Holiday Grind Page 6

  “Almost?”

  “I started ranting as soon as I heard your voice—then I realized it was your prerecorded voice and I pulled myself together.”

  “You were hysterical?” Quinn’s grim expression lightened a fraction.

  “Listen, Lieutenant, I’m not a professional. I admit it, okay? But I have seen a dead body or two, as you well know.”

  Quinn’s crow’s feet crinkled in amusement, no doubt with a memory of one of the criminal cases I’d helped the NYPD clear. Not that anyone with a badge and a gun would acknowledge me as anything more than a “helpful witness,” excepting, of course, the cop sitting on my bed.

  “So what did you tell the detectives?” he asked.

  “It doesn’t matter. They didn’t deem it ‘important’ to the case.”

  “Who didn’t? Who’s the lead detective?”

  “A sergeant named Franco. Emmanuel Franco.”

  “The General.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t ask me how he got the nickname. He’s new at the Sixth, although not with the PD. He’s had a lot of success running street crime task forces in the boroughs. In case you haven’t heard, street crimes haven’t exactly been on the decline since the economy tanked.”

  “Yes, someone’s mentioned that to me once or twice already.”

  “So what do you think, Detective Cosi?” Quinn asked. “You think Alf’s death was more than a mugging?”

  “I think there are a lot of unanswered questions about why he was on that particular street during a snowstorm and what exactly he was doing in that building’s courtyard.”

  Quinn studied me a moment—read me, actually. “So you and Franco locked horns.”

  “For about a minute, yes,” I admitted. “He was condescending and I was angry. In the end, the man did show an interest in my theory, but only if I was willing to discuss it with him off duty, over coffee and doughnuts. I’m pretty sure he was hitting on me.”

  “Is that so?” Quinn’s eyebrow arched. “And?”

  “And what?”

  “And did you tell him you’re my girl?”

  I laughed. “It wasn’t that big a pass. He was just starting to suggest we ‘make nice’ when Matt showed. Ten seconds later Matt was touching my chest in front of everyone, so Franco jumped to the conclusion that Matt and I—”

  “Whoa, back up! Allegro did what to your chest?”

  Oh, God. “It’s not what you think. See, I got caught in the middle of this police chase. The perp ran me down and Matt was worried I’d broken a rib—I hadn’t, but he wanted to check me out. I mean check my chest out. I mean my ribs—and Franco saw the whole thing and got the wrong impression—”

  “I’m getting the wrong impression. And I’m completely lost. Start at the beginning.”

  I did. I ran down the entire evening, the crime scene, the footprints in the snow. “Sergeant Franco said, ‘Two and two is four.’ But the man must be using new math because there’s definitely more to the story. Alf went to that deserted street for a reason, and I believe he was climbing the fire escape in the courtyard for a reason, too.”

  “And you think those reasons will add up to why he was killed?”

  “I realize there’s plenty of circumstantial evidence to support Franco’s version of the events, but I think there’s more here to investigate.”

  Quinn went silent a moment. “Tell you what. I’ll keep an eye on how the case progresses. Who’s Franco’s partner?”

  I told him.

  “Good. I know Charlie Hong. He’s an easy guy to deal with, methodical, even-tempered—”

  “You mean as opposed to this Franco character?”

  Quinn avoided a direct reply. “I’ll have a chat with Charlie,” he simply said. “Find out when they pick up and charge that mugger who eluded capture.”

  “Thanks, Mike. Looks like I’m going to owe you one again.”

  His eyebrow arched suggestively. “Hold that thought.”

  I laughed. But he didn’t. His gaze was too busy moving over me; his callused fingers too interested in sliding up my bare thigh.

  I shivered—happily. For the first time tonight, my quaking had nothing to do with freezing cold weather, residual fear, or latent reaction to a bloody crime scene. Nevertheless, I stilled his hand.

  “You want something to eat first?” I whispered, knowing he’d just come off duty after a very long day. “Some fresh coffee?”

  I moved to get out of bed, but he stopped me.

