by Cleo Coyle
Quinn put up his hands, and I slammed down my fist.
“Don’t you dare patronize me. Suddenly, your own intentions in bringing me out here were all pure as virgin snow, right? Well, good for you. Now, why don’t you try opening your ears and listening!”
“Easy! Take it easy,” Detective Quinn counseled. “Let’s all calm down. You have any wine, Allegro? I think we all need to unwind, decompress, okay? We’ll work this out.”
Matt threw down his napkin, along with a few angry words in Spanish. But he did as Quinn suggested, uncorking a reserved Chianti with notes of black cherry and oak, which were (not unlike me, frankly) bold enough to stand up to the other strong flavors at this table.
As we all continued eating—and drinking—the tension in the air began to subside.
“All right, tell me,” Matt finally said, refilling his wineglass. “What did you discover?”
I spoke first. “Remember that young woman, Dana Tanner, the one Galloping Gwen told us about? She went missing the day she was supposed to have lunch with Harlan. Then she turned up with partial amnesia and ended up committing suicide—”
“What about her?”
“We spoke with her mother, Flora Tanner. Guess who contacted the family, out of the blue, with an offer to treat Dana at his upstate clinic, free of charge.”
Matt put down his wineglass. “Not Lorca.”
“The same,” Quinn said. “Dr. Dominic Lorca.”
“Coincidence?” Matt asked. “After all, the man does research and writes books. Maybe he aggressively seeks out interesting cases.”
“Maybe,” Quinn said. “But something doesn’t smell right.”
“So what?” Matt challenged. “You found some facts. Big deal. What can you actually do about it?”
Detective Quinn pulled out his mobile phone. “Like Clare suggested, open your ears and listen . . .”
Quinn made a call to his second-in-command at the OD Squad, Sergeant Franco. After a few pleasantries, he placed the call on speaker and asked the sergeant to put together a report.
“Search for records, over the past twelve months, of missing persons who reappear with memory impairment. Do a separate search for crime victims or witnesses who report memory problems in the course of the investigation. And pull any and all records where a case mentions Dr. Lorca or his clinic.”
“What are you looking for?” Franco asked.
“I’ll know it when I see it.”
“O-kay. I’m on it.”
“I also want you to tap our contacts at the hospital where ‘your cousin’ was being treated. Find out who called in Lorca. I want a name.”
“Right. Anything else?”
“One more thing. Run background checks on Ernest Belling, Flora Tanner, and any incidents involving Ernest Landscaping.” He gave Franco their address.
“That all?”
“Keep in touch. I’ll do the same.”
When the call was over, Matt shook his head. “What do you think you’ll find?”
“I can speculate, but I’d rather be patient and see what Franco dredges up from the database.”
“Sounds like you’re just fishing,” Matt said.
“Detectives go fishing all the time,” Quinn replied. “And I can tell you from experience, you can’t catch a thing without patience.”
I laughed. “Patience is not one of my ex-husband’s virtues.”
“Can’t argue there,” Matt said, lifting his glass in toast. “Speed is my style.”
“Spoken like an ex–cocaine addict,” Quinn noted.
“No, spoken like a current caffeine addict.” Matt rose from the table. “You people want coffee? Or shall we open more wine?”
“More wine,” Quinn and I said together.
“Better be careful, you two. In vino veritas.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
“In wine lies the truth.”
“I know the Latin,” I said. “What I don’t know is your meaning.”
“My meaning is that stone-cold sober, you and the Eagle Scout have been pussyfooting around each other. Getting tipsy lowers inhibitions. You may not be ready to handle that.”
“I’m not planning on getting drunk,” I said. “Are you, Mr. Eagle Scout?”
He smiled. “I’m an Irish cop. I think I can hold my drink.”
As Matt continued vino-ing, however, he refused to shut his veritas. “I still believe he’s putting you in jeopardy by being here.” Matt waved his glass at Quinn. “Any second now his mobile’s going to ring and—”
The timing couldn’t have been better. Or worse. Quinn pulled out his vibrating phone and raised an eyebrow.
“Lori Soles is calling.”
“Who is that again?” I asked.
“One of the two detectives tasked with trying to track you down.”
Great, I thought. “Are they here? In the Hamptons?”
“Let’s find out.”
SEVENTY-FOUR
“I’M going to put Lori Soles on speaker, so we can all hear what she has to say. Don’t make a sound,” Quinn warned, “either of you.”
We nodded and Quinn answered the call. “Good evening, Detective Soles. Have you found Clare?”
“Not yet,” Lori replied. “Washington, DC, was a bust, but we’ve got eyes on the daughter. We also tracked the getaway vehicle to New Jersey. We lost it there, but believe they could still be in the state.”
“Jersey is where Clare used to live. That’s a logical place to look.”
“We think so, too. Allegro might have taken her to stay with old friends. So we’re checking with Clare’s known associates.”
“Look, I’m on Long Island right now, pursuing leads in another case, but I want you to keep me informed. I’d like to know where that bastard took my fiancée. Does Allegro have his mobile on him?”
