Клео Коул - Espresso Shot

“Monica has been hospitalized with an overdose,” I continued. “She can’t help you anymore. But I can.”

“I don’t understand,” he finally said. “What do you mean?”

“I can help you get Breanne Summour’s wedding rings . That’s what I mean. The one-of-a-kind Nunzio creations? You want them, don’t you?”

One of the man’s bulging eyes began to twitch, but he said nothing. We just stood there, staring at one another.

“Look,” I finally said. “I don’t want to talk out here where someone can eavesdrop. Can’t I come inside so we can speak in private?”

This was the moment of truth. Stuart Allerton Winslow could close the door in my face right now, and he would probably walk away from this mess clean. The police had no proof that he had anything to do with the home invasion in Queens. And there was nothing to tie him to the attempts on Breanne’s life (if that’s what they were). The only people who could implicate him were the robbers, who were still at large, and Monica, who was dead.

I waited for his decision. Finally, Dr. Winslow opened the door and ushered me in. I stepped across the threshold, and the door closed behind me. I heard the dead bolt click and hoped that if something went terribly wrong, Quinn would be able to keep his promise and break down the heavy-looking door.

I felt Winslow’s touch and winced.

“This way.”

Everything in the bone-spare apartment was coated with the same dust that clung to its occupant. What furniture there was looked like it came from a thrift shop. But there were fleeting signs of former prosperity, too. A marble floor in the foyer gave way to parquet overlaid with plush but dirty Persian rugs. The doorknobs and light fixtures were made of dulled but costly looking brass, and a loudly ticking grandfather clock with an intricately carved relief appeared to be at least a century old.

In the living room, the couch and chairs were shabby, the paint peeling and faded. The windows were closed and the heavy curtains drawn. The only light came from the dull glow of a Tiffany lamp. There was a fireplace, but it was filled with soot, its marble mantel scorched. Worst of all, the dingy, airless room stank of creosote, a smell I’d loathed since I was nine years old, and our neighbors’ house had burned to the ground.

Dr. Winslow gestured me to a chair. I sat down and folded my hands on my lap. He dropped onto the threadbare couch.

“You were saying something about my ex-wife’s wedding rings?”

“Yes, I—” Wait a minute! “Did you say your ex-wife? You were married to Breanne Summour?”

The man smirked. “Monica didn’t tell you?”

“No, she never mentioned it.”

My God, I hope Quinn and Sully are hearing this...

“You said your name was Clare.” Winslow was staring hard at me now. “Monica never mentioned you. How is it you found me?”

“I was in Monica’s office last week, and I saw her prescriptions.” I rattled off the exact names of her little cache so he’d know I really had seen the bottles. “I asked her to help me get some pills, too, and she mentioned you. Of course, Monica never told me how you two hooked up. How did it happen, anyway? I mean, I’d like to know who I’m dealing with.”

Winslow was silent, still staring at me. “Tell me why you’re here.”

Focus, man. “Breanne’s rings,” I told him again. “I know you want them. Are you planning to sell the jewelry prototypes to Nunzio’s rivals? I’m sure they’d pay a pretty penny to—”

“What I do with the rings is not your concern.”

Okay, this is a start. He’s engaging. “You do want Breanne’s rings, then, right? I can still get them. It will be easy.”

Winslow crossed to the heavy curtains and pulled them back to look out the window. “That’s what Monica said. ‘It will be easy.’ She’s the one who proposed the deal in the first place. I only took it because Breanne still owes me for those lost years, my lost life.”

“What do you mean, exactly?”

He didn’t reply. “About the rings—you can get them?”

“Yes,” I said, “but if I get you the rings, what do I get in return?”

“The same deal I offered Monica. Free drugs. Anything you like, for as long as you like, without a prescription. No more doctor shopping. No more risk. How does that sound?”

“I have a bad back. It hurts right now.”

For the first time since I entered, Winslow’s grim mood lightened. With the semblance of a friendly expression, he lowered the curtain and turned to me.

“Come this way,” he said.

Winslow crossed to a dark hallway. I followed warily. Stepping through the shadows, I entered another dimly lit space with peeling paint and a soiled rug. Like the front room, this one was sparsely furnished: one bookshelf, a cracked-leather chair, and a large computer on a desk of scuffed mahogany. The computer was the newest, most expensive item in the large, gray room. Its flat-screen monitor emitted more color than the Land of Oz.

“Is that your Web site’s home page?” I pointed to the screen, where the primary shades of Rxglobal tempted like the storefront of a candy shop. “I think Monica mentioned something about it.”

“It’s my business, yes.”

“I clicked around the site, but I didn’t see anything that could control my pain.”

“That’s because the vitamin and herb supplement pages aren’t where I do my important business. The other pages have a special password.”

“Oh, so that’s why!” I laughed. The joke was on me, right? I wasn’t in the know. “Do you have a local carrier?”

He shook his head. “My server is set up outside the country. That’s where I get the prescription drugs, too.”

Winslow moved a standing dresser aside to reveal a hidden closet. He drew a key from his sweatpants and unlocked the door. There were several boxes sitting on a shelf; all had labels with foreign script. He reached into a carton and pulled out a clear plastic bag of pink pills. G164 was embossed on each one.

“OxyContin is quite effective for the control of back pain. I’ll start you off with a hundred and fifty tabs.”

He sat down at his desk, quickly counted out the tablets, using a plastic pill sorter. Then he poured them into a sepia-colored bottle like the ones I’d seen hidden in Monica’s desk.

“You have a medical degree, too, right?” I said with a shrug, as if it really didn’t matter either way. “I mean, in addition to your doctorate. You seem so knowledgeable about all this.”

“If you could get these from a licensed physician, you wouldn’t be here, would you?”

“So that’s a no ?” I looked around the room as if searching for his degrees. “You’re just a Ph.D. then, and not an M.D.?”

He capped the bottle. “Does this look like your gynecologist’s office, miss?”

He leered, and I shivered. God, what a creep.

“This is just a down payment,” he promised, holding the bottle out to me. “You get me the rings, and I’ll get you all the OxyContin you want.”

“Thank you, Dr. Winslow, for giving me the pills,” I said, loud and clear.

Got that, Mike? I hope you heard me!

I took the bottle, and Winslow ushered me back into the living room. As he headed for the front door, I hesitated.

I didn’t have enough on this guy yet. The man had been married to Breanne Summour. I figured there must be a motive for his wanting her dead (other than the woman’s personality, of course). He was in league with Monica Purcell to steal Breanne’s rings. The two were probably working on an elaborate revenge plan, too. I just had to get him to say so.