  “Stay put, Cosi. For once, I made a treat for you.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Quinn rose from the bed and crossed the room to an end table near the fireplace. As my gaze followed him, I found myself actually noticing the decorations I’d put up that morning: the evergreen wreath hanging over the hearth’s ivory-marbled mantel, the tiny white lights framing the French doors, the gold tinsel draped along the top of the antique gilt-framed mirror.

  The crackling fire had brought a glow to the room, and despite the chilling events of the evening, I felt my spirits rising again. Mike Quinn had built more than a fire in this room; he’d brought the warmth of the season back to me—along with a neatly folded brown bag.

  “I was sorry about missing your tasting party,” he explained, sitting back on the bed. “But I did take your challenge.”

  “What challenge?”

  He held up the brown bag. “Didn’t you ask your staff to figure out what Christmas tastes like?”

  “I did but I didn’t expect you to—”

  “Close your eyes.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Close ’em, Cosi.”

  I did. Next I heard the brown bag rustling, then a plastic container popping open. The earthy smell of cocoa immediately hit my nostrils. A moment later, I felt Mike’s fingers slipping something cool and smooth between my lips. The morsel was round and fairly hard. I bit into it, hearing a gentle snap. The shell of rich chocolate burst open in my mouth, delivering a velvety taste of sugary fruit laced with the tart brightness of alcohol.

  “A cherry cordial!”

  “You like it?”

  I opened my eyes. The plastic container in Quinn’s hand was filled with a dozen chocolate-covered treats. The candy was far from perfect. Some of the pieces were lopsided, some dunked in too much chocolate, others too little. But the effort alone left me gobsmacked.

  “You actually made these?” I couldn’t believe it. The first time I’d baked corn bread in the man’s new apartment, he reacted to the oven timer as if it were an air raid siren. Quinn had skills—plenty of them; cooking just wasn’t one.

  He smiled. “My mom made cherry cordials every Christmas. She gave me the recipe last week. I was going to pass it to you, but”—he shrugged—“the directions were so straightforward . . .” He popped a homemade treat into his own mouth and smiled again. “I thought I’d surprise you.”

  I sampled a second. “Mmmm,” I said, “tasty surprise.”

  Then Quinn leaned in and gave me another.

  His lips were warm and loving as they brushed across mine. His mouth was sweet from the chocolate, his tongue tart from the alcohol, but after a few soft tastes of me, all gentleness fled. Quinn’s kisses became deeper, his mouth downright hungry. Thrilled to keep pace with the man, I hooked my arms around his neck and worked myself into his lap. We were locked together like that in the firelight for an entire transcendent minute before his cell went off.

  On a groan of frustration, he pulled away. As he checked the Caller ID, I tried to pretend I wasn’t catching my breath.

  “Police business?” I finally whispered, unable to read his squinting gaze.

  “I’ll just be a minute.”

  His blue eyes had already gone cold.

  “What is it?” he asked the caller, his long legs crossing briskly to the window. The shortness in his voice was barely perceptible, but its meaning was clear enough to me. Quinn wasn’t just irritated by this interruption; he
didn’t think it necessary.

  A substantial pause followed. As Quinn listened to the caller, he absently pushed back the window curtains, checked the street. Forever the cop, I thought.

  “Oh, really?” he said at last. “Well, not me.”

  His tone was openly sharp now.

  “That’s not a good idea,” he added. And finally, just before ending the call—“Stop. This is not the time.”

  Something was wrong, obviously.

  Quinn was almost always in control of his temper. But this unexpected call had really set him off. Even across the shadowy room, I could see the level of ire in his movements. He tugged off his shoulder holster and hooked it sharply over a chair. Then he smacked his badge, cuffs, and wallet onto the dresser. Finally, he came to me, roughly unbuttoning his dress shirt.

  “Let me,” I whispered, and he did.

  As I gently removed the garment, my mind raced with the possibilities of who was calling and why. I asked him if he wanted to talk about it, but he waved me off.

  “It’s not important,” he said, “and I’d prefer we get back to what is.”

  Impatiently he pulled off the rest of his clothes; then he turned his attention to undressing me, first tugging off my worn football jersey, then slipping his hands over my hips to remove my last scrap of modesty. The second I was naked, he hauled me close.

