by Cleo Coyle
“Didn’t I read something about THORN, Inc., buying some prominent guidebook company?” Tuck asked.
Matt nodded. “Marquess Guides—a French-based food and travel guide for all of Europe. He rolled the content into his European app. There’s an App-itite Asian, and an App-itite Latin America, too.”
“But it’s still just a restaurant guide!”
“You said that, Clare. What’s your point?”
“Thorner’s not a defense contractor, or even a computer designer. He makes foodie apps, for goodness’ sake—”
“And gaming apps and learning apps,” Matt added. “His company and its subsidiaries are the largest independent app creator on the planet.”
“So why would anyone want to blow him up?!”
My question hung in the air.
Tucker, our resident curator of celebrity gossip, offered a theory, his own smartphone now in hand. “TMZ has archived stories. I’m skimming the history . . . it says he’s a recluse. He has a rep for being a geekish tech nerd, but Thorner does have a dark spot. His former girlfriend, Bianca Hyde, was a bikini model turned indie film actress. Now, she had a much higher profile—”
“Wasn’t she the one who killed herself at the Beverly Palms?” Matt asked.
Tuck’s finger swept across the tiny screen. “According to these e-tabloid headlines, it was ruled an accident.”
“An accident?” I asked, hairs prickling. “Did it add up?”
“What do you mean?” Tuck asked.
“I mean, were there any suspects who may have contributed to her death?”
“Suspects? Sure—two pints of vodka, three-quarters of a mini bar, one coffee table, and gravity,” Matt added.
“But how long ago did this happen?” I asked Tuck.
“About a year ago—”
“And did Bianca Hyde have any friends or family? Someone who might have blamed Eric for her death?”
“Don’t answer her,” Matt commanded Tuck. Then he eyeballed me. “I don’t want you getting involved with this.”
“Involved with what? I’m only asking a question.”
“I’m curious, too,” Esther said in my defense. “After all, I’ve heard of violent rappers, but never violent appers.”
“I don’t know . . .” Tuck arched an eyebrow. “That Facebook founder does wear a hoodie.”
“Rich and powerful people are targets; I get that,” Nancy said. “What I don’t get is the car bomb. I mean, why not just shoot the guy and avoid hurting innocent bystanders?”
Matt shook his head. “You’re expecting compassionate consideration from a madman bent on murder? I think the words mad and murder answer that. Don’t you agree, Clare? You’re the one with the cop boyfriend . . .”
I didn’t reply. For the first time since the explosion, I wasn’t thinking about Eric Thorner, or bombs, because I’d spied a familiar face through one of our still-intact windows, a formerly loyal customer, one who hadn’t stopped by our shop since late December. And I wanted to know why.
I set my empty cup down and grabbed my coat.
“Where are you going?” Matt asked.
“The bank,” I lied. “I want to make sure my line of credit is long enough to cover repairs until the insurance company reimburses us.”
Matt nodded and went for another pastry, obviously relieved that I’d given up on Thorner’s case. Good thing, too, because if my ex-husband knew who I was going to speak with and why, I’d have another explosion on my hands.
Seven
TIGHTENING my scarf, I stepped onto the cold sidewalk.
The cops had closed Hudson Street, creating a snarl so bad it would have made the news even without a car bomb. A wall of waiting vehicles idled beyond the sawhorse barricades, their drivers curiously watching the NYPD load Eric Thorner’s (practically) cremated limo onto a flatbed truck.
The frosty air reeked of burned rubber and scorched metal, and I crunched through the snow, skirting yards and yards of crime scene tape before reaching the man I’d come out here to see.
Emmanuel Franco was stationed on the next block. In his lemon yellow vest, the young police sergeant was hard to miss. Loitering in front of a French bistro, he’d attracted a fan base—a pair of stylish females. This was no surprise. No other cop at the Sixth Precinct could fill out a traffic vest quite like Manny Franco.