“No. That would have been easy, right? He left it at his Brooklyn warehouse, which we also searched with no luck. Sue Ellen and I are waiting for him to use a credit card.”
“That’s what I would do.”
“So you have no other leads for us, Mike?”
“I feel good about the Jersey search.”
“Okay, then. Keep in touch.”
“Will do, Lori.”
The call ended, and Matt and I stared at Quinn.
“I don’t believe it,” Matt muttered.
“It’s called hiding in plain sight. If I had left my mobile phone in my apartment, and it went unanswered, I guarantee you it would have set off an alarm of suspicion. But here I am, relaxed and available for consultation—with a perfectly normal explanation, if they should happen to ping my phone for its location. Okay?”
“No. Not okay,” Matt said. “You heard her. She and her partner are still aggressively looking for me—along with Clare.”
“That’s true.” Quinn leaned forward. “So if you really want to help your ex-wife and the mother of your daughter, here’s how: The police are waiting for you to use your credit card. I say use it—far away from Clare.”
“You want me to leave my own house?”
“Look, Allegro, your mother was the one who gave you up to the police. Right now the smartest thing you can do for everyone involved is lead a wild-goose chase. Go north. Use your credit card and move fast to a new area. When you get nabbed, and you will, you don’t know anything about Clare Cosi.”
Matt thought it over, but not for long.
“Okay, I’ll do it,” he said. “It shouldn’t be difficult. At this point in my life, police interviews are a cheap form of entertainment.” He paused and studied me. “What do you want to do after I leave? You’re welcome to stay. This house is a good place to hide.”
In more ways than one, I thought. “I don’t really want to stay here, but—” I look
ed at Quinn. “Where could I go?”
“How about back to New York?” he said. “To your Village Blend?”
“What?” This time Matt and I were the duet.
“Hide in plain sight, remember?” Quinn said. “I have an appointment with a law firm on Monday afternoon. If they agree to take Clare’s case, we can start our legal fight. In the meantime, we can continue working on restoring her memories. Clare, you already have a disguise. So use it. Stay in your apartment and act the part of a Village Blend barista taking care of her boss’s cats.”
“It’s not a bad idea,” Matt reluctantly conceded. “Since she has breakthroughs with sensory keys, then she probably should be back in the home she loved. Do it, Clare. It may turn out to be your best chance to reconnect with who you were before you went missing.”
“I have to admit, I’m a little nervous about going back. But I agree. It’s a good plan.”
Matt put down his wine and stifled a yawn. “I’m done in. I’m heading up to bed now. Take care of the dishes, will you? I’ll be up early, crack of dawn, if I want to catch the first ferry. Be sure to lock up and set the alarm when you go. I’ll leave a key and the pass code.”
“Wait,” I said, catching him as he headed for the stairs. “You’ll really be gone by morning?”
“I wish I could stay with you, Clare, but it’s clear I can’t. I’ll do the best I can to buy you time.”
“Where exactly are you headed?”
“Connecticut first. And then Rhode Island. After that, I guess to Massachusetts, Vermont, and Maine.”
“You probably have an old girlfriend or four you can look up, right?”
“Hell, you know me. If I can’t find an old one, I’ll charm a new one.” He shrugged. “Don’t worry, I’m happiest when I’m traveling.”
“I know you are. Before you go, can I tell you something?”
“You’re asking, but you’ll tell me anyway, right?”
As he folded his arms and waited, I took a breath, hoping I’d say this right—
“Matt, this place, this Hamptons Babylon, it’s not who you are. My memories of you—the fearless coffee hunter and global explorer—aren’t about a man who lived his life for status or money. The guy I remember would rather sleep in a tent under real stars than in a McMansion next to the Hollywood kind. And you know what? Except for being a terrible husband, he’s not a bad guy. In many ways, he’s a fairly awesome human being.”
Matt grunted, looked away—at the stark walls and pretentious ceiling—and, instead of arguing, quietly nodded. He seemed a little sad when his gaze returned to mine, but a more genuine expression was there, too, one I hadn’t seen since we got here.
Stepping close, I opened my arms and gave him a hug. “Thank you, Matt Allegro. I mean it. Thank you for loving me.”
“I always will. Remember that.” He squeezed me tight and kissed my cheek. Then he let me go.
“Take care of her, flatfoot.”
“I will.”
“Good night, Clare. I’ll see you soon—I hope with better memories.”
“Me too.”
SEVENTY-FIVE
THE house seemed very quiet after Matt went to bed. All his agitated energy went with him. In some ways, it was a relief, but not in others.
My ex-husband had accused me and Detective Quinn of “pussyfooting” around each other. It galled me to admit it, but Matt was right. I kept my low-level anxiety to myself as Quinn and I busied ourselves clearing the table and cleaning the kitchen.
Then there was no more busywork.
When Quinn suggested opening another bottle of wine and relaxing together on the couch in front of the fireplace, I decided to be honest with him.
“I’m still feeling a little nervous around you.”
“Really? But I thought we got along well today . . .” He paused. “Can you tell me why you’re feeling nervous?”
