“That’s Monica’s mother,” Roman piped up. “A divorced beauty queen on a Botox bender. Someone should really stop that woman.”
“The other call was to Petra, Trend’s art director. The final three didn’t have names in her log. I was going to run them through the Internet’s reverse directory.”
Mike nodded, and I went to work. The first two of the three numbers had Manhattan area codes, and the search engine revealed that one was for the Fitness Plus Day Spa on Eighth Avenue and Seventy-first Street; the second was a health food store on Amsterdam.
“The local numbers are a bust,” I said, disappointed.
I’d scribbled a star beside the final telephone number, because that was the call Monica had made outside of Fen’s boutique, when she informed someone not only where Breanne was but also that Breanne’s rings hadn’t arrived yet and weren’t scheduled to until Nunzio brought them personally.
I typed the number into the search engine.
“Information not available?”
“It’s unlisted,” Mike said. He scribbled the digits down in his notebook and pulled out his cell phone.
“Are you calling your precinct to have someone trace the number?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I’m calling the number.”
Mike listened for a moment then disconnected the call.
“What did you get?” I asked.
“An answering machine. No name or business. Just a canned mechanical voice telling me to leave a message.” He dialed another number. “Put me through to the one-oh-seven.”
While Mike spoke with the precinct’s night commander, I pulled yet another espresso for Roman—at his request. Then I dug up the Manhattan phone book. Monica Purcell was listed; her apartment was on the Upper West Side, not very far from the health club and veggie deli stored on her cell phone log. I wrote down the address and finished my own latte.
“Thanks for your help,” Quinn said, ending the call.
I set the cup down. “Well?”
“Captain Blunt strongly suggests you both return to Queens tomorrow to file crime reports with his detectives. It’s the 107th Precinct on Parsons Boulevard.”
“A police report? With my name on it!” Roman’s eyes bugged. “I’ll be ruined. No one will ever invite me to an underground restaurant again.”
Mike’s glance at me wasn’t amused. “Believe me, Brio, word about your little secret garden in Flushing is already out. The detectives of the one-oh-seven are all over the crime scene as we speak. It was the woman who owned the house, a Mrs. Weng, who called the robbery in. Several other diners have also filed reports, so I think you’ll be forgiven.”
Quinn turned to me. “No arrests have been made, Clare. Even the man you assaulted with hot sauce recovered enough to flee the scene. They did recover some of the stolen property. Maybe you’ll get your purse back.” He folded his arms. “And maybe Roman can identify the perp you dumped off the 7 train, or maybe the punk will turn up in the hospital or the morgue. Otherwise...”
“We’re not out of leads yet, Mike. We still have Monica Purcell. She lives near Sixty-ninth Street, on Amsterdam Avenue. I say we go see her right now.”
Quinn glanced at his watch. “Okay, Clare. But first we’ll drop Mr. Brio here and those one-of-a-kind rings he’s holding at his home, before something else happens that jeopardizes the wedding”—he met my eyes—“and any chance of ejecting Allegro from your living space.”
Ten minutes later, Quinn had double-parked in front of Roman’s Soho building, and we both escorted the man through the lobby and all the way up to the front door of his loft apartment.
“Are you sure you won’t come in?” Roman asked. “There’s a passable port and an exquisite Stilton in the larder, and I always have Dom Perignon well-chilled for just such an occasion.”
“What occasion?” Quinn asked.
“Surviving New York. What else?”
Quinn’s eyebrow arched (which, in my experience with the man, was as good as a hearty guffaw). “Maybe some other time,” he told Roman. “Just be sure to get a good night’s sleep. I’m going to dispatch a sector car to check up on you at ten AM. Answer the door, okay? Or I’ll have them break it down.”
I half expected a sarcastic retort from the acerbic foodie, but none came. Roman simply nodded. “Thank you, Lieutenant, for all of your help. Good night to you both.”
Fifteen minutes after that, Quinn double-parked again, this time on the West Side. (I did love parking with the man, since he essentially had a license to ignore New York’s draconian regulations.)
Monica Purcell lived in a nineteen-story apartment building on Amsterdam, a few blocks away from Lincoln Center. The ground floor was dominated by a national clothing outlet and a Go Mobile phone store. A door between the two storefronts led to the lobby and the apartments above. Mike showed the sleepy doorman his gold shield, and the man admitted us.
“Monica Purcell?” I asked.
“Twelve D.”
We rode the mirrored elevator to the twelfth floor. Quinn’s knuckles politely knocked on the woman’s door several times; then the meat of his fist took over. He pounded for a while, but no one answered. A small dog began yapping in another apartment. A middle-aged man opened the door; a tiny furry head poked out and back in again.
“Can I help you?” he said.
Mike flashed his gold shield. “Do you know if Ms. Purcell is home?”
“Sorry. I don’t know anything. I mind my own business.”
The door shut in our faces, and the little dog resumed its annoying yapping. I smirked, remembering Breanne’s comment to Roman, calling me a badly dressed Chihuahua.
“Mike, if I were a dog, what breed would I be?”
“Huh?”
“Forget it.” I checked my watch. “Monica really should be home. It’s almost two in the morning on a Tuesday night. The girl said something about clubbing. But tomorrow’s a workday for her.”
“She could be sleeping at a boyfriend’s house—or with a guy she picked up. Either way, there’s no way to find her now. Why don’t we go to Trend’s offices in the morning and question her there?”
I stifled a yawn. “Okay.”
“All right then, Cosi, let’s get going.” Mike’s long strides were already halfway down the carpeted hall.
I had to move double the speed to keep up. “Slow down, Mike. Where are we going?”
Mike shook his head. “How quickly she forgets.”
“Forgets? Forgets what? Seriously, Mike, where are we going?”
Mike jabbed his thumb into the elevator button. He braced his legs, folded his arms, and looked down at me. “Don’t you remember our little conversation this morning in Interview Room B?”
I folded my own arms. “I remember blaming you for getting me into this case.”
“And did I or did I not promise I’d make it up to you?”
“Your point?” My hands moved to my hips.
Mike’s blue gaze followed my hands. Then it dropped lower and traveled back up my body, taking its time moving over my new little Fen outfit. Ever so slightly, the edges of his mouth lifted.
“Simple, Cosi. A promise is a promise.”
With a bing, the elevator arrived. Seeing it was empty, Mike gave me a full-on smile. “C’mon,” he said, “we’re going to my place.” Then he reached for my wrist and pulled me inside.
When I opened my eyes the next morning, I felt something heavy draped across my bare midriff. Confused for a moment, I glanced around. Mike was lying beside me on his stomach, his arm curled possessively around my torso.