“Quinn?” Matt griped. “What does that flatfoot want?”
I shushed him. A moment later, Quinn ambled down the stairs with the young officer in tow.
Matt greeted him with a smirk. “Well, well, what do you know, it’s one of Clare’s favorite customers. What brings you here, Quinn? A sudden interest in decaf?”
“Thanks for finding him, Clare,” Quinn said, his tone dryly implying I’d been warning him instead. “You can go now.”
Matt stared at Quinn. His smirk was gone. “What’s this about?”
“Mr. Allegro,” Quinn said, “where were you between four o’clock and eight o’clock tonight?”
“Don’t you want to know where I was before I came down here? She did.”
Shut up Matt, I wanted to scream.
“Just answer the question,” Quinn said.
“I was right here at the hotel.”
“This hotel. The Beekman Tower Hotel?”
“What the hell is this about?” Matt demanded.
“Ellie’s dead, Matt,” I said. “Quinn says she was murdered.”
I saw the shock on Matt’s face.
“I said you can go, Clare.” Quinn didn’t look at me. Instead he met the eyes of the young man in uniform.
The patrolman touched my arm. “Ma’am, come with me, please,” he said quietly. “Let’s go upstairs.”
I didn’t know what else to do, so I let myself be led back to the restaurant.
At the top of the stairs, it was pandemonium. Two more detectives had arrived. One was issuing orders. He was tall, with receding blond hair, round wire-rimmed glasses, and an exceedingly neat appearance.
“Who’s this?” he said when he saw the young officer escorting me.
“This is Ms. Cosi,” he replied. “Detective Quinn asked me to bring her upstairs.”
“Quinn... Quinn... Why can’t I place that name?” He tucked a thumb into the vest pocket of his three-piece suit.
“Lieutenant Michael Quinn,” said the young officer. “He’s from the Sixth, sir. He’s here about another matter.”
The tall detective scowled. “He needs to talk to me.”
The detective then ordered the policeman I was with to start corralling the potential witnesses to Carlos Hernandez’sdrop. He and his men were going to start questioning them. The policeman took off and so did I. I hurried over to the booth I’d seen Matt using when he’d made those final calls.
The slips of paper I noticed earlier were still there, and I snatched them up. There were numbers scrawled on the page. Big numbers, little numbers, no dollar signs. I tucked the paper in my pocket just as a new officer approached.
“Ma’am, I need you to come with me. We have to ask everyone at this event a few questions...”
I nodded. A few minutes later, I saw Quinn again. After speaking with the nattily dressed detective from Midtown East, he and two uniformed officers escorted both Matt and Ric Gostwick to the elevators.
Twenty-One
IT was very late when I found myself standing on the corner of Forty-ninth Street and First Avenue. In the darkness I could see the long trail of traffic lights, running up to Harlem. They looked like a surreal runway, marking the path north with colorful points of illumination. First they glowed green, like newborn coffee berries; then they turned yellow, the color of caution, of not quite ready. Finally, they went red. All the way uptown, I could see the color of ripeness, maturity, fruit ready to be picked, sold, and roasted for someone else’s morning delight.
Red was also the color of blood, and I remembered the blood on the sidewalk. I looked for it on the shadowy pavement. But the dark stain was gone, washed away, I presumed, by the storm. When I looked up again, a strange, dense mist was sweeping toward me. Like those earlier clouds that enveloped the Beekman Tower, it encircled my body, blotting out everything.
“Mommy?”
The voice came to me, sweet and young. It was Joy’s voice, from years ago. Had I imagined it?
“Mommy, I’m here.”
I felt the smallness of her hand as it gripped my shoulder. I turned quickly, but no one was there. “Joy?!” I called, rubbing my arms. Alone on the street, I shivered, aware the damp night had grown colder.
“I’m up here, Mom!”
Joy’s voice again, but she wasn’t close anymore. She sounded older, angrier, much farther away. “I’m falling!” She was high above me now. I could hear her voice, near the Top of the Tower, beyond the fog.
“I’m falling, Mom!”
Frantically, I searched the misty ceiling. But there was no sign of her. No movement, no colorful points of light to guide my way north to her.
“Mom!”
“I’ll catch you, Joy!” I promised, running up and down the block, my arms outstretched. “I’ll catch you!”
I slammed into something—a solid wall. As I reeled backward, a woman stepped out in front of me, right out of the mist. She stood and stared.
“It’s me, Clare.”
“Ellie?”
It was Ellie Lassiter, but not the Ellie I’d met at the Botanic Garden. It was the Ellie I’d known years ago, when we’d been friends, with her long strawberry blond hair lifting on a breeze, her freckled smile wide. It was Ellie when she’d been young and happy... and alive.
“Catch him, Clare,” she urged me. “Please, catch him.”
I heard a vehicle racing up the avenue. I turned to see a pair of headlights cutting through the mist. The pale, weak beams grew stronger, then came the vehicle itself, a black SUV. It passed through the fog like a phantom, coming into view, then vanishing again.
I turned back to the sidewalk. Ellie was gone.
I opened my eyes.
A toy piano was playing “Edelweiss.” Still fuzzy from the dream, it took me a few seconds to realize I wasn’t listening to a child tapping out my favorite tune from The Sound of Music, but the ringtone of my cell phone.
I pulled it from the pocket of my black slacks, flipped it open. “Hello?”
“Clare, it’s me.”
“Where are you?”
“Out front. Let me in.”
It was more of a command than a request, but I wasn’t going to stand on ceremony with Mike Quinn at two in the morning.
“Okay. Give me a minute.”
The lights were off downstairs because the Village Blend was closed. I’d been working in my second floor office when I grew chilly, lit a fire in the hearth, and dozed off on an overstuffed armchair. The dream I’d had was disturbing, but Mike was here and I focused on that.
Rising from the armchair, I groaned, my back stiff from the twisted way I’d been napping. Rubbing the tendons in my neck, I descended the customer staircase, a spiral of wrought iron that led right down to the first floor coffee bar.
Matt and Ric were still in police custody, and I’d had no idea what to do, other than wait for Quinn to get in touch. Breanne had run off to call one of her attorney friends, and I’d thanked her for any way she could help.
As for me, once the Midtown detectives finished questioning my staff, I returned with them to the Blend. Because of the launch party, we’d closed the coffeehouse for the night, but I still had to properly stow the French presses, cups, and the unused roasted beans. I was behind on paperwork, too, and the next day was Saturday, one of our busiest. I knew the morning would be here all too soon.
“Are you okay?”
Quinn’s first words. I was glad they were personal.
“Yes,” I said. “Just a little stiff.”
“It’s freezing tonight, don’t let in the cold.”
He looked weary but still alert. His blue eyes were sharp, though the dark smudges under them told me he hadn’t slept in a long time. His sandy brown hair was tossed by the wind, and his jawline was rough with stubble.
We headed upstairs, back to the second floor, where my fire was still burning. Quinn declined coffee, said he needed to power nap and get up early. The investigation was in high gear, but before heading back to his East Village flat, he wanted to check in with me, see how I was, and ask me a few questions.