“No. I’m sorry,” I said because now I was feeling shy—and that made me a little angry. Shyness was weakness, and I didn’t want to be weak. Steeling myself, I tried to explain.
“When we were working together as partners in the car, it felt comfortable and right—a little exciting, too—but alone, like this, you make me uncomfortable.”
Once again, Detective Quinn’s crestfallen face tore me up. And that was when I realized—
“It’s the expectation,” I confessed. “I know you can’t help it, but I can sense you wanting more from me, wanting me to be something that I just can’t be, not yet. Maybe not ever again.”
Quinn closed his eyes a moment. Then he regarded me.
“I understand what you’re saying. But do me a favor and put that aside a minute. Other than your anxieties over my expectations, you do know you can trust me, right?”
“I do—if only through logical deduction.”
“Deduction?”
“There is no way on earth my ex-husband would leave me with you if he didn’t trust you. And there is no way Matt would trust you if you hadn’t earned that trust over time. So it’s logical that I should trust you, too.”
“It’s logical in your head, but what do you feel?”
Once again, I found myself dumbfounded by the glacial blue of the man’s eyes. Or maybe it was the way those eyes were staring at me—with such sad, sweet affection. Not for the first time, I was genuinely sorry that I didn’t remember any history with him.
With regret, I looked away, at the cold rain streaking the dark windows, and told him the hard truth—
“I don’t have enough experience with you to feel much of anything, Mike. So I think we should just go to bed—I mean in our separate bedrooms.”
“I knew what you meant, Clare.”
The detective scratched the stubble on his chin. “All right, then. Go upstairs. Do whatever you can to relax. I’m heading to bed, too. But if any memories come to you, please don’t feel nervous or shy. Wake me up and let me know.”
“I will. Good night.”
SEVENTY-SIX
DO whatever you can to relax . . .
Not so easy in a freezing-cold bedroom.
On the way to my posh igloo, I climbed the mansion’s staircase. Quinn didn’t follow. Instead, he pulled out his phone and headed for the sofa. I got the feeling he’d stayed behind to give me privacy as I went up to the second floor.
A considerate man, I thought, and for that, I was grateful—and a little more trustful.
Cresting the stairs, I noticed Matt’s door was now firmly shut. For some reason this made me melancholy. My ex-husband was no longer the man for me, but he was the only man I could remember being a part of my life, including my love life.
With a sigh, I opened the master bedroom door and began to shiver with more than regret. Earlier today, I had cracked a window for fresh air. But the drop in temperature and the wet storm winds killed any coziness in the large space.
I hurried to shut the window and turn on the gas fireplace. The chill was so strong that I grabbed Esther’s Poetry in Motion jacket from the closet. Pulling it on, I felt something inside. Reaching into a pocket, I found a small stack of postcard-sized art prints.
“Where did these come from?”
My mind went blank. Then I remembered—and this memory was recent: When Madame took me up to the Parkview’s Gotham Suite, these prints had fallen out of Annette Brewster’s private black folder—the one from which her last will and testament was suspiciously missing. I had gathered the cards off the floor and forgotten to put them back. Until now, I’d never taken the time to examine them.
As I shuffled through the six images—beautiful, witty, wistful images—I wondered why they held such significance for Annette. These paintings, reproduced on the small cards, were quite accomplished, but I’d never seen them in books or magazines, or even heard of the artist.
“Jam
es Mazur,” I read on the back of all the cards, along with a gallery address in Paris, and the name for each painting written in English and French.
The first, titled Unexpected Kindness, showed a cold, rainy day on a Paris street. A sad, defeated old man, caught in the downpour, displayed surprise when a smiling young woman offered him an umbrella.
Two more paintings included one of a quiet, dusky Paris street with the only light coming from the golden glow of windows and a standing streetlamp; the companion painting showed the same location alive with activity at midday, flower boxes overflowing with color.
A fourth painting, Parting, portrayed a scene on a lonely train platform of two lovers kissing goodbye. The fifth, Waiting, featured a young waiter in an apron, leaning against a café doorway, gazing with open infatuation at his only customer, a stylish woman sipping her coffee, oblivious to her admirer as she absently stared out the window.
Finally, Sunset Basket depicted the lush French countryside. In the foreground sat a picnic basket filled with bread, cheese, fruit, and wine. In the distance, an older woman rode an old-fashioned bicycle toward a silver-haired gentleman gathering wildflowers.
The narratives of Mazur’s work reminded me of Hopper, but with a much softer, more romantic approach to his subjects. In fact, the style and palette were exactly like the duet of paintings I’d seen hanging in the Gotham Suite—one depicting the Parkview Palace with the horse and carriage out front; the other a portrait of Annette Brewster. I remembered those paintings were unsigned.
But why?
That surreal feeling began creeping through me again. I was sure I knew more about these paintings. But my mind’s blank walls carried only vague shadows and empty frames.
I shoved the cards back into my jacket’s pocket. I felt so alone tonight, so disconnected and displaced, staring at Matt’s empty walls.
Do whatever you can to relax . . .
Detective Quinn’s deep voice came back to me. It was a comforting voice with good advice, and it chased away some of the shadows.
