Клео Коул - On What Grounds

Meanwhile, Flaste drew an envelope out of his pocket and pushed it across the table to the youth. The burglar pocketed the envelope and smiled. Flaste stood up. He was going to leave. I moved to follow.

“Where ya’ goin’?” Ron asked, almost hurt. “Give me a chance.”

Stretching his long arm, he reached out to pull me back. The movement caught the bill of my baseball cap and knocked it from my head. My wavy chestnut hair tumbled down to my shoulders.

“Hey! What’s this?” Ron backed up in confusion. “Wait a second. I know you! You’re the coffee lady!”

The entire room full of men turned my way, including Flaste and the crewcut. The flash of recognition crossed their faces.

Crap!

Flaste let out a squeal and bolted for the exit. The blond crewcut was faster and got there ahead of him. But as he yanked the front door open, a tall, broad-shouldered figure draped in a beige trenchcoat appeared on the threshold and blocked the burglar’s escape.

Detective Quinn!

And right behind him came Matteo. Fists clenched, eyes flashing, he was spoiling for a fight.

The burglar pushed at Quinn, but he would have had better luck trying to move the Empire State Building. Quinn slammed the youth against the nearest table, doubled him over, pulled his arms behind his back, and cuffed him in one continuous, seemingly effortless motion.

Flaste, however, was inching toward the door, clearly hoping to escape while Quinn’s attention was elsewhere.

“Stop Flaste!” I cried. “He’s got the book.”

The fat man paled. Then Flaste squealed again and ran right at Matteo in an attempt to bowl him over. Big mistake. A loud, meaty thwack made every patron in the bar wince. Moffat Flaste exhaled loudly and doubled over. Matteo had sunk a right hook into the man’s prodigious gut. Now Matt stood over him, fist raised for a second strike.

Quinn reached up and seized my ex-husband’s arm.

“That’s enough,” the detective said.

As arm-wrestling matches go, this one could have been a tossup. But Matt backed down. He saw that Quinn was right. After one hard punch from Matt, Flaste had sunk helplessly to the floor. Still wheezing, he didn’t even notice when the Allegro family recipe book spilled out of his jacket.

“You’re under arrest for burglary and receiving stolen goods,” Quinn announced. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”

“Mystery solved,” I proudly told Quinn ten minutes later on the sidewalk outside Oscar’s Wiles’ front window.

“It would seem so,” he said, looking down at me.

Two patrol units of uniformed NYPD officers had already rolled up to the dirty brick building, their sirens and flashing emergency lights drawing a fairly large crowd. It appeared we were the biggest show in this part of town at the moment. Hoots and hollers abounded among the halfinebriated onlookers, along with an out-of-tune rendition of the theme from Cops.

One pair of officers controlled the crowd while two more packed Flaste and Mr. Blond Crewcut into the back of one of the vehicles.

“Hey, there, Ms. Cosi!” called one of the crowd control officers over the mess. It turned out to be Officer Langley, the lanky young Irish cop I’d introduced to Greek coffee the other day.

“Oh, hi!” I called back. “How are you?”

“That’s our question for you !” said his darker, shorter partner, Demetrios, as he attempted to keep back the pair of drunks singing “Bad boys! Bad boys!”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Not a scratch! Thank you both for your help!”

“Hey, all in a day’s work,” said Langley. “Right, Lieutenant?”

Quinn didn’t smile. He seemed to be mildly allergic to that facial expression. But he appeared pleased enough nonetheless. He lifted his square chin toward me and said, “ Her work. Not mine. You did a good job, Cla…uh, I mean…Ms. Cosi.”

I appreciated the fact that he almost called me by my first name in public. It wasn’t exactly the beginning of a beautiful friendship, but it was something.

“No luck,” said Matteo, coming out of the bar.

“You’re kidding,” I said. “I can’t believe it. I really thought I saw Mr. Crewcut carrying the Village Blend plaque. And if he did take it, then it’s got to be in this bar.”

Quinn told me to wait a moment. He walked over to the patrol car and ducked his head into the back seat that held Flaste and Crewcut. After a few minutes of talking to the men in cuffs, he came back.

“No help. Sorry,” Quinn told me. “They’re lawyering up.”

“Excuse me? Lawyering who?” I asked. Quinn was about to explain what the heck that term meant when Matteo cut in—

“Anything they say can and will be held against them in a court of law, Clare. So they’re not talking until they see a lawyer.”

“That’s right, Allegro,” said Quinn. “You have some experience with that, do you?”

“Let’s not get personal, Quinn—”

“Gentlemen!” I cried. “This doesn’t solve the problem at hand. I would like to find the Village Blend plaque. Beyond monetary value, it is an historic antique that means the world to a woman who means the world to me. So what do we do?”

“If you’re not absolutely sure he stole it, and he’s clearly not admitting a thing,” said Quinn, “then double-check back at your shop. Confirm that it is indeed missing. Once you do that, we’ll take it from there.”

“Okay,” I said. “That’s easy enough. I’ll go back right now.”

“I do need your statement, however, Ms. Cosi,” Quinn said. “And Mr. Allegro’s, too.”

“Clare,” said Matt, “why don’t you go on back to the Blend and check on the plaque, and I’ll go with Quinn and get the statements started.”

“Matt, there’s no reason I have to be the one to go back to the Blend. Why don’t you go back, and I’ll go with Quinn—”

“No,” Matt instantly responded. “I mean…uh…we locked the front door but the lights were flipped on before we left, so customers might think we’re still open—”

“But you can turn off the lights as well as me.”

“— and I’m pretty sure I left the door to our duplex ajar,” added Matt, “so your Java may have wandered down into the coffeehouse. And Java doesn’t know me well enough to come when I call.”

“Oh,” I said. “Yes…I better go back right away then. She might run and hide from you. And Java’s had enough stress adapting to the duplex already—who knows how she’ll react once she figures out there are two more floors plus a basement to sniff out and mark.”

“Mark?” asked Matt. “You don’t mean—”

“Java’s a girl. She won’t spray. But she may feel the need to rub up against every stick of furniture in the place.”

“Then you better get going.” Matt was speaking to me, but leveling a strange sort of warning gaze at Quinn.

Why did I get the impression my ex-husband didn’t want to be the one to go back to the Blend because that would leave me alone in the hands of Quinn for twenty minutes? Oh, well, que sera sera.

Langley and Demetrios gave me a ride back to the Blend in their patrol car. I waved good-bye as they drove off and used my key to get back inside (the duplicated key was evidence and Quinn had wanted it).

Not taking any chances, I relocked the door immediately—and exhaled, feeling safe at last.

Unfortunately, with one glance in the front window, I saw the bad news. As I’d suspected, the store’s only window signage, the famous Village Blend plaque, which had announced FRESH ROASTED COFFEE SERVED DAILY to its customers for over one hundred years, had been stolen.