by Cleo Coyle
“Thank you,” I said.
“You were lucky we saw you. You wouldn’t have lasted five minutes out there.”
I sipped the tea but then felt woozy again. “I think I have to—”
Sean took my cup as I fell back on the stretcher. While I closed my eyes again, I could feel him tucking the blankets closer around me.
“You’re in shock, pretty lady, just rest . . .”
The next thing I remember was the fireboat bumping up against a dock, men shouting to each other as the fire crew secured the vessel. A few minutes later, I heard whispers, felt a hovering presence.
I opened my eyes and stared up at an absolutely immense man, probably in his late forties, with bright scarlet hair, a cleft chin, and an absurdly large handlebar mustache (circa 1890). He stared at me, too, the skin around his blue gray eyes crinkling with amusement. Behind him, the rest of the fireboat’s crew gathered, obviously curious.
“I’ve had many a damsel call out my name in her darkest hour—or in the dark of night,” the big man loudly announced to his audience. “But I think I would have remembered this one.”
“Excuse me?” I propped myself on my elbows. “Who are you?”
“Captain Michael Quinn of the FDNY, darlin’. Big Mike to my friends and a holy Irish terror to all others.”
He smiled, a single gold tooth flashing, as he stroked his crimson mustache. “They told me your name’s Clare Cosi and said you asked for me. How did you end up in the drink?”
“I was pushed off the ferry. My handbag was stolen.”
Big Mike gestured to a member of the crew. “Radio the terminal. It’s probably too late to stop the assailant from getting away, but maybe we can recover this poor woman’s purse.”
The imposing fireman faced me again. “I thought these boys probably got it wrong, Clare, so I put in a call of my own before I came down here. You were looking for Little Mikey, right? Sixth Precinct. My cousin, Mike Quinn, the cop?”
“Detective,” I clarified.
“Black sheep,” he replied.
“Black sheep?” I repeated. “Mike’s not a black sheep. He’s not little, either. He’s one of New York’s finest.”
The firemen watching us exchanged amused glances. Big Mike raised a bushy red eyebrow. “He’s little compared to me, darlin’. And the Quinns are firefighters. New York’s bravest. Little Mikey’s the only cop in our clan.” He cast a glance at his brothers in boots. “Black sheep.”
The men laughed, and then a voice called from the deck. “Here come the boys in blue!”
A minute later, Detective Mike Quinn entered the fireboat’s cabin, pushing through a wall of doting firemen to get to me. Dropping down beside the stretcher, he hugged me tightly.
“Clare, sweetheart, are you okay? What happened?”
“I’m fine,” I said, soaking up his steady warmth. “I was on the ferry. My bag was snatched, then I got picked up and tossed over the side.”
“Who did it, Clare? Did you see the person?”
“No,” I said, then lowered my voice to a whisper. “But I’m almost positive I can hand you his head on a platter.”
“Good, I’m glad, and we’ll get to that. But first you’re going to an ER—”
Before I could reply, Sean stepped up. “She’s a tough one, Detective. Managed to make it to the surface after that arctic plunge in the ferry’s chop. Saved her own life doing that.”
“No,” I clarified. “You did that, Sean. All of you did. Thank you.”
Mike joined me in thanking the men—and that’s when he noticed the big redheaded captain standing among the others.
“That’s what firemen do, Mikey boy,” the man declared with a smirk. “You hand out parking tickets. We save lives.”
Mike released me and rose stiffly, facing the other Mike Quinn.
“Michael,” he said flatly.
“Little Mikey,” Captain Quinn replied, folding his arms. “Are the traffic violations keeping you busy?”
The men around us glanced uneasily at each other, clearly picking up on the bad blood between the two cousins. I frowned at the tense exchange and almost blurted out: What’s the beef between you two? You’re family!
But I held my tongue instead. This obviously wasn’t the time or place for an in-depth history lesson on the mighty Quinn clan.
Fortunately, a pair of female paramedics interrupted us. “Okay, let’s get you to the hospital,” said one of the women.
