Once Upon a Grind

by Cleo Coyle

  Quinn looked away, as if seriously studying the traffic flow on Third. I knew better. When he aimed his focus back on me, I braced myself.

  “I have a question for you . . .” (Here it comes.) “Try to be objective, all right?”

  “Go on.”

  “Anya is a beautiful young woman. Given Matt’s history as a skirt chaser and drug user, given that he was paired with her all day, isn’t it possible that maybe he did do a little partying with her in the Ramble? She might have looked fine when he left her, and he didn’t think she’d—”

  “No, no, no!” A few heads turned, but I didn’t care. “Matteo Allegro may be a lot of things, but he would never put a woman in harm’s way. Matt loves women—maybe a little too much—but he’s ferocious about protecting them. His very identity is wrapped up in it—”

  “Calm down, Clare. I asked you to be objective.”

  “I am!”

  Quinn arched an eyebrow.

  “Look,” I said, “you know your ex-wife, don’t you? Her little games? Her fake crying? Her evasive behavior?”

  “Yeah, unfortunately, I do.”

  “Well, I know my ex just as well. I would never have gone into business with him if I didn’t think he could be a good partner and a good friend; if I didn’t think that underneath his faults he was a good person. Matt has been on the wagon for over a decade. He hasn’t touched cocaine.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure because I knew him when he did touch it. Now it’s your turn to be objective. What kind of person would leave a young woman in Central Park like that? If I hadn’t found Anya, she might have died of exposure. You know Matt pretty well now, don’t you? Can you honestly say he would do that?”

  Quinn took a breath. “I think Allegro is careless, and he’s not too smart. But you’re right. I can’t see him doing something that cold-blooded.”

  “That’s the word for it. Whoever did this is cold-blooded. A guy might have partied with her and left her like that. Or it could have been much worse. What if he gave her a date rape drug and planned to assault her but got interrupted or scared away by passersby?”

  Quinn’s neutral expression cracked again. Good, I thought, he should have a reaction!

  “Mike, as we speak, Endicott and his partner are trying to press their case. But it wasn’t the father of my child who did this, and the longer the detectives focus on Matt, the less chance they have of getting the true guilty party. We could have a real predator on our hands here, and we’ve got to find this monster before another girl is harmed.”

  “I don’t disagree.”

  “Is there anything you can do?”

  Once more he studied Third Avenue’s traffic flow.

  “Let me make a few calls,” he said at last. “I’ll find out where Allegro is in the system. I can’t get him sprung, his lawyer has to do that. But I can get Emmanuel Franco over to Endicott’s precinct. Sergeant Franco can try to start the process of having the case reassigned.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  “With Anya an employee of my ex-wife, I’ll have to recuse myself from supervision of the case. But Sully is acting chief of my OD Squad while I’m in DC, and Franco officially reports to him, so it shouldn’t be an issue.”

  As he pulled out his cell, a raucous group of teenagers burst into the shop. “I better step outside where it’s quiet,” he said, rising.

  “I’ll be here for you.”

  He stopped and leaned close. “You always are,” he said softly. “That’s why I want to return the favor.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  FEELING the strength of Quinn’s support (and the residual pleasure of his warm breath at my ear), I sipped the sweet dregs of my tropical smoothie and gawked with some relief out the hot dog shop’s window.

  That’s when I saw another limousine turning the corner. Then came a taxi, a car service sedan, and another limo. The final luxury vehicle pulled right up to our Papaya Palace. The back door flew open and a middle-aged couple emerged, both wearing evening clothes.

  Laughing, arm in arm (and looking more than a little drunk), the pair slurred orders for hot dogs and “coconut champagne” to go, gathered up their late-night munchies, and stumbled out the door. During all this, I noticed the woman’s necklace—a chain of silver and gold links in diamond shapes, holding a golden key with a diamond embedded at the top.

  Exactly like the one in Leila’s purple gift box.

  I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Excuse me, lady, is someone sitting in that empty stool?”

  A tattooed twenty-something girl loomed over me with a loaded tray. Her multipierced boyfriend stood behind her, drumsticks in one hand, a guitar case in the other.

  “Take the seat,” I told the girl. “And you can have mine, too,” I told the boy. Then I asked them both, “Do either of you happen to know if there’s a nightclub down that block?”

  “Yeah, some kind of club,” the girl said with a shrug.

  “It’s private,” the boy added, lightly drumming the stool top with his sticks. “That’s all I know.”

  I bussed our trays and stepped outside. The night had gotten cooler, and I put on Dalecki’s flowing wrap. (If this neighborhood could take an inked-up Sonny and Cher, they could put up with a middle-aged tavern wench in a floor-length scarlet cape.)

  Quinn was standing a few yards away from the door, focused on his call. I caught his attention, put up my index finger, and mouthed: One minute, I’ll be right back!

  I sprinted across Third and moved down the side street, toward Second Avenue, where the limo parade had come from. The block was deserted, an odd place for an exclusive club; yet the teens seemed to be correct.

  Farther down the street, the bright lamps of car headlights pulled up to the curb. Within seconds, a well-dressed couple exited a doorway. They were laughing as they entered the vehicle. When it glided past, I saw it was yet another limo.

