Клео Коул - On What Grounds

Quinn got to his feet, the drooping lids of his tired blue eyes lifting fast.

“Are you sure it’s an intruder?” he asked.

“Yes. I don’t have any roommates or guests. My daughter doesn’t even have a key yet.”

“Okay,” said Quinn, removing his trenchcoat and tweedy brown jacket and throwing them over the back of a chair. The discarded layers revealed a dark brown leather holster strapped over a white dress shirt. Quinn unsnapped the small leather strip holding the gun in place under his left arm, then he turned to Demetrios.

“Watch the back alley.”

“Sure, Lieutenant.” Demetrios headed out the front entrance and toward the back of the building.

“That’s the only other exit, right?” asked Quinn. “You mentioned an outside set of stairs, leading up to your place—you can only get to them through the back alley, right?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Okay. Langley, follow me.”

Technically, Quinn hadn’t told me to follow, too. But he hadn’t told me to stay put, either, so I set Java’s carrier on a table and quietly followed the two men up the back stairs.

“Stay behind us,” Quinn warned when he saw me.

They entered the place carefully, checking the living room, small dining area, and kitchen.

Quinn eyed the only other way into or out of the duplex—it was the door off the kitchen, which led to an outside staircase. That second door was solidly bolted and chained. Obviously no one had broken in through there.

“Are you sure you saw someone in here, Ms. Cosi?” asked Quinn.

“ Heard someone. Upstairs.” I pointed to the short flight of carpeted wooden stairs tucked beside a large closet next to the kitchen.

All three of us stilled and listened.

The creek of floorboards was unmistakable. Someone was walking around.

“Stand back,” Quinn whispered to me.

His hand dipped into the leather holster strapped beneath his shoulder and he pulled his weapon free—

(I’d really only seen guns on NYPD Blue and in the occasional noir movie on the Turner Classic Movie channel. This real-life one seemed awfully darned big, and I found myself consciously swallowing a spontaneous gasp.)

He pointed the barrel, which looked to me like a small cannon, at the floor and moved to the base of the staircase.

Langley followed, his gun—just as big—drawn, too.

“Is that necessary?” I whispered.

“I hope not,” Quinn said softly, then he moved his foot like Java, carefully, slowly, testing the first step. It gave off a soft creak. He glanced back at Langley and motioned for him to stay.

I held my breath watching Quinn move to the top of the staircase, never guessing a guy so big could move so stealthily. I wondered for a moment why Langley was staying behind, and then I realized Quinn was concerned the intruder might get by him. In that case, he obviously wanted someone at the base of the stairs to prevent the escape. Having someone substantially bigger than me—not to mention armed—was clearly preferred.

Quinn turned the corner and there was a hideous few seconds of absolute silence. Then came a muted voice of surprise—followed by the detective’s: “ Police. Hands on your head. Now. ”

Langley ran up the stairs.

More muted voices.

Quinn talked to Langley. Then Langley said something to Quinn.

There was a scuffling movement, an oof , a string of curse words.

Loud voices.

Silence again.

“Move.”

Langley appeared at the top of the staircase. He moved down, the intruder behind him, hands behind his back. They’d cuffed him, I realized. Good. Another few steps and Langley would be out of the way, and I’d finally get a look at this nervy bastard’s face.

I watched parts of him revealed. The bare feet, the pair of worn buttonfly jeans, an expanse of tanned, sculpted chest—

Oh, God, I thought. I know that chest—and the chiseled chin. The Roman nose. The short black Ceasar cut.

“Matt,” I choked out. “Is that you?”

“Clare?”

Oh, darnit.

“Ms. Cosi, You know this guy?” Quinn asked, bringing up the rear of this morning’s little arrest-the-perp train.

“ Yes, she knows me!” Matt stated. “In the biblical sense!”

“Was I talking to you—”

“I know him, Lieutenant,” I quickly broke in. “But I have no idea why he’s here.”

“Who is he?” Quinn asked once more.

“My ex-husband.”

This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.

I knew very well that chanting to myself wasn’t going to make the ludicrous tableau in front of me disappear. But at the time I was desperate enough to try anything. “Detective—”

“Clare, what the hell is going on? Tell me this isn’t about those missed child support payments. I thought we’d agreed! As long as I cover Joy’s tuition—”

“Matteo,” I began, “don’t get upset—”

“Upset? Upset? Clare, you’ve got me in handcuffs here!”

“Calm down! It’s not me who’s got you in handcuffs—and you’re the one who—” I stopped, hearing that embarrassing ex-wife tone in my voice. I closed my eyes, flashing on every domestic disturbance dispute I’d ever seen on those reality cop shows.

“Detective,” I tried again, with excessive calm. “There’s obviously been a mistake.”

Matt turned to Quinn. “You heard her.” He rattled his chain-linked wrists. “So get these damned things off me. Now. ”

For a good ten seconds, Quinn didn’t move a corpuscle.

Officer Langley, on the other hand, shifted uneasily. He turned to me. “Ms. Cosi, you say this man is your ex—”

“Husband, yes,” I affirmed.

The young officer glanced at Quinn and scratched his head, clearly unsure whether this was yet another of the detective’s tests. Then Langley moved toward Matt’s wrists. Quinn’s arm blocked the way.

“Detective?” asked Langley.

“I have a few questions first.”

“Jesus H.—” said Matt.

“First of all, Mr. Cosi—” Quinn began.

“It’s Allegro,” snapped Matt.

“Cosi’s my maiden name,” I explained.

“Yes, she took it back—in record time,” Matt announced, as he usually did, with the tone of The Wounded —an indefensible stance in my opinion, considering his behavior during our marriage.

“Mr. Allegro ,” Quinn tried again. “I need you to calm down.”

“Don’t patronize me—”

“I need you to calm down,” Quinn repeated.

“Jesus.”

Quinn glanced at Langley. “Let’s find him a seat.”

Langley grasped Matt’s ample bicep and paused when Matt tensed. Visiting high-altitude coffee plantations had been Matteo’s occupation for years. The remote regions had fed his passion for hiking, biking, rock-climbing, and cliff diving—all of which had honed a formidable physique.

I wasn’t surprised it had taken two men to cuff my ex-husband. And Langley didn’t appear overjoyed about wrestling him any further. But the moment’s resistance on Matt’s part was only an automatic reflex. A second later he exhaled, snapped out a “Fine, let’s go,” and allowed Langley to lead him into the living room.

Quinn followed, signaling through the back windows to Demetrios that everything was under control. Next he pulled the lyre-backed chair away from the wall and plopped it down in front of the fireplace, right in the center of the Persian prayer rug.

My breath caught a moment. If memory served, Madame once told me that lyre-backed chair was one of only thirty-two in existence. It was originally fashioned for the nearby Saint Luke in the Fields, founded in 1822, when Greenwich Village was still a rural hamlet.