“What?” I replied, shaking my head. “I’m fine. I don’t need a—”
“Zip it, Cosi,” Mike warned and leveled a gaze at the medics. “Do not listen to her. Listen to me. Get her on a stretcher and get her into your ambulance. Now.”
THE ER doc assigned me to a hospital bed for “overnight observation.” Once more, I tried to argue. Once again, Quinn wouldn’t let me.
He never left the hospital, either. While I was being examined, I could hear him on his police radio, then on his cell phone to his partner, Sully. By the time the hospital staff moved me from the ER stretcher to a proper hospital bed, he’d even retrieved my stolen handbag.
“The ship was already emptied out by the time our uniforms got there,” he explained, taking a seat on the edge of my hospital bed. “Your attacker was long gone, but they searched the ferry and recovered your purse. It was shoved under a bench on deck.”
I took my bag and examined it. The strap was ripped. My wallet, cash, and credit cards were gone. My brush, makeup, and other incidental items were still there; even my keys to the Blend and my duplex apartment were still zipped inside their little pocket.
With a jolt I realized something else was missing. “The letter!”
Mike frowned. “What letter?”
“I had a letter in this bag. It was evidence of someone trying to blackmail Omar Linford.” I was still pretty much convinced the note had not come from Alf. “It’s been stolen, too! And that proves my case!”
“What case, Cosi? You better start from the beginning.”
I brought Mike up to speed on everything I’d uncovered. “. . . and I’m sure it was Dwayne Linford who tossed me over the rail. I saw his tricked-out SUV in the parking area—I know it was his. Before he tore off, he was even fighting with his father about taking care of something his way. And that letter he tried to kill me to get was all about incriminating him.”
“So the punk tossed you overboard to shut you up, too.”
“He knew I was there with his father. He knew I was looking into Alf’s murder. His father handed me a letter that practically declared the kid a drug dealer!”
Mike nodded. “Motive and opportunity.” He reached for his police radio. “I’m calling Hong and Franco on this. It’s their case.”
“You think Dwayne Linford shot Alf, too, don’t you?”
“Or had him shot. Yes. And made it appear to be a mugging—exactly your theory, Detective.”
I shook my head. “Franco’s going to be pissed.”
“Why? He’s right, too, isn’t he? Think about it. If Dwayne Linford is a drug dealer, then he probably has known associates who are gangbangers. He could have hired one of them to do the hit on Alf and make it look like a street crime. We’ll get a warrant to search Dwayne’s property. Question him. If we’re lucky, we’ll get a confession, maybe the murder weapon, maybe the name of the person who did the hit.”
“Just get him off the street, Mike.”
“I will, sweetheart.” He smiled, then took my hand and squeezed it. “Looks like you’ll be getting what you want for Christmas, after all.”
As I leaned closer for something a little more intimate than a hand squeeze, a light knock came on the half-open door. The heavenly smells of fresh-baked crust, tangy tomato sauce, and floral oregano preceded a familiar voice—
“Someone here order two pies?”
I glanced up to find a pair of giant pizza boxes coming toward me. Above them floated the carrot-topped face of Detective Sergeant Finbar Sullivan.<
br />
“Loaded?” Mike asked his partner.
“Fully loaded,” Sully assured him with a grin.
Mike motioned him closer and turned to me. “Hungry?” he asked, lifting one of the box lids.
Closing my eyes, I inhaled the scent of pepperoni and sausage, roasted peppers and mushrooms. “Oh, Mike . . . ,” I gushed as my empty stomach gurgled.
As usual, the man knew just how to make me swoon.
TWENTY-TWO
“AND then you what?!”
“I went into the water.”
My ex-husband gritted his teeth. “Clare, why the hell didn’t you leave with Esther?!”
“Because if I’d left with Esther, I never would have gotten the information to nail Alf’s killer! And I’m perfectly fine, as you can see.”
“Dumb luck, Clare. Emphasis on the dumb.”
The next day was Tuesday and the Blend was as busy as ever. Matt stopped by during a late-morning lull, and I took a short break, grabbing a stool next to him at our espresso bar’s marble counter. Sipping reviving jolts, I brought him up to speed on my adventures on Staten Island and literally in New York Harbor.