  I walked swiftly along until I reached the doorway. There was no sign, no velvet rope line, not even any lights. Only a steel door.

  How odd.

  Stepping closer, I saw the door itself was deeply recessed into the dingy brick building. Thick and black, the door had a diamond-shaped window. But the glass inside was reflective—more of a mirror—and I saw no door handle.

  “So how do I get in?” I murmured. Okay, I give up. “Open sesame!”

  “SHOW ME YOUR KEY.”

  Surprised, I glanced around. The shadowy street was empty. Composing myself, I cleared my throat and called out—

  “Say that again please!”

  “YOUR KEY. I NEED TO SEE IT.”

  The deep voice was male. Now that I was ready for it, I realized the sound had come directly out of the diamond-shaped mirror on the dark door. I scanned the recessed area for a speaker or camera eye but saw neither.

  “I’m sorry,” I said to Mr. Mirror, “I forgot my key. May I come in anyway?”

  A long silent minute passed and then the mirror spoke again—

  “MOVE ALONG, LADY, OR WE’LL MOVE YOU ALONG.”

  Good grief, how rude.

  I stepped back (way back) and hugged the side of the building, waiting for someone to go in or out again. But the mystery door remained shut.

  Around me, office buildings were dark, apartment windows blocked by closed curtains and drawn blinds. The street’s eyes were shut, its inhabitants departed or in dreamland.

  An evening breeze rustled branches on a sidewalk tree, and its leaves cast strange shadows. The air around me felt radically colder, and I shivered as if I were back in the murky realm of my dream-vision in Central Park.

  Then the leaf shadows began to move in eerie ways, joining together at my feet, staining the pavement with inky blackness. I blinked several times, but the vision would not go away. The shadowy leaves coalesced, pooling to form
a yawning void.

  Teetering on the edge, I felt dizzy, close to falling in. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping to regain my balance. When I opened them again, Anya was standing on the sidewalk a few yards away.

  Her eyes were wide, swirling pits. Her hair blew wild, and her Pink Princess gown rippled in a howling wind that I heard but could not feel.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but couldn’t. Then she took a step toward me, but something stopped her progress.

  I looked down and saw the terrible wound on her left calf, a hole that leaked blood. The flow of red streamed toward me across the pavement and into the black pool at my feet.

  Anya’s lips moved again, and I strained to hear, but her voice was scratchy and distant, barely audible above the roar of the wind around her. I wanted to approach her but the black void threatened to swallow me up.

  “What are you saying?” I called across the dark chasm. “Please tell me!”

  When her lips moved again, I barely heard the words—

  “Free me . . .”

  Like a ghost, she became transparent before fading completely. Then the black pool turned bright red.

  Woozy, I shut my eyes to keep from falling in. That’s when I heard the heavy footsteps approach. Someone big was coming.

  Heart pounding, I opened my eyes to find Mike Quinn barreling toward me. “Clare, what is going on?”

  Unable to speak, I shook my head, trying to clear it.

  “You’re shivering!”

  Only when Quinn put his arms around me did the bone-deep cold begin to fade. My head started clearing, and I shook it again to help things along.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “I saw Anya,” I said, my voice cracking. “She was right in front of me.”

  “You mean you flashed back to the crime scene where you found her?”

  I shook my head. “She was standing right here, on the sidewalk . . .”

  Still gripping my shoulders, Mike broke our embrace. “Answer me a question, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you know what day it is?”

  “Mike, I’m fine. I don’t need you to—”

  “What day is it, Cosi?”

  “Saturday! We just ate hot dogs and played footsie at the Papaya Palace. I told you, I’m fine!”

  “I don’t think you are. Let’s hail a taxi and get you home—”

  My pocket vibrated. I pulled out my cell.

  “It’s Matt. He sent me a text . . .”

  “What does it say?”

  SPRUNG: Going home 4 long, hot shower and tall, cold, ALCOHOLIC drink. See U mañana. We need 2 talk.

  “He’s out,” I said, relieved.

  “Good. I was told they were cutting him loose.”

  “Then it’s over?”

  “No. I’m sorry. Matt’s freedom may only be temporary.”

  “Why? What else did you hear?”

  “Endicott and his partner are dug in. I talked to a friend in their precinct. Allegro’s lawyers got him released, but Endicott’s determined to find wrongdoing and pin it on him.”

  “How?”

  “He’s waiting for the toxicology report. If it comes back with cocaine-related results, your ex could be behind the eight ball again.”

  “Behind the eight ball or behind bars?”

  “Both.”

  “What about your man Franco?”

  “He’s on his way to Endicott’s precinct now, and I’m heading over to the West Side, where they took Anya.”

  “To check on her?”

  “More than that. Sergeant Franco will need ammunition to get Anya’s case reassigned to my OD Squad. I’m saving him time by getting details on her condition. And if we’re lucky, Anya might have responded to treatment.”

  “You mean she might be awake enough to tell us what happened?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’m going with you.”

  “No. I’m taking you home. I think you’re having some kind of post-traumatic stress reaction—”

  “I’m going to the hospital. I want to find out about Anya.”

