew Matt didn’t really need one.
“I just knew you were up to something,” he muttered.
ELEVEN
SERGEANT Emmanuel Franco swaggered into the holding room, an unopened can of Red Bull in one fist, a bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos in the other. When he spied me and Matt, his smug grin vanished and he kicked the cement-block wall with his size-twelve motorcycle boot.
“I thought you had two righteous suspects here!” he bellowed at the arresting officers.
“We caught them both in the building courtyard,” the big black cop replied defensively. “The scene of last night’s murder. Man-and-woman team is what it looks like to me. Neither was armed, but we found devices on the woman that could be used in a burglary.”
I cleared my throat. “Excuse me, but I’d really like those opera glasses back, if you don’t mind . . .”
The three men stared at me.
I shrugged. “Sentimental value.”
“They also resisted arrest,” added the big cop’s partner.
“Excuse me again,” I called. “Point of clarification? I didn’t resist.”
Franco spat a curse. “Great job,” he told the officers. “You didn’t nail me two suspects. All you brought in was the local coffee lady and her grab-ass boyfriend!”
“Ex-husband,” I corrected.
“Just get the hell out of here!” Franco barked at the uniforms. “And close the door behind you!”
Muttering between them, the two officers departed.
Beside me, Matt was bristling. I knew this situation needed to be defused fast. Not only did Franco look pissed, my ex appeared ready to blow deadlier than Vesuvius.
To his credit, Matt had kept his lips zipped while the cops marched us through the precinct and into this holding room. He’d kept his mouth shut as they forced us to sit down on this long, scuffed wooden bench. He even held his tongue while they chained his handcuffs to a metal bar running behind it.
When they did the same to me, however, Matt cursed out both men in uniform—which was okay by me, because being trussed up like a Sunday roast chicken gave me all the comfort level of a peasant woman being accused of witchery during the Spanish Inquisition.
Around then is when Franco strutted in, his boot hitting the wall. Now the sergeant was glaring at me full out, his face flushing as red as the stripes in the American-flag do-rag covering his shaved head. (How many of those did he have, anyway?)
“I understand you waived your right to an attorney,” he said, dropping his Doritos and Red Bull on a chair in the corner. “You want to talk to me, Coffee Lady? Are you waiving your right to remain smart, too?”
“I have nothing to hide,” I stated, “and neither does Matt.”
Franco stepped closer. “Okay then. Talk.”
“Sure, Sergeant. How are you?” I saw no reason not to be civil. “You wouldn’t want to reconsider that coffee and jelly doughnut offer you made me last evening, would you? Explaining everything would be a lot more comfortable in my coffeehouse, don’t you think?” I rattled my cuffed wrists to make my point.
“You think this is funny?”
“I assure you, Sergeant, there’s nothing about my friend’s murder that I find the least bit amusing. But this arrest? That’s downright hilarious. So would you mind unmana cling me now?” Once again, I cha-chinged my S&M wrist-bands. “This is positively medieval. Plus I’m really hot under all these layers.”
“So . . .” Franco folded his arms and leered. “You want to strip for me now, honey? Is that it? Tops or bottoms first? I vote tops.”
“You son of a—”
That did it. Matt blew. Straining against his cuffs, he angled his body on the bench enough to violently kick out at the detective’s private parts. Franco jumped back—in plenty of time—as if he were expecting it.
“Calm down, Pit Bull,” he warned, “or I’ll have you put down.”
T
he threat was harsh, but Franco’s expression appeared borderline amused by the little dance. Matt replied by cursing him out—in several languages.
Franco moved down the bench and kicked the wood, hard. I felt the jolt all the way up my already aching spine.
“I said calm down! Unless you actually want leg shackles and additional charges.”
Matt’s jaw worked, but he settled back and zipped it.
Then Franco stepped closer—a fairly plucky move, considering his privates were once again within my ex’s target range. “Look, Rover, I know you’re tough, okay?” he said, his voice actually carrying a modicum of respect. “That doorman used to be a bar bouncer and he’s no pushover. But understand this. I’m armed.”
“Yeah, Matt,” I whispered. “Stand down already.”
Matt shot me the kind of look you reserve for a kitten who claws you up right after you save her from a nasty mutt. I didn’t blame him. Being hassled by corrupt uniforms in banana republics left Matt lacking respect for pretty much anyone flashing a badge and a gun. Given Franco’s unprofessional manner (and leering comment about my giving him a strip show), Matt’s reaction was downright valiant. But if he didn’t chill, he wouldn’t be sleeping beside Breanne tonight. He’d be sharing a cell on Rikers with a much less attractive anorexic, pierced person.
So I leaned closer to his ear and whispered, “You don’t need to keep defending me. I can handle him.”
Franco smirked, obviously overhearing. “Is that right, honey? Go ahead, then. Handle me.”
“Listen to me, Sergeant, I found something important in that courtyard. Something germane to Alf’s case—”
“Christ,” he laughed, rubbing his eyes. “Nancy Drew’s got another germane clue.”
“I found it on the fire escape—”
Franco met my gaze. “So you admit you trespassed?”
I blinked. “Of course.”
Franco went quiet. My direct admission obviously surprised him. He moseyed back to the chair in the corner, opened his Doritos, munched a few, then popped his Red Bull and took a swig—a cover, it seemed to me, for figuring out how to handle me. Finally, he shook his head.