“So Dwayne Linford is in custody now?”
Matt pulled off his fisherman’s sweater, too thick for the warmth of the cozy coffeehouse, draped it over his broad shoulders, and began rolling up the shirtsleeves on his well-developed forearms, the ones that came in so handy for me when I was locked in that Dumpster last week.
Unlike Matt, the heat of the roaring fire and steaming hot java didn’t bother me. Not in the least. Frankly, after my freezing dip, I couldn’t get warm enough.
“The police arrested Dwayne late last night at a Manhattan club,” I explained. “He’s got a high-powered lawyer—no surprise. But detectives are reviewing digital images from every Staten Island Ferry security camera they can get their hands on. They have warrants to search his home and SUV, and they already have him booked on a drug charge.”
“What’s the drug?”
“Marijuana. Mike said they found a ‘nickel bag’ on him when they picked him up. What’s that mean, exactly?”
Among other things, my ex was a veteran lounge lizard. Name a remote outpost on the world’s vast coffee belt and he’d give you detailed directions to the nearest place to party. If anyone knew what drug slang meant, it was Matt.
“A nickel bag is fifty dollars’ worth of pot. It’s like four or five joints max. They won’t be able to hold him long for that, Clare. It’s just possession, not sale.”
I frowned. “I’m sure they’ll find more evidence.”
“Are you sure you didn’t see him throw you over that rail. Just a glimpse?” Matt’s brown gaze speared me. “Wouldn’t that solve your flatfoot boyfriend’s problem with the charge?”
“I’m not going to lie. Not to Mike. Not to his fellow cops on the force, and certainly not under oath in court.”
“Dumb.” Matt muttered again. “You said you know he did it, Clare. Isn’t that enough to warrant a little lie?”
“No! Not when that lie is tantamount to perjury. And Mike would agree with me.”
“Dudley Do-Right.” Matt bolted the remains of his espresso, then shook his head. “If you only knew . . .”
I frowned, not liking the sound of that. “Knew what? Something about Mike?”
“Forget it.” Matt looked away. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
I stared at my ex. “Okay, spill. What do you know about—”
“Wait,” Matt cut me off. “Didn’t you ask me here to talk about Dexter?”
“You’re changing the subject, but, yes, I did.”
“Please, Clare, let’s talk about that. What did you want to know?”
I stewed for a second, unhappy that Matt was keeping something from me about Quinn, but I didn’t have time to argue. I was only on a short break, and when my relief came, I had to change fast and get up to Union Square for Alf’s memorial service. I’d already sent up the boxes of goodies. The thermoses of coffee would come with me via taxi.
“Okay, Matt.” I met his eyes. “I want to know why Dex was so cagey about his ‘confidential’ relationship with Omar Linford. Because if Dex is selling drugs, you better warn him he’s about to get caught.”
“He’s not selling drugs, Clare. I spoke with him already, and he admitted what I suspected. Linford is Dex’s silent partner in all of his Taste of the Caribbean shops.”
“What’s so secret about that?”
Matt leaned closer. He lowered his voice. “Dex took capital-improvement money from the city. If the bureaucrats knew Linford was Dex’s partner, they never would have granted him the money to remodel his stores and purchase new freezers.”
“Why didn’t Dex just get the remodeling money from Linford straight up?”
“Because that’s how Omar Linford ended up owning the Blue Sunshine company, that’s why. Dex doesn’t want Linford putting any more money into the business than he has already.”
“But if Dexter and Omar took that money from the city, they’re committing a crime.”
“Which is why he was paranoid about admitting his business relationship, get it?”
“Hey there, Cosi Lady!”
I glanced up at a familiar voice and did a double take. A five-foot-eleven Santa’s elf, complete with green leggings, velvet tunic, and a felt hat with a feather was grinning down at me.
“Shane? Shane Holliway?”
“In the flesh,” he said. “Or in the tights, whichever you prefer, Clare.”