  “But—”

  “Look, if I actually do need a doctor, I’ll find a few there, won’t I?”

  Mike rubbed his jawline. “You got me on that one.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  ST. Luke’s–Roosevelt Medical Center occupied several blocks near Columbia University on the Upper West Side. Quinn flashed his NYPD gold shield, and we made our way to the Intensive Care Unit.

  He flagged a doctor going off duty, she collared an overnight physician, and we all moved to an empty waiting room.

  The doctors explained that Anya’s condition had not changed, but she was stable, and they’d moved her to a private room off the ICU. A nurse brought Anya’s charts and they pored over them.

  Anxious to see the girl for myself, I set Officer Delecki’s cape on a chair and quietly stepped away. A shift change had reduced the nightshift staff, and the halls were eerily quiet, the beeps and pings of medical monitors the only discernable sounds.

  A sturdy nurse with tight cornrows and a cherubic face approached me with a question in her eyes.

  My presence after visiting hours—not to mention my peasant costume—needed an explanation, and I quickly conveyed how I’d been working at the festival where Anya had disappeared.

  “I was the one that found her,” I explained, “and I’m here with an NYPD officer.”

  “You’re talking about that poor child they brought in from the park?” she said, her melodious island accent thick as burnt sugar syrup. “Down the hall, dear, first room on the right.”

  * * *

  WHEN I approached Anya’s door, I was surprised to find it closed. Hearing something going on inside, I put my ear to the wood. A sharp hand clap sounded, followed a moment later by a second.

  I assumed a member of the hospital staff was administering a stimulus test, clapping hands to see if Anya responded to a sudden loud noise.

  I pushed the door gently, but it hardly budged. It wasn’t locked, more like blocked. That’s odd. I applied a little more pressure and the door soundlessly cracked open.

  “Come on, Anya, wake up,” a voice whispered. “Wake up, and listen to what I’ve got to say or I’ll slap you again.”

  Slap? I’ve heard of a clap test, but a slap test?

  The murmured command was followed by another sharp blow. “Sign it, Anya! Wake up, and sign it!”

  Sign it? What in the world?

  With all my strength, I shoved the door. The chair blocking it tumbled over, and I charged into the room.

  “What’s going on here?”

  Towering over the hospital bed, a shocked brunette in a nurse’s uniform froze in place, right hand poised to strike. Now this woman was a lofty mug of java—six feet tall, with a forehead as wide as Cineplex screen, heavy foundation makeup, and a reach long enough to swat me from across the bed. All I could think of was that awful nurse from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

  Between us, the beautiful Anya lay unconscious, swathed in white, a string of IVs dripping a clear liquid into her bone-pale arm. The only color was in her cheeks, which glowed redly from the slaps.

  Then I noticed the ballpoint pen forced between Anya’s limp fingers, and the legal-sized document spread open on her stomach. My eyes went from the document to the giant nurse and back to the document.

  My opponent realized I was going for the papers, and when she swung her hand again, it was at my face, not Anya’s.

  I ducked.

  On the way down, I snatched at the papers lying on the sheets. I managed to snag a page or two before the giantess grabbed the other end. A brief tug of war ended when the pages split like a flimsy wishbone.


  And I came up with the short end.

  With a howl, the slap-happy nurse bolted for the door. But she had to get past me. Channeling my pop’s favorite Civic Arena wrestler, I aimed the butt of my head for her midriff and tackled her with as much force as I could muster. She grunted as the air shot out of her, and we both tumbled to the floor. On the way down my foot slammed the nightstand, and a pitcher of icy cold water doused me—

  “Aaahhh!”

  Shaking off the freezing shock, I lunged for the document again.

  It was a full-blown cat fight now, and as we rolled around on the floor, the absurdity of the situation was not lost on me. With my sodden, flimsy peasant dress, and my attacker disguised in a nurse’s uniform, the whole thing was less like a WWF match than a tableau out of Robert Maplethorpe’s kinky imagination.

  Thankfully, the scene didn’t last long. As the nurse tore away the last of my buttons, my grip slipped on the papers. She pulled them out of my hands, and I grabbed a clump of her thick hair. I did it to restrain the woman—but I ended up with nothing more than a fistful of wig!

  I tried to ID her actual hair color—black? brown? auburn?—but she was wearing a tight skullcap. That’s when I noticed a reddish brown scar on the back of her neck, in the shape of a crescent moon.

  Free from my grip, the giantess scrambled to her feet while I snatched at her ID necklace. Its dangling string broke the second before the nurse stomped my thigh with her sneaker and fled the room.

  Leg aching, I picked myself off the polished floor and went after her.

  “Mike! Somebody! Help! There’s an intruder in the hospital!”

  In the very next moment, two things happened.

  At the far end of the hallway, double doors opened and Mike appeared in response to my cries. On the opposite side of the corridor, I saw the fake nurse pounding the elevator button, trying to summon the next car.

  When she spotted me, she abandoned the whole elevator escape and opted for the stairs. Rather than wait for Mike and maybe lose her, I followed the nurse into the stairwell.