“Can’t you tell us what’s going on?” asked the brunette, sprucing her hair with a leather-gloved hand. “It’ll be on TV tonight, anyway. We won’t tell anybody before those news reporters do.”
The blonde was bolder. “They closed the office, so we’ve got the afternoon off, and we don’t even know why! If we buy you a drink, will you tell us about it?”
Franco shook his head. “Girls, what makes you think I know anything?”
The blonde narrowed her eyes. “You look like someone who knows plenty.”
“I’m just a guy in uniform.”
“I’d like to see what you look like out of uniform,” the brunette purred.
Franco took a step backward, palms up. “You know what? This has been lovely, and you ladies are charming, but I’m going to have to ask you to move on.”
Reluctantly, the girls headed off toward the subway. I waited until they were out of sight before I caught Franco’s attention.
“Hey, Coffee Lady.” His smile was sincere—yet a little nervous.
Well, he has good reason to be. “I thought you worked undercover, Detective?”
“Those were the days,” Franco said wistfully. “Things have been quiet in the OD Squad lately. Too quiet.”
“That’s hard to believe . . .”
The OD Squad was Mike Quinn’s NYPD task force, and Franco was a handpicked member. The team was responsible for following up on drug-related deaths throughout the five boroughs. Before Mike took over, the squad had had a low profile. After he was put in charge, they were making major cases and national news. That’s what brought Mike to the attention of the U.S. Attorney who’d drafted him.
“Mighty Quinn kicked ass when it came to pursuing leads. He was gung-ho on cutting through red tape, too. But our interim leader, Detective Sullivan . . .” Franco paused to tug his hat against the wind. “Let’s just say he lacks initiative.”
“That’s pretty vague for you, Sergeant.”
“Don’t get me wrong, Sully’s a good cop, but for him the squad is just a job, not an adventure.”
A horn blasted nearby, and Franco gave the driver the fisheye. “Anyway, given the lack of action on the squad, I’m grabbing odd jobs at the Sixth. Like today, when the fit hit the shan, the captain needed manpower so I’m back in the bag.”
“Are you telling me that Mike is completely out of the picture? And you’re in uniform again?”
“Quinn’s been AWOL for over a month.”
“Define AWOL.”
Franco shrugged. “When your boyfriend first started in DC, he checked in almost daily. But the Federal Triangle is starting to look like the Bermuda Triangle—a place where people mysteriously disappear . . .”
This was news to me. And not good news.
Quinn had put his second-in-command in charge of the daily operations. But if his squad was flagging, and Quinn was neglecting it, the NYPD brass could replace him. Then what? Would my boyfriend stay in DC when his year’s assignment with the Justice Department was done? What would that mean for our future?
“Sorry for the crap news, Coffee Lady, but I should be disappearing, too.” Franco gestured to the blocked street. “Any minute now, this traffic’s going to start rolling again.”
“Not so fast, Sergeant.” I poked his hard chest. “First, you’re going to tell me why you haven’t come to my coffeehouse since your trip to visit my daughter in Paris.”
“Well, uh . . .” He shifted, clearly uncomfortable. “I’ve been meaning to drop in . . .”
“Haven’t you at least needed a caffeine fix?”
“Actually, I sort of got hooked on these.” He
pulled out a shiny brown bag and flashed the logo.
“Perky Jerky?”
“Turkey Perky Jerky,” Franco said with an enthusiastic nod. “Traditional meat jerky laced with the pep of an energy drink. They make beef with a buzz, too, but I like turkey best.”
“You and I both know your absence has nothing to do with your sudden addiction to Perky Jerky. What happened in France? Come clean. If you broke my daughter’s heart, I swear—”
“Hey, hey! I would never hurt Joy, and that isn’t what happened.”
“So what did?”
Franco sighed, looked away. “Ask her.”
I blinked. “What?”
“I’m not the one with the problem. Talk to your daughter.”
My head was spinning. Last I’d heard, Joy was smitten with Franco, completely in love. She’d admitted as much—to her grandmother, of course. (Joy would never share such personal things with me. I’m only her mother.)
