Holiday Grind

Six

Morning came, cold and bright, and I was outside again, but now the snow around me was much deeper than the low drifts of the city. The field I stood in was flat and continuous like an aerial view of unending clouds.

Jingle, jingle, jingle...

The bells surprised me. The cheerful sound swirled across the wind on a gentle gust. Then a voice called my name—an impossible voice—

“Clare!”

“Alf? Alfred?” Filled with hope, I turned. Sunlight struck my eyes. The glare off the snow was blinding. “Where are you, Alf? I can’t see you!”

“Look up!”

I lifted my arm to shield my eyes and finally did see him. Alf was alive, waving at me from the top of an enormous white mountain. He looked small up there, like a tiny Christmas ornament, yet every detail of his being appeared strangely clear to me—the red velvet suit, the shiny black boots, the big white Traveling Santa buttons down the front of his costume—all but one. One button was missing.

“Alf!” I shouted. “I was looking for you!”

“Sorry, Clare! I have to go!”

“No, wait! I’m coming to bring you back!”

I took off across the snow, but when my boots hit the base of the incline, my progress slowed. With every step north, the snow became deeper, the climb more difficult.

Jingle, jingle, jingle...

Alf’s bells kept ringing and ringing! The endless repetition soon made them seem tinny and hollow, until they sounded more like cash registers ringing up sales.

Cha-ching! Cha-ching! Cha-ching!

Slapping my hands over my ears, I kept moving, exhausting every muscle in a sweaty, angry slog. But with every foot closer, Alf seemed to move another yard higher. I felt so thwarted, I wanted to cry. Then I tripped, taking a hard, bruising fall before rolling down the slope in an unending tumble—

“Ahhhhhh!”

I opened my eyes.

My body felt sore; my heart was still pounding, but I was no longer outside. I was inside, lying under a warm comforter, on a soft bed, in a dark room. My bedroom—and I wasn’t alone. Between the two mahogany pillars at the foot of my four-poster, I could see a shadowy figure moving suspiciously. The intruder was male, I realized. The man stood up and then crouched down.

What’s he doing? Searching for something?

Still groggy and disoriented, I swallowed hard and reached a hand out from under the covers. Groping at the side table for any sort of weapon, my fingers closed on the base of a Tiffany lamp—one of Madame’s heirlooms. I didn’t want to break it, but I had no choice.

I slid the lamp base closer, trying to gain a better grip. The slight scraping sound gave me away. The intruder turned quickly, and I sat up, priceless weapon ready.

“Clare?”

I froze, watching a red orange glow suddenly rise up behind the man’s silhouette. That’s when I realized two things: This “intruder” was my boyfriend, Mike Quinn; and his “suspicious” movements were the result of his lighting a fire in my bedroom’s hearth.

Quinn regarded me sitting up in bed, lamp base in hand, arm cocked to bash in his head. “You know,” he said, appearing more amused than alarmed, “if you’re having trouble turning that thing on, you might have better luck using the switch.”

I blinked. “I thought you were a burglar.” Quinn’s dress shirt sleeves were rolled up, his tie pulled loose. I noticed his suit jacket draped over a chair.

He folded his arms. “Did you forget you gave me a key?”

“No, of course not.”

How could I? It was the same key Matteo had handed me the day he’d married Breanne. It had been big of Matt to do that, considering his mother had given us both permission to live rent free in this duplex above the Blend (one of Madame’s many failed attempts to get us back together). Eventually, however, Matt acknowledged my feelings (that I was never going to remarry him) as well as my dilemma (homeless-ness). With rents in the historic West Village among the highest in the city, I couldn’t afford a place of my own close to the Blend, and a commute would be hard on me, given the hours I put in running the place. So after he’d married Breanne, he gave up his key.

“Sorry, Mike.” I set down the lamp. “I had a bad dream.”

Without a word, he moved to the bed, his solid frame depressing the edge of the mattress. I put my arms around him and he pulled me close.

