Клео Коул - Espresso Shot

Mike didn’t agree or disagree. What he said was, “What the hell were you doing in Flushing?”

I didn’t care for his tone. “I was investigating the threat against Breanne. Just like you thought I should.”

He folded his arms. “And you were attacked and nearly robbed?”

“Not nearly . I was robbed. I lost my brand-new purse. And we have another I word to add to your list, by the way.”

“Sorry? Another what?”

“You remember that little list of attributes you look for in a detective? Well you can add incredulous to it, because that’s your expression right now. You’re surprised, and do you know why, Lieutenant? Because you never believed there was any threat to Breanne, did you?”

“Slow down, Clare!” Mike unfolded his arms and put his hands on my shoulders. “Listen,” he said, “I know you’re tired and upset, and it’s true, I am surprised—you’re right about that—but only that you were ever in any physical danger. Now, start from the beginning and tell me everything that happened.”

We moved to the counter. I made us a couple of lattes. The rote routine calmed my nerves (it always had), then I sat down beside Mike on a barstool and told him the whole story, starting with Neville Perry’s feud with Breanne and ending with the incident aboard the Number 7 line. Roman provided a few details here and there, but he wasn’t his usual loquacious self. When I mentioned that we’d both seen the robber’s face, Mike directed his next question to Roman.

“Did the man seem familiar to you?”

Roman shook his head.

“Someone you might have seen at the office, maybe?” Mike pressed. “A delivery guy? Someone from the mail room? The local deli? Or someone from your neighborhood? Someone you met in a bar? A club? Think .”

“No, no, no, and no, Detective. But I’m sure I could identify that rough beast if I saw him again. He had the face of a stone-cold criminal.”

“I’ll set you up at a terminal tomorrow,” Mike said. “But you might end up looking at mug shots all day. The files on armed robbers are extensive.”

“These were more than armed robbers,” I insisted. “These guys targeted us, Mike. They knew about the rings, they knew Roman had them. They even knew precisely where and when to find us.”

Mike nodded. “They probably would have hit you in front of the Friends Meeting House on Northern if there hadn’t been so much traffic and a strong police presence nearby.”

I plopped my elbows on the counter, pulled my hair back. “I wonder why they didn’t wait for us to leave the dinner and rob us in the alley?”

“The punks got greedy, that’s why. They probably saw how many whales were inside that illegal restaurant and figured they’d just take it all.”

“Of course!” Roman said.

“It doesn’t matter.” Mike rubbed his jaw. “Figuring that out gets us exactly nowhere. We need to know who provided the inside information to the robbers.”

“I’ve been thinking about that, and I have a theory.” I told Mike about Breanne’s ambitious underling, Monica Purcell. “I overheard her talking about the rings with someone on her cell phone. It sounded suspicious at the time, so I snooped around her office.”

I reached into the inside pocket of my little Fen jacket and pulled out the folded paper of Monica’s cell phone numbers.

Mike’s expression was priceless—somewhere between amazed and amused. “Nice work, sweetheart.”

“There were five numbers on Monica’s call log,” I said. “Two of them had names attached, and Roman recognized them both. The first was Mrs. Muriel Purcell, in New Haven, Connecticut.”

“That’s Monica’s mother,” Roman piped up. “A divorced beauty queen on a Botox bender. Someone should really stop that woman.”

“The other call was to Petra, Trend ’s art director. The final three didn’t have names in her log. I was going to run them through the Internet’s reverse directory.”

Mike nodded, and I went to work. The first two of the three numbers had Manhattan area codes, and the search engine revealed that one was for the Fitness Plus Day Spa on Eighth Avenue and Seventy-first Street; the second was a health food store on Amsterdam.

“The local numbers are a bust,” I said, disappointed.

I’d scribbled a star beside the final telephone number, because that was the call Monica had made outside of Fen’s boutique, when she informed someone not only where Breanne was but also that Breanne’s rings hadn’t arrived yet and weren’t scheduled to until Nunzio brought them personally.

I typed the number into the search engine.

“Information not available?”

“It’s unlisted,” Mike said. He scribbled the digits down in his notebook and pulled out his cell phone.

“Are you calling your precinct to have someone trace the number?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I’m calling the number .”

Mike listened for a moment then disconnected the call.

“What did you get?” I asked.

“An answering machine. No name or business. Just a canned mechanical voice telling me to leave a message.” He dialed another number. “Put me through to the one-oh-seven.”

While Mike spoke with the precinct’s night commander, I pulled yet another espresso for Roman—at his request. Then I dug up the Manhattan phone book. Monica Purcell was listed; her apartment was on the Upper West Side, not very far from the health club and veggie deli stored on her cell phone log. I wrote down the address and finished my own latte.

“Thanks for your help,” Quinn said, ending the call.

I set the cup down. “Well?”

“Captain Blunt strongly suggests you both return to Queens tomorrow to file crime reports with his detectives. It’s the 107th Precinct on Parsons Boulevard.”

“A police report? With my name on it!” Roman’s eyes bugged. “I’ll be ruined. No one will ever invite me to an underground restaurant again.”

Mike’s glance at me wasn’t amused. “Believe me, Brio, word about your little secret garden in Flushing is already out. The detectives of the one-oh-seven are all over the crime scene as we speak. It was the woman who owned the house, a Mrs. Weng, who called the robbery in. Several other diners have also filed reports, so I think you’ll be forgiven.”

Quinn turned to me. “No arrests have been made, Clare. Even the man you assaulted with hot sauce recovered enough to flee the scene. They did recover some of the stolen property. Maybe you’ll get your purse back.” He folded his arms. “And maybe Roman can identify the perp you dumped off the 7 train, or maybe the punk will turn up in the hospital or the morgue. Otherwise...”

“We’re not out of leads yet, Mike. We still have Monica Purcell. She lives near Sixty-ninth Street, on Amsterdam Avenue. I say we go see her right now.”

Quinn glanced at his watch. “Okay, Clare. But first we’ll drop Mr. Brio here and those one-of-a-kind rings he’s holding at his home, before something else happens that jeopardizes the wedding”—he met my eyes—“and any chance of ejecting Allegro from your living space.”

Ten minutes later, Quinn had double-parked in front of Roman’s Soho building, and we both escorted the man through the lobby and all the way up to the front door of his loft apartment.

“Are you sure you won’t come in?” Roman asked. “There’s a passable port and an exquisite Stilton in the larder, and I always have Dom Perignon well-chilled for just such an occasion.”

“What occasion?” Quinn asked.

“Surviving New York. What else?”

Quinn’s eyebrow arched (which, in my experience with the man, was as good as a hearty guffaw). “Maybe some other time,” he told Roman. “Just be sure to get a good night’s sleep. I’m going to dispatch a sector car to check up on you at ten AM. Answer the door, okay? Or I’ll have them break it down.”