Holiday Grind (28 page)

Read Holiday Grind Online

Authors: Cleo Coyle

Tags: #Fiction, #Detective, #Mystery, #Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction - Mystery, #Coffeehouses, #Suspense, #Women Sleuths, #Cosi; Clare (Fictitious character), #Mystery fiction

BOOK: Holiday Grind
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I think I blacked out at that point because the next thing I felt was a cold steel deck behind my back and bare legs. My camisole was soaked and half torn off, my lace bra leaving very little to the men’s imaginations. I tried to speak, but strong, warm hands were pushing down on my diaphragm—hard enough to force salty water up my throat and out.
Gagging and sputtering, I finally realized that half a dozen burly firemen were standing around me, all in bright yellow FDNY life jackets.
“You’re okay, ma’am. Let’s get you warm.”
As I sat up, a number of large hands wrapped thick blankets around me.
“Is there anyone we can contact for you?” asked one of the firemen.
“M-m-m-mike,” I stammered. “Mike Quinn. He works at the—”
“I know Big Mike!” The dark-haired man who’d jumped into the water to save me patted my shoulder. “I’ll put in a call. What’s your name?”
I told him, my voice weak as I pulled the blankets closer around me. The deck was so cold! I tried to rise but stumbled. Several firemen instantly came to my aid. One simply hoisted me up and carried me inside the fireboat. The cabin was warm, and the man placed me on an aluminum-framed canvas stretcher and piled on another blanket, which I appreciated, even if I couldn’t thank him.
I was shivering so hard now I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t see straight, either, but I think that was because my eyes were still stinging from the salt water. A new blanket was tossed over me, this one electric. The warmth felt delicious, like a fortifying drink I could gulp and swallow.
A few minutes later, I was starting to feel better and began to sit up. The dark-haired fireman who’d pulled me out of the water had been watching over me close by. He quickly returned to my side in sweats and a T-shirt, a towel around his neck, and handed me a cup of strong tea.
“No need to worry, pretty lady. You’ll be okay. You said your name’s Clare Cosi?”
“Clare,” I repeated.
“I’m Sean. I just talked to Big Mike,
personally
. He’ll be at the FDNY dock when we pull in.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“You were lucky we saw you. You wouldn’t have lasted five minutes out there.”
I sipped the tea but then felt woozy again. “I think I have to—”
Sean took my cup as I fell back on the stretcher. While I closed my eyes again, I could feel him tucking the blankets closer around me.
“You’re in shock, pretty lady, just rest . . .”
The next thing I remember was the fireboat bumping up against a dock, men shouting to each other as the fire crew secured the vessel. A few minutes later, I heard whispers, felt a hovering presence.
I opened my eyes and stared up at an absolutely immense man, probably in his late forties, with bright scarlet hair, a cleft chin, and an absurdly large handlebar mustache (circa 1890). He stared at me, too, the skin around his blue gray eyes crinkling with amusement. Behind him, the rest of the fireboat’s crew gathered, obviously curious.
“I’ve had many a damsel call out my name in her darkest hour—or in the dark of night,” the big man loudly announced to his audience. “But I think I would have remembered
this
one.”
“Excuse me?” I propped myself on my elbows. “Who are you?”
“Captain Michael Quinn of the FDNY