“I see. That’s really... amazing.”
Franco smiled. “And you thought I was just another pretty face.”
“No, Sergeant. What I thought was—I’m sorry, but I thought you might be the shooter, some kind of vigilante doling out street justice.”
“I’m not all that surprised.” He shrugged. “I know you had your boyfriend ask around about me. Whether I was a good cop.”
“And?”
“And Mike Quinn got his answers. Ask him.”
“I don’t need to, Sergeant. Not anymore.”
Franco nodded, looking pleased. “So...” He glanced at Mike’s building. “Is your man up there?”
“I don’t think so. Can I use your cell phone to call him?”
Digging into his pocket, he smirked. “As long as it’s local...”
QUINN was extremely relieved to hear from me. “I left five messages on your voice mail, sweetheart.”
“I’m sorry, Mike, I didn’t have my cell phone with me—”
“When I couldn’t reach you, I finally contacted Detective Hong. He filled me in. You should be pleased, Cosi.” I could hear the pride in Quinn’s tone. “Based on what you’ve uncovered, Hong is looking for evidence to link Alf’s killing with Karl’s. They might have come to that conclusion eventually, but you speeded up the process. And crimes have a much better chance of being solved when they’re—”
“—hot, I know. What about Dickie?” I asked after recounting my adventures in the New York Public Library, including my candy cane tangle with the man’s Known Associate.
“Hong’s already reached out to the Two-Oh on that—”
“You mean the Twentieth Precinct, right?”
“Right, sorry. That’s who caught the Kovic murder. They’re picking up Dickie right now for questioning. I’ll call Hong and let him know about the man who tried to assault you in the Public Library’s basement. If Dickie doesn’t give up a name, we’ll have you go through mug shots. The Twentieth Precinct house is on Eighty-second. I’ll take you myself tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay...” I sighed with relief and explained my current dilemma. “I’m sorry, Mike, but I don’t have a key with me to get into my place or yours.”
He told me what to do and asked me to put Franco on the line.
I did, thanking the sergeant again for his help, and then I climbed out of his unmarked car, punched in the front door code on Quinn’s building, and took the elevator up to Dr. Mel Billings’s apartment (a neighbor and coworker of Quinn’s who kept a spare key to his place).
Mel let me into Quinn’s one-bedroom, and I locked the door behind me. Then I rang Tucker, left a message on his cell to take my handbag and clothes with him when he left the library, and headed straight into a hot shower.
Toweling off, I heard the front door unlock and open. I smiled with relief, already feeling better because Mike was finally home. Using a small hand dryer, I took a few minutes to fluff up my chestnut hair. Then I sprayed on a bit of perfume, glossed my lips, wrapped a terrycloth robe around me, and began swinging the bathroom door out toward the bedroom.
“Hey, big boy! Guess who?”
I froze at the sound of a strange woman’s singsong voice—and pushed the door the rest of the way open.
Sitting on Mike’s king-size bed was a tall, slender, thirtysomething woman. Her most striking feature—a silky curtain of red curls—framed a delicately sculpted face with a complexion of flawless porcelain. A Mrs. Claus baby-doll nightie barely covered the woman’s long, slender torso. Her Rockette-length legs were crossed; her pretty feet manicured with holiday red polish; and the expression in her big, blue, doll-like eyes was one of pure shock.
Okay, that made two of us in shock.
“Who are you?” I demanded—and that’s when I remembered. This was the same Blend customer who’d been giving me nasty looks for the past week. I’d assumed she’d been holding a grudge because of our argument on the night of Alf’s murder. Obviously, I’d been wrong.
“I’m Leila!” she now informed me. “Leila Quinn!”
“Mike’s ex-wife!”
I closed my eyes. Mike never wanted to talk about Leila. He displayed no photos of her, and I’d never pressed him for details. I thought I was letting the man heal, allowing him space from bad memories. Now I could see what that naive trust had wrought.
Opening my eyes, I glared. “Why are you here?”
“Excuse me,” she snapped, “why are you here?”
“Mike invited me!”
“Well, he invited me, too,” Leila said with a pout. “And you know what? Three’s a crowd!” She pointed to one of her wrists and, right in front of me, handcuffed herself to Mike’s bedpost!
My God. Matt was right. He’d warned me that Quinn was seeing some redhead...
“You know what, Leila?” I said. “Three is a crowd.”
Hurt, humiliated, and so angry I couldn’t see straight, I moved to the drawer Quinn had set aside for me, yanked out jeans, a sweater, socks. I didn’t have shoes here, but the black go-go boots would do. I went back into the bathroom, dressed, and began to storm out.
As I reached the front door, the man walked in.
“Get out of my way, you son of a—”
“Clare!” Quinn took hold of my shoulders, stopping me. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” Through a filmy blur of exasperated tears, I glared at the lying, cheating, jerk of a—“I just witnessed your ex-wife handcuffing herself to your bed, wearing a Mrs. Claus nightie, and you ask me what’s wrong?!”
For three mind-numbing seconds, Quinn’s confused expression dropped into horrified shock. Then his face flushed with pure fury.
“Wait right here,” he bit out.
“No! I’m leaving—”
“Please, Clare, wait. You need to see this!”
Swiping away my angry tears, I stiffly stood by the apartment’s open door, vowing to give the man no more than thirty seconds for whatever stunt he was about to pull.
Twenty-Nine
Quinn kicked open the bedroom door.
“Get out.”
“Oh, calm down,” Leila replied with a little-girl voice. “You want me here, Mike. Admit it...”
“You have no right. No right to invade my privacy.”
“You gave me a key!”
“I gave you a key because you can’t seem to drop off our kids anywhere close to a time we’ve agreed on. I gave you a key for Molly and Jeremy, not to handcuff yourself to my damn bedpost!”
Quinn cursed a blue streak. I could hear him manipulating the cuffs, unlocking them. “Get dressed—”
“You’ll change your mind. You will—”
“Listen to me, Leila. I told you a dozen times over the last week. I don’t want you in my bed ever again. Have you got that?”
“You’re just acting like this because she’s in the next room listening.”
“Get out. Now. Or I swear to God I will have you arrested for trespassing.”
Leila laughed. “Go ahead. Why do you think I brought the toy handcuffs? Remember when we first got married? They used to be your favorite—”
Quinn cursed again. “Get out!”
I gritted my teeth as I listened to the scene, remembering too well how ugly things had gotten between me and Matt at the end of our marriage. As I heard Leila stomping toward the bedroom door, my whole body went rigid. A second later, her statuesque figure sashayed across Quinn’s living room. She was fully dressed now—a cashmere sweater and little skirt, a dainty box handbag dangling on her slender arm.
“Here!” Mike grabbed her overcoat off his couch and flung it at her.
I’d never seen him so angry. This was no act. He was absolutely furious.
Leila picked the coat up off the floor and took her time putting it on. Her big blue eyes connected with mine, then collapsed into slits. “He’ll change his mind about you.” Her voice was no longer girlishly saccharine. The tone was bitter, guttural, threatening. “And when he does, I’ll be there.”