“Into my office,” Detective Bass commanded. She shoved us into a marble-walled bathroom stall and locked the door behind us. The stall was quite spacious, a mercy, considering there were three of us crammed in there.
“Are you going to wear the wire?” Detective Bass whispered to me.
“The wire? What for?”
“That guy, the one who was chatting you up? He’s our prime suspect.”
“That kid, Simon? You’re telling me he’s a May-September gangster? He said he was a fashion designer—”
Bass snorted. “Simon, huh? And he’s a fashion designer? That’s real funny, because he told me his name was Richard, and he worked on Wall Street.”
“Sounds suspicious to me,” Soles agreed.
“Or the SOB is married,” Bass replied. “In which case, the situation’s even more pathetic than I originally figured, because it means I can’t even get a lowlife scumbag to be straight with me.”
“Please, Sue Ellen…” Soles shook her head. “Let’s not delve into your dating habits—”
“Easy for you to say. You’re a happy newlywed.”
Soles rolled her eyes. “And you’re the one with the commitment problem!”
“True.” Bass shrugged. “But there are too many cute guys on the force. Like Lieutenant Quinn out there. He’s pretty hot, but word is he’s taken.”
“Already?” Soles asked. “He just split with his wife.”
Sue Ellen shrugged. “Whoever the lucky lady is, the man’s got it bad for her.”
Oh, Lord.
Her partner hushed her, faced me. “Look, Ms. Cosi. We really need you to do this. Lieutenant Quinn told me to tell you something else. He said he wouldn’t ask if he didn’t need this.”
I nodded. The man had gone out on a limb enough times for me. The least I could do was return the favor. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
“There’s a risk,” Detective Soles warned. “These guys have been violent in the past. We’ll be on you like glue, but you could still get roughed up if we drop the ball—”
“We won’t,” Detective Bass declared.
“But it’s a possibility,” Soles added.
“What do you want me to do?”
Detective Soles glanced at her partner. “I told you she’d do it. This one can take care of herself.”
“You’re going to wear a wire, honey,” Sue Ellen Bass said as she reached into her bag. “Ask simple ‘Simon’ out there to escort you home. You live in the Village, right? We’ll monitor your conversation after you leave the club. We’ll follow you, too. If he tries to rob you, or rape you, or even look at you funny, we’ll know it and come running.”
“What if he’s innocent?”
Sue Ellen yanked a radio, battery pack, and a tiny microphone on a long wire out of her bag and untangled it. “Then you have nothing to worry about.”
Detective Soles fumbled with the buttons on my blouse.
“Excuse me? What are you doing?!”
“The wire goes under your clothes.”
It took several minutes, but eventually I was ready. The transmitter was tapped to my belly, the microphone wire running up, under my bra, to the microphone itself, which was nestled between my breasts.
“Did you bring a coat?” Bass asked, checking out my breasts.
“Of course. It’s freezing outside.”
“Well, don’t button it; you might cover the mike.”
“Okay, Ms. Cosi. Say something.” Soles commanded, slipping a headset over her tight blond curls.
“Say what?” I asked.
Detective Soles listened and nodded to her partner. “It works. Now we need a panic phrase—”
My eyes widened. “A what?”
“Something you say that lets us know that you’re in real trouble,” Sue Ellen replied in an exasperated tone, as if I should know this stuff already.
“Oh, sure, a panic phrase,” I replied flatly. “How about ‘Help, help, I’m being mugged’?”
Detective Soles rolled her eyes. “That won’t work. What if he’s holding a knife on you? If you yell that, he’ll just finish you off.”
“Can’t you just follow me and see that I’m in trouble?” I said.
“We can try to keep a visual on you,” Soles said, “but what if he pulls you into the shadows where we can’t see you? Or takes you into some private lobby, where our presence would tip him off?”
“We have to rely on the wire,” Detective Bass insisted.
“And the panic phrase,” Lori Soles reminded her. Then she looked down at me (a long trip) and put her large hand on my small shoulder. “If something bad starts to go down, and you want us to rush in, you have to say something that’s not at all appropriate, something that will confuse the perp long enough for us to move in. We’ll need about fifteen seconds, at least, and that’s enough time for a guy like this to kill you.”
“Okay, I’m convinced,” I said. “Like what?”
“Just say ‘Carnegie Hall,’” Soles replied. “We’ll understand.”
“Carnegie Hall?” I smirked. “Are you sure I don’t have to practice first?”
Soles laughed, glanced at her partner. “This one’s quick. I think she’s gonna do it for us.”
“Okay, honey,” Sue Ellen Bass said, slapping me on the back. “Get out there and break the little scumbag’s heart, so I can crack his skull.”
Detective Soles and I left the bathroom together. I could tell she was relieved to see that Simon Ward was still waiting where we left him. She made a big show of saying good-bye, making sure to mention that I would be going home alone now.
“Thanks, Clare,” Detective Soles said, squeezing my shoulder reassuringly as she pecked my cheek. “I’ve got to go find my man.”
I took the blue martini from Simon and drained it in one gulp.
“You’re friend seems a little…scatterbrained,” he said.
“She is.” I nodded. “She might be a little tipsy, too.”
“You’ve finished your drink in a hurry. You may feel a little tipsy soon, too.”
“That’s why I’m going home,” I told him. Simon frowned—until I took his arm and added, “But not alone, I hope. You know, I don’t live far at all, but I could use a chaperone on the walk home.”
Simon grinned and patted my hand. “I’ll be your escort—how’s that? I have far too many designs on you to be an effective chaperone.”
I laughed, only half faking it. I had trouble believing Simon was anything more than a charming young man who had a way with the ladies—which was also (eesh) a fairly accurate description of a May-September gang member, come to think of it.
We waited a few minutes at the coat check. Simon retrieved our stuff. As he helped me into my coat, he leaned close and gave me a light kiss on the back of my neck. I stiffened, remembering Mike was watching this—or, at the very least, listening.
Outside, the line was still long, but it was colder than I remembered it. We stepped onto Fourth Avenue, and a blast of arctic air hit us.
“Too cold.” Simon groaned, reaching for a cell phone. “I’ll call my driver.”
He hit a speed-dial button and waited a moment. “Bring the car around. I’m outside Flux on Fourth Avenue.” He paused. “What do you mean, traffic?” He faced Fourth Avenue. It was jammed with cars. “Fine,” he said, sounding annoyed. “I’ll meet you on Broadway.”
Simon pocketed his phone and took my arm a little roughly.
“This way,” he said, leading me down shadowy Eleventh Street. It was late, and all the businesses were closed. A block ahead, I could see traffic moving along Broadway, but where we were now, between Fourth and Broadway, it was the twilight zone, completely deserted.
“So where do you live, Clare?” Simon asked, his tone back to upbeat and pleasant.
“Above a coffeehouse, actually. On Hudson Street. I’m—”
The sucker punch came out of nowhere—which is probably why they call it a sucker punch. One second I was walking along, chatting away; the next I was reeling, down on my knees, thrown by force into a shadowy alley.