“I’ll tell you about it later.”
“Well, I hope you weren’t telling her what happened with me this morning. I take it you heard about the Topaz bagman by now? Cop gossip. Or maybe the Fish Squad filled you in—”
“Oh, I heard. You’re the talk of the PD today, Cosi. Let’s just say I got a lot of pats on the back, along with plenty of ribbing, mostly guys asking why my girlfriend didn’t phone me for the collar.”
“It wasn’t your jurisdiction.”
“My jurisdiction? I see. Well, how about we find my jurisdiction . . .”
Mike grabbed my wrist and tugged.
“Hey! Where are we going?”
He didn’t reply. Like a caveman in a mating frenzy, the man simply pulled me toward the kitchen’s glass double doors, a service exit that allowed the catering staff to reach the Garden.
Against my better judgment (although not my hormones) I willingly followed. The rain was still coming down, but an awning extending out from the doorway kept us relatively dry.
This part of the roof had the feel of a balcony or (given the downpour) a narrow section of Noah’s deck. A corner of the building cut us off from the bulk of the event area. Far to my right, I could barely make out a sliver of the lighted Garden—like catching part of an ark’s bow from the vessel’s port side. Yet in front of us we had the same billion dollar view, a virtual sea of city lights.
At only seven stories north of Fifth, we floated just above the Midtown streets. Glistening towers of glass and stone rose up around us like dramatically lit stalagmites. Across the avenue, the Gothic steeples of St. Patrick’s Cathedral loomed whitely in the night like twin spires of a delicately carved ice palace.
Mike kept us under the overhang, just a few steps away from the kitchen doors still veiled by shadows. He swung me around and pressed my back to the wall. The surface was cold, but his caressing hands felt warm against my chilled skin.
“I still don’t understand,” I whispered as his lips began to nibble. “Why did this deputy commissioner Hawke make such a big deal about calling you in?”
“He wanted all the paperwork on the Brooklyn suicide and the Jersey drug dealer the kid had been buying from. He’s turning everything over to the Feds. In the meantime, he had another case for me. An important one.”
“What case?”
“A cold case. He said I was in a unique position to handle it.”
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you about it—later.”
“You’re putting me off?”
“Only for a little while. The truth is, I’m going to need you.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. This cold case puts you in a prime position to help me. And speaking of prime positions . . .”
Mike’s body pressed into me.
“We shouldn’t be doing this—” I lamely rasped, until his kiss convinced me otherwise.
For a time we were content, wrapped in a cocoon of bliss, our mouths sealed, the magical lights of Rockefeller Plaza shimmering through the soft rain. Then something far less ethereal kicked in.
My skin began to tingle and my heart rate picked up. A rush of adrenaline seemed to heighten every touch, every kiss. Was Mocha Magic really this potent? I’d only sampled a little yet I felt genuinely breathless, slightly dizzy. Clearly, Mike did, too. When his big hands began roughly tugging up my skirt, I knew he’d lost his head.
“Mike, no!” I pushed hard at his chest, smoothed my skirt back down. “Not here.”
“Where, then,” he whispered, breath searing my ear. “Your place? Later?”
“Actually, no.”
He tensed.
“Joy’s come home unexpectedly. She’ll be staying with me.”
“How about after Joy goes to sleep?”
I shook my head.
“Come to my place, then.”
“I’ll try.”
“Better do more than try, Cosi . . .”
Mike’s primal need for fleshly delights reasserted itself. Once again, I felt his hands shortening my hemline. This time I didn’t stop him. My own unbearable need for release had finally short-circuited every synapse of my better judgment.
Thank heaven for the urgent ringtone of his cell, which put the brakes on his out-of-control libido (and mine). Mike cursed softly as he answered the cell call with one hand, kept tight hold of me with the other.
“Yeah, Sully.”
Mike listened, his face growing impatient. “And this has to be done now and not later?”
Within a minute, the conversation was over. As he put away his phone, I readjusted (and rebuttoned), which took a good minute.
“It seems a certain member of the NYPD requires my attention,” he said, clearly annoyed. (Those little veins at his temples were more accurate readers of his mood than a standard polygraph test.)
“Hey, look on the bright side,” I said, “this morning you thought you were out of a job.”
“I also thought I’d be spending the evening with you.”
“The evening’s not over yet,” I whispered.
“You really understand?”
I smiled, leaned close, and kissed him deeply. “I know you, Michael Ryan Francis Quinn. When duty calls, you go . . .” Then, taking his hand, I led him out of the Garden and back into the light.
Seventeen
At the elevator bank, I gave Mike’s hand a final squeeze. By now, the gathering was breaking up, and the cars to the lobby were crowded. Just before the doors shut, Mike sandwiched himself between a pair of jovial middle-aged confectionary executives, asking directions to the Carnegie Deli.
Before returning to the party, I used the glass on the rain-streaked Garden doors as a mirror to check my state. As I turned my wrecked French twist into a simple ponytail, I spied another reflection in the glass.
A young woman in a red jacket moved toward the elevator bank with a new group of departing guests. Despite her hood being up, I recognized my daughter immediately.
Now where is Little Red Riding Hood going? I wondered. If I were a suspicious parent, I might conclude she was up to something.
The moment I confronted Joy, she turned doe-eyed. “Oh, hi, Mom!” she chirped, way too energetically. “I was looking all over for you!”
“Well, you found me. Where are you sneaking off to?”
“I’m not sneaking. How funny!” Joy laughed (in a pitch too high) and gave me a one-armed hug. When the elevator car binged, she pecked my cheek and ducked inside. Only then did I spot the glossy black box tucked under her jacket—the one marked in white grease pencil with the letters REF.
“I’m just meeting a friend!” she sang while jamming the lobby button over and over. “Going to catch up while I’m in town . . .”
“What friend?” I asked.
“I’ll tell you in the morning. I have the key to the duplex. Don’t wait up—”
The sliding doors cut off any further discussion.
Okay, so my daughter was an adult and she had plenty of close friends in the city. But the stealthy way she was attempting to depart, along with that box of Raspberry-Espresso Flowers, set off alarms in my head.
I hurried back to the party to question Matt.
By now, the Loft space was half empty. The final, lingering guests had clustered themselves into two tight knots on opposite ends of the room. The larger group was exclusively male—all of them buyers, circling Maya Lansing.
I didn’t see Matt, but it did dawn on me that Maya was still here. Clearly, no showdown had taken place between her and Alicia. Almost immediately, I saw why. The elusive Captain Herbie was now glued to Maya’s side.
Given the fitness queen’s oh-so-perfect butt, I was more than a little surprised to find her husband a stout, middle-aged regular guy. He was cute enough—a teddy bear with a yachtsman’s cap, but he was obviously no bodybuilder, which meant the identity of “Dennis St. Julian” and the purpose of his fake murder this morning remained a mystery.