Our embrace was far from glamorous. I wasn’t expecting him, so my nightwear was nothing fancy, lacy, or overtly alluring—just my usual oversized Steelers jersey and a pair of cotton underpants. With his leather holster still strapped across his shoulders, the butt of his service weapon dug into me a little, aggravating the bruise along my rib cage. I didn’t care. We hadn’t slept together in a week, and I missed the feel of him: the affection in his touches; the strength in his muscles; even the smell of his skin, warm and male and slightly citrusy from his aftershave. In a phrase, Mike Quinn felt good—and I liked hanging on to that goodness.

After a minute, he leaned back and I studied him. His pale Irish complexion had gone to the ruddy side—no doubt from the business of starting the fire in my bedroom’s hearth. His dark blond hair was cropped (the usual) no-nonsense short. His jawline looked as square as ever, his chin dependably strong. Like most men in their forties, he had crow’s feet and frown lines etched into his face, badges of surviving life’s tragedies, fighting its battles. His blue eyes were as sharp as ever, too, and clearer than a glacial lake.

On the street, Quinn’s eyes were stone-cold cop, unwilling to give away an iota of intention. For a long time, his true feelings were my own personal guessing game—at times a frustrating enterprise. (Is the man only mildly irritated? I’d wonder. Or pissed enough to start shooting up the room? Is he turned on by my risqué references to his handcuffs? Or am I just making an ass of myself?)

That kind of bewilderment was rare now. When we were alone together, Mike’s chilly cop curtain was swept aside. Whatever he was thinking or feeling, he usually showed me. (Usually being a necessary qualifier—Quinn was, after all, still a man.)

“You should have told me about Alf, Clare.”

“You heard what happened?”

“Not until I was ending my tour.” He gently brushed stray locks of hair from my cheek. “Sully and I picked up the radio chatter about Santa being shot near the Sixth, and I asked about the DOA. Langley told me it was you who found him.”

I nodded. “He was shot point-blank. I found him in an alley.”

Mike shook his head. “I got your voice mail. You didn’t say a word, Clare. Not one word in your message was about why you were calling.” His voice carried a bit of annoyance, but his eyes weren’t flashing with anything close to rebuke. Instead, his brows were drawn together with concern.

“You were on duty. I didn’t want to worry you—”

“Well, I sure as hell wish you had. I called you back the second I played your message. Why didn’t you pick up?”

“I should have... I was just so drained by then. I couldn’t handle telling the whole story one more time—not over the phone. By then I’d already given the account to so many people: Langley, the two detectives, Matt—”

“Matt?” Quinn stiffened. “Allegro was there?”

I nodded. “He showed up at the Blend for my tasting party. So I knew he was nearby, and when I called, he picked up right away.”

Quinn’s jaw worked. “I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“Stop apologizing. You were on duty. I knew if you weren’t answering your cell, you were probably in the middle of a crime scene of your own—”

“I was.”

I could tell from his tone it didn’t go well. “What happened?”

“Our suspect was high when my guys got there with the warrant. He barricaded himself in his bedroom with his teenage girlfriend as a hostage, claimed he was holding her at gunpoint.”

“Oh, no.”

“Your call came about the same minute I realized I had a fubar on my hands.”

“What happened?”

“We got a sniper in place on the roof across the street. Had a clean shot to take him out, too, right through the open window blinds, but I didn’t think he’d really hurt the girl.”

“Why not? He had a gun on her, right?”

“No. He had a gun in the room, but not pointed at her, and he kept talking with me, so I kept working on him—explained we wanted information, that we’d plea down the charges if he gave up the associates in his ring.”

“This was the hospital worker you told me about?”

Quinn nodded. “Been supplying OxyContin to dealers around Queens College, Hunter, NYU.”

“So you didn’t have to shoot him?”

“We would have, if he’d forced our hand. But, like I said, he wasn’t pointing the weapon at the girl, and he continued talking with me until I persuaded him to surrender. Then we got all the evidence we needed out of the apartment, took the girlfriend to her mother’s unharmed.”

I smiled for a second, proud as anything, then poked his chest. “See, now I’m glad I didn’t leave a hysterical message. Although I almost did...”

“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.