The ex-soap actor took the bar stool beside me. Matt shot him a wary glance. Shane had shaved off his trendy stubble. He looked better with the clean chin, and his golden shag, lean cheek dimples, and twinkling blue eyes made him perfect elf material, too.
“I take it you’re in a dress rehearsal with Tucker down the street,” I said.
“Perceptive.” Shane winked. “But then Tucker did tell me you’re an amazing sleuth.”
I laughed. “Well, your tights are a dead giveaway.”
“The benefit party’s tonight at the Public Library’s Main Branch on Forty-second. Are you coming?”
“Oh, no,” I said. “That thing’s exclusive. Invitation only.”
“Tuck can get you in! Come on, Clare. You don’t want to miss my tight green buns leaping over sugarplum props, do you?”
I laughed again. “You make it sound tempting. I’ll think about it, okay? Can I get you something in the meantime?” I asked, standing up.
“Are you kidding? Method’s my middle name: Candy Cane Latte—easy on the whipped cream. This outfit’s pretty unforgiving.”
“You don’t have to worry,” I said, heading behind the coffee bar again. “You look great.”
“Thanks.”
As I whipped up the latte, Shane called over to Dante. “Hey, Silva, I saw you on YouTube! You’re an official World Wide Web star!”
“I know!” he replied from behind the espresso machine. “My roommates told me I have almost as many hits as Keith Judd holiday shopping on the Upper West Side!”
“My girlfriend saw that one, too,” Gardner mentioned as he worked the register. “She’s been into Judd since that fighter pilot movie he did ten years ago. Now she wants to check out every boutique he went into.”
“You’re kidding?” I said. “People care about that stuff?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Dante.
“You bet.” Gardner nodded.
“I don’t believe it.”
“It’s no joke, boss,” Dante said, quickly tamping fine grinds into the espresso machine’s portafilter. “Do you know every single store Judd was shown going into has a line out the door today?”
I blinked at that. New York 1 news had just done a story on how slow the shopping season was this year. Many shops were in real danger of going under.
Gardner handed change to a customer. “If you ask me, whoever took that Keith Judd footage should have gone to those stores and asked for a cut.”
“I guess I can’t object,” I murmured. “I mean, the Web is why we’re doing so well this year.”
I finished mixing Mr. Elf’s Candy Cane Latte: fresh espresso, crème de menthe syrup—with a pump each of cherry and vanilla—perfectly microfoamed milk, a kiss of whipped cream, and sprinkles of crushed candy cane and shaved chocolate. I slid it across the bar.
“On the house, Shane,” I said. “It’s the least I can do for a Santa’s helper.”
“Oh, you’re a babe.” He took a few sips and made orgas mic noises. “Sweet . . .”
I smiled. “Good?”
“Good? Listen, Cosi Lady. After the benefit, I’m coming back here for another. Then how about you and me do a little work in my tool shop tonight?”
Matt rolled his eyes.
“I think you mean toy shop, don’t you, Shane?” I replied.
“No. I meant what I said.”
Oh, brother. “That’s very flattering, I’m sure. But I’m in a relationship with someone special.”
Matt grunted at that. I shot him a look.
“Come on,” Shane pressed. “You don’t have to get serious with me. We can just, you know . . .” He winked at me again. “Play.”
“Really, I mean it,” I said firmly. “No thanks.”
Shane just smiled wider. “I’ll see you again, Cosi Lady. ’Cause challenge is my middle name.” After yet another wink, he was gone.
Matt smirked. “I thought method was his middle name.”
I shrugged.
“I don’t know,” said Matt. “Maybe you should consider it.”
“Consider what?”
“The elf.”
“Not funny.”
“I’m half serious, actually.”
“Now why would you even half-seriously suggest a thing like that?”
“Because I don’t want to see you hurt.”
“Excuse me?”
“Clare . . .” Matt looked down at his empty demitasse. When he glanced back up again, he met my eyes. “I don’t think you and your guard dog are on the same page.”
“What page is that exactly?”
“The exclusivity page.”
“Come again.”
