“Here,” I said, pointing. “Here they are.”
The detective came around the counter, put on his latex gloves again, and removed the jacket and small red leather purse. He opened the purse and pulled out the contents. A brush with strands of blond hair, clear lip gloss, a compact, a red leather wallet, and her keys.
“Keys,” he said tonelessly, resolutely, as if it were the final punctuation to a sentence.
“Are these Anabelle Hart’s keys to this shop?” asked Quinn.
I glanced at the thick ring of keys. I recognized the PETE’S PAINT AND HARDWARE logo on several of them. We used that shop to make all our duplicate keys—everything from the doors to the supply closets. Seeing the little silver ballet dancer charm dangling from the ring made me absolutely sure. “Yes, these are Anabelle’s keys all right.”
Langley and Demetrios glanced at each other and nodded.
“That’s it, then,” said the detective, putting Anabelle’s things back in her purse and placing it carefully on her jean jacket on the counter.
“What’s it?” I asked. “I don’t understand.”
“Locked shop. No forced entry. No sign of foul play. Keys weren’t stolen to relock the door. They’re right here. The hospital will examine the girl for sexual assault or any other sign of attack, but it looks like a tragic accident,” said the detective. “End of story. I’m sorry.”
“No. Wait. That can’t be it—”
“Don’t take it too hard,” said Quinn. “I’m sure the store has insurance, right?”
“For Anabelle’s hospitalization, of course.”
“And for the lawsuit.”
“Lawsuit?”
“Sure. Employees usually sue in these cases. Unsafe workplace.”
“This is not an unsafe workplace!”
The detective put his hands on my shoulders. He spoke quietly. “It was for Anabelle.”
I suddenly felt ill again. But this time I wasn’t losing control. The warmth of Quinn’s hands seemed to help; they were large and strong and steadying.
“It wasn’t an accident,” I told him. “Even though every piece of evidence may say it is, I know this coffeehouse better than the back of my hand. It doesn’t add up to an accident.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do. In my gut.”
“There are things our guts know and then there are things we can prove. The proof is what makes cases, Ms. Cosi. Isn’t that right, Langley?” The detective glanced back at the young officer.
Langley nodded. “I’m sorry, Ms. Cosi,” he said gently. “But the lieutenant’s right.”
I broke away and began to pace. “Listen to me: If Anabelle dragged the garbage can from under the counter, then why isn’t there a garbage trail along the floor? And why did I have to turn on the light in the back area when I arrived? If Anabelle’s fall had been an accident, surely the light would have stayed on. Who turned it off?”
“You’re talking about circumstantial evidence, Ms. Cosi,” said Quinn, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “There could be other explanations. Maybe the girl was in a hurry and didn’t turn on the light, then she lost her balance and spilled the can before she misstepped and fell down the stairs.”
“But Anabelle is a dance student, Lieutenant. She has exceptional balance. She’s so light on her feet. If only you could have seen her move around the shop. She’s so beautiful and graceful. She doesn’t walk, she glides, floats.”
I knew I was rationalizing, trying to find a logical justification for the feeling in my gut. I knew that Quinn had a point, that he’d seen a hundred crime scenes to my one. But my guts were never wrong. Well, hardly ever anyway, and it had taken thirty-nine years for me to learn to trust them, so that’s what I was going to do.
“No, no, no!” I shook my head violently. “Something wrong happened here. It wasn’t just an accident.”
“Ms. Cosi, you have to have grounds for theories of foul play—other than the ones on your floor.”
“But what if Anabelle wakes up and tells us what those grounds are?” I asked. “What if it turns out that someone tried to harm her? Don’t you need to collect evidence to prove her charges?”
Quinn nodded. “We’ve got a Crime Scene Unit coming down. Demetrios, check in with dispatch on an ETA.”
“Sure. They should have been here by now.”
“It’s been a busy night.”
“That Ivanoff shooting?” asked Langley.
“Yeah,” said the detective.
“You on that, too?” asked Demetrios.
“Jackson and I have been working it since past midnight. Drury’s on leave. Sanchez has the flu, and Turelli and Katz are working a fresh stabbing. So I’m doubling up on this one.” The detective checked his watch. “Guess I’ve been up about twenty-eight hours now.”
“No offense, Detective,” said Langley, “but you look it.”
“Let me make you that coffee,” I said. “I can make it upstairs, in my apartment, and bring it down so I won’t disturb anything more.”
Quinn pulled out a chair and sat down. When he did, his face fell completely and his entire body seemed to finally give in to exhaustion. “Yeah,” he said after a long exhale. “Guess I could use it while I wait for the CSU to get here. Thanks.”
“Of course,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”
“Ms. Cosi?” Quinn called.
“Yes?”
“I’ll need a list of employee names and addresses—anyone who’s worked here since Anabelle started.”
“Of course, of course!”
“Look, don’t get your hopes up,” he warned as I picked up Java’s carrier and headed for the back stairs. (She’d managed to cat nap through this morning’s entire Dragnet scenario.)
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean I’ll pursue this on a limited basis, but chances are it was simply an accident, so prepare yourself. If the medical evidence supports that conclusion, the girl will have a case against the store—and you’d better prepare the owner. If she dies, the family may end up owning this place.”
I didn’t respond. What was there to say? Quinn was in no shape to be argued with. I simply gritted my teeth and headed for my duplex apartment above the Blend, quietly determined to find out what had really happened here last night—with or without the help of Homicide Detective Lieutenant Quinn.
Seven
“Okay, Java, I’m breaking you out.”
On hold with St. Vincent’s, I swung open the cage door of the PetLove carrier. A pink nose and white whiskers emerged, then four coffee bean–colored paws. Java excitedly sniffed every inch of the intricately patterned area rug that covered a large square of the parquet floor.
A nurse came on the line. Anabelle had been admitted to the intensive care unit, but the nurse couldn’t tell me anything more. I sighed, hung up, and said a short prayer as Java’s soft brown fur rubbed against my leg. I bent to stroke her. She stretched, arching her back, then continued to sniff out the place.
“So what do you think of your new home?”
The mrrrrow sounded like an approval to me, but then Java always did have good taste. Madame had lived here long before real estate values in the West Village had pushed the price tag on a duplex like this one into the million-dollar range.
The gorgeous apartment was one of the big reasons I’d agreed to manage the Blend again. That and being closer to Joy. At the thought of her, I automatically dialed her cell. It rang four times and then: “You’ve reached Joy. I’m probably sautéing something right now, so leave a message!”
“Hi, Cookie, it’s me—” I tried hard to keep my voice from shaking. “Something’s happened this morning at the Blend…and…oh, you know, I just wanted to see you tonight. If you’re free, come on over for dinner. Otherwise, maybe you can stop by for a cup of java—”
“Mrrrow.”
“Not you, Java,” I said as I hung up, immediately feeling guilty. Joy was busy with culinary school in Soho and a new Manhattan social life. The last thing she needed was Mommy butting in. But after seeing Anabelle lying motionless on that cold basement floor, I knew I wouldn’t sleep tonight until I saw my daughter again.