“Look, Sergeant, right now I’m talking to you. What happened?”
“Joy said she was ‘conflicted,’ that she wasn’t sure she wanted to date a cop. She wasn’t even sure she was coming back to New York. That maybe she’d rather stay in Paris . . .”
I suddenly felt Franco’s pain.
Unlike Joy’s disastrous past boyfriends, Emmanuel Franco was a good man. He wanted only to make her happy; and my daughter had been hooked on him, hinting at marriage and future plans, and suddenly she was pushing him away? Why?
Getting the truth out of my daughter wouldn’t be easy. Over the last few months, most of our “conservations” had taken place via texting, cell phone photos, and social media updates.
I wanted to talk to my girl—really talk to her, see her body language, gauge the look in her eyes, and not let her cut me off until I got to the bottom of what was really going on. Gritting my teeth, I made a heartfelt wish in that moment. I wish I had the money to charter a flight to Paris right now, this minute! But the expense of such a trip and my responsibilities here made that impossible.
“I’d like to see her one more time, try again,” Franco admitted, “but I have no idea when she’s coming back for a visit, and booking another international flight is more than I can afford—that’s another reason I’m back in this bag.” He tugged his vest sadly. “My credit card is maxed out. I need the overtime to pay for the last trip.”
A loud rumble interrupted us, and we both watched a police flatbed haul away Eric Thorner’s burned-out car. Franco frowned down at me.
“So is everyone okay at your place? That blast was pretty close.”
(At last, a subject we could both feel comfortable about getting to the bottom of . . .) I told him about the damage and mentioned the name of the intended target. Like me, Franco knew little about the young billionaire.
“The city’s Bomb Squad is headquartered in your precinct,” I noted. “Have you heard anything about the explosion?”
“I overheard two guys from the A-Team. They said no dynamite or TNT was used—”
“What? That can’t be right! I heard the explosions myself. There were two, a big one and then—”
“It was a firebomb, Clare. The Bomb Squad recovered pieces of an aluminum can that contained the accelerant.”
“Didn’t you once tell me that fingerprints could be taken off bomb fragments?”
“Good memory. That’s true.”
“Well, if I know that, the bomber might, too, right?”
“A friend in the Bomb Squad doesn’t think so.”
“What does that mean?”
“If the perp had access to real explosives, he would have used them, which means he’s an amateur. And if he’s an amateur, then he probably doesn’t know that his fingerprints could be had, so we may get lucky.” Franco paused. “I heard something else, too.”
“Give.”
Franco glanced around and lowered his voice. “One of the Bomb Squad guys thinks the killer wanted to do more than just get Thorner out of the way. He must have had a real hate on for his victim, and I’d have to agree.”
“Why is that?”
“Because the device wasn’t designed to blow up the car so much as roast the occupants alive. And burning to death is one hell of a horrible way to die.”
Eight
HOURS later, I was gazing at flames again, but (thank goodness) this roaring fire didn’t come from a bomb. This blaze emanated from my bedroom’s comforting hearth. Unfortunately, my thoughts about today’s violent act were far from a comfort. Most troubling of all were Franco’s final words.
Who hated Eric Thorner enough to want him roasted alive? And what had sparked that animosity? Was it something in Eric’s public life? Or was it more private?
I’ll admit the young billionaire was a thoroughly smug individual. In the few minutes we spent together before the bomb went off, even I was dying to smack the smirk off his face. But such a superficial encounter, even a dozen of them, would not be a reasonable motive for murder.
Whatever the reason, the bomber was sure to be exasperated by tonight’s news. After emergency surgery, Eric Thorner was expected to make a full recovery.
If the bomber knew he had failed, would he—or she—try again?
It was a dark thought, but it had been a dark day; and in winter, night arrived early in Manhattan. The moment the sun dipped below the horizon, the towering steel-and-stone skyline speedily slipped from twilight blue to solid black. Now electricity was tasked with the sun’s job and the city was illuminated by the golden glare of lightbulbs, millions of them shining in countless streetlamps and apartment windows. Unfortunately, not one of those bulbs was working in mine.