  I didn’t know why Quinn’s need for me was suddenly so acute, but I wasn’t about to slow the man down. More than ever, I wanted sweet oblivion, and that’s exactly what he gave me.

  The flickering shadows of his fire rendered my bruises invisible. The heat of his kisses melted my bitterest fears. And when his body covered mine, he made every last thought in my head disappear.

  SEVEN

  MORNING dawned again, cold and bright—only this time I wasn’t dreaming. The rhythmic scraping of a snow shovel woke me, and I knew it was Tucker downstairs, clearing the sidewalk before he opened.

  With last night’s fire thoroughly burned out, the room felt slightly acrid and plenty chilly. I turned under the comforter to find Mike still in a deep sleep. Like any sane woman would, I kissed his bare shoulder and snuggled up to his big, warm body. Unfortunately for me, dreamland was over with one sound—

  Mrrrooow!

  Feeling a light tread of paws up the bedcovers, I opened my eyes to white whiskers and a pink nose. A fur ball the color of a roasted arabica bean settled onto my chest and began loudly purring. I considered nudging away the little brown tabby, turning over to show her my back, but I didn’t have the heart.

  “Okay, Java, you win,” I whispered on a yawn. “Let’s get you some breakfast.”

  Rolling out of bed, I stifled a groan. The bruises along my side had been easy enough to forget about while Mike was making love to me. In the light of day, the pain wasn’t so easy to ignore. The hot shower helped; so did the Advil with espresso chaser. Within a half hour of waking, I was feeling much better—and much worse.

  My contentedly full kitty was watching pigeons on a wire out the back window, my man was happily catching zzz’s in the bedroom upstairs, but I was far from serene. In the quiet stillness of the duplex’s kitchen, sipping my second espresso of the day, I couldn’t stop my mind from returning to that dingy alley down the street.

  How did it all go down? I wondered. Did the creep demand money from Alf first or just start shooting? How long did it take my friend to die there in the snow? Was that ugly gray Dumpster the last thing he saw on earth?

  I felt myself beginning to shake again—but not from fear or cold or Mike’s touches. This time what shook me was fury. I wanted to do something for Alf, not just sit here and think about what the killer did to him—

  I suddenly stood up at the kitchen table.

  I need to be busy.

  Tucker was already downstairs in the shop. One of our new trainees was helping him open, and I was supposed to have the morning off. I considered getting dressed and going down to the coffeehouse anyway, but I didn’t want to abandon my still-sleeping Mike.

  I know. “I’ll bake!”

  Java’s ears barely twitched at my announcement, which she deemed far less significant than her pigeon watching. Given my line of thinking a moment before, I figured the cat was right—

  Baking was a pathetic alternative to pursuing an active criminal investigation that could nail Alf’s killer, but it would keep me from climbing the walls this morning; and it was practical, too, because whatever new cookie, tart, or muffin I devised, I could ask my baker to re-create for the Blend’s pastry case and sell it downstairs for a profit.

  Cha-ching!

  I cringed at the sudden memory of my dream—Alf’s Santa’s bells transforming into ringing cash registers. Then I remembered yesterday’s holiday decorating blitz when we’d replaced the Blend’s front door dinger with jingle bells.

  Is that why I dreamed what I did? Every jingle of the door’s bells signals a new Blend customer, doesn’t it? And every customer is another chance for my cash register to ring . . .

  I closed my eyes. How can I use Alf’s Fa-la-la-la Latte idea now that he’s been murdered? I’ll feel like a heartless mercenary.

  Stop it, Clare! Stop thinking. Just bake!

  I started pulling out the flour, sugar, butter, and the old wooden bread board that Nonna had brought with her from Italy. An hour later I was carrying a breakfast tray upstairs. On it was a French-pressed pot of Matt’s annual shipment of Jamaica Blue Mountain and my modern twist to my grandmother’s biscotti.