Along with my phone line, the power was out, and the only light in my duplex apartment came from my two fireplaces, a few battery-operated hurricane lamps, and a dozen votive candles.
Earlier, Matt had offered to stay with me, and his mother invited me to move into her penthouse, but I turned them both down. This was my home, and I didn’t want to leave it. Besides, an NYPD patrol was posted on our block, and I had my cell for emergencies.
As the night wore on, however, having no heat or electricity made me feel vulnerable, and I hated feeling vulnerable, so I turned up the classical music on my battery-powered radio and cooked dinner (mercifully, the ancient gas lines had weathered the blast). After a few bites, I paced the floor. Several times, I crossed to the window and peered outside, watching for Quinn.
By eleven, I gave up and tucked myself into bed. Thirty minutes later, over the quavers and sways of a Beethoven piano sonata, I awoke with a start. Was someone on the back stairs? I bolted upright on the four-poster and threw the snuggly coverlet aside.
Animated by my own frantic movements, Java and Frothy bounded at my heels, furry cat tails high. I hurried down the carpeted steps and across the chilly parquet floor, cell phone in hand—911 on speed dial.
But there was no need to call the cops. One was at my door.
Peering through the peephole, I sighed at the sight of Mike Quinn’s broad-shouldered silhouette filling the shadowy landing. I unlocked the door.
“I’m so glad you made it! Are you hungry?”
Quinn didn’t reply, except to inhale sharply. His arctic blue eyes melted with sweet appreciation, and I remembered I was wearing my threadbare Pittsburgh Steelers shirt, a few bandages underneath, and little else.
On my next breath, his arms were around me; and while I badly wanted Quinn’s embrace, its aggressiveness surprised me—the man not only squeezed the air out of me, he was stinging the lacerations on my back. But I didn’t care. By the time he let me go, I was feeling no pain.
“Ready to take off your coat now?” I smiled. He returned it, and I began undoing his buttons.
I’d hardly had time to hang the thing up before he was cornering me again. When we broke our embrace, his tie was askew and his eyes were vibrant behind a veil of fatigue.
I touched his rough cheek. “Slow down, we have all night.”
“I hope so,” Quinn replied.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing, don’t worry about it . . .”
But I couldn’t help myself. Quinn had been summoned back to DC on his last weekend visit, right in the middle of our Sunday-morning brunch—a “break in the case” that wasn’t. The false alarm cost him an afternoon with his kids. I did my best to make up for it, but I was a poor substitute. While Molly had a fine time window-shopping along Fifth, Jeremy sulked. He missed his father.
“My boss has been putting on the pressure,” Quinn admitted, checking his phone for messages.
“No personal life allowed?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Don’t you want to be?”
“Clare, when the Homeland Security alert crossed my desk, I nearly lost it until I heard your voice. Of course I want to be here—I want to be with you, wherever you are.”
Now I felt guilty. This weekend had been my turn to travel, and I’d been ready to hop my usual Friday-afternoon train to DC, but not after the bomb. I refused to leave my ravaged coffeehouse, and I told him so over the phone. That’s why he’d changed his own plans and caught a late flight.
“So how about dinner?” Hooking an arm around his waist, I steered him toward the kitchen. “I didn’t have time to bake lasagna, but I did a shortcut skillet version for you, and it’s pretty tasty, if I do say so. With no electricity, I couldn’t use my mixer, so there’s no Triple-Chocolate Italian Cheesecake, but I’m going to wow you with my Baileys Irish Cream and Caramel-Nut Fudge. I don’t know about you, but I could use a little Irish comfort—”
“Good, because I’m ready to provide it—and not in the kitchen.” Mike pulled me in the opposite direction, toward the bedroom. “Let’s lie down by the fire . . .”
It was a genuine thrill to be desired, but there was a note of urgency in his manner that made me wonder if things were really all right.