  I replaced her traditional anise with vanilla and used roasted pistachios to give the cookie a delicate nutty flavor as well as a hint of green for the season. Dried cranberries added a cheerful shade of Christmas red while a decadent drizzle of white chocolate evoked icy-fresh winter snow. My secret ingredient, however, was ground cinnamon. The bright, bittersweet spice—once used in love potions by wealthy Romans—may have been an unconventional addition for biscotti, but it struck a surprisingly harmonious chord with the cookie’s other flavorings while lacing the air with an evocative aroma for the holidays.

  As I reentered the still-chilly bedroom, my spirits rose like a yeast panettone. Mike’s being here for me felt like an early Christmas gift. At the very least, it was a wish fulfilled. Not so very long ago I’d daydreamed a scenario exactly like this: me serving the sandy-haired detective his morning coffee in this beautiful mahogany four-poster.

  There’d been times I never thought it would happen, not that Mike hadn’t been thoroughly miserable in his marriage. Between his wife’s lying, cheating, and mood swings, the man had been living in the equivalent of an emotional war zone. For the sake of his two kids, however, he’d made every attempt to keep his marriage together. His wife was the one who’d ended things.

  I’d never met Leila Quinn, and I often wondered what she’d been like when he first married her. I’d heard about the end of their marriage, of course, but I was curious how they’d originally met, what made him fall in love with the woman and decide to marry her.

  Mike never told me. He didn’t like talking about his ex or his past with her. And whenever the subject came up, he changed it. For now, I let him. When I’d first met the man, he’d been reduced to a shell-shocked zombie where relationships were concerned. The last thing I wanted to do at this stage of our fledgling bonding process was open barely scabbed-over wounds.

  “Rise and shine, big guy,” I sang in his ear.

  Without opening his eyes, Mike smiled.

  I set the tray on the nightstand. “Your coffee is here, and you can try my newest recipe with it: Red and Green Holiday Biscotti.”

  Mike’s eyes were still closed, but his nostrils moved. “Mmmm, the house smells good,” he murmured, “like my mom used to make it smell at Christmastime when I was a kid. You weren’t actually cooking this early, were you?”

  “You don’t know the third tenet of the homemaker’s credo?”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “I bake
, therefore I am.”

  Mike laughed. “What are the first two?”

  “I clean, therefore I am; I grocery shop, therefore I am; and there are at least seven more.” (During my Jersey days, when I was freelance writing to make ends meet, I’d listed them all in one of my old In the Kitchen with Clare columns.) “But my favorite is still baking.”

  “Lucky for me,” he said, closing his fingers around my wrist, “because, as it happens, I’m still starving.” Then Mike pulled me back under the bedcovers; and that’s when I knew two things—it was absolutely brilliant planning on my part to pour the Blue Mountain into a thermal carafe (because we wouldn’t be getting to it for a good half hour), and those wealthy Romans were right about the cinnamon.

  A short time later, Quinn was back on the job and so was I. After tying on my Village Blend apron, I helped Tucker recharge our lunchtime crush of caffeine-deficient regulars, then relieved him and our trainee.

  Dante and Gardner were scheduled for the evening shifts, and we were short-staffed at the moment, which meant the Blend was all mine for the next three hours.

  Only a few café tables were occupied, and after I whipped out another dozen sporadic take-out orders, there were no customers left in line. This was usually my favorite time of day—the quiet afternoon between lunch and dinner, the calm before the after-work crowd stormed our doors. But I didn’t like the calm. Not today. Not one bit. My deserted coffeehouse suddenly felt like a widow’s empty kitchen, once boisterous with family laughter, now as silent as the viewing room of a funeral home.

  Around two o’clock, a number of chatty tourists and chilled holiday shoppers passed right by the shop without even glancing in. I frowned, considering writing up that sidewalk chalkboard featuring our new Fa-la-la-la Lattes, but I thought of Alf again—how the whole Taste of Christmas thing had been his idea—and my heart just wasn’t in it. So I swept the floor and wiped down our unoccupied tables.

  Just before three, I felt myself tensing. Alf almost always stopped in at this time to “warm his mittens,” as he put it, and I’d take a break with him, grab a latte, and sit by the fire. At one minute after the hour, the jingle bells rang. I glanced up, half expecting to see my Santa, and instead found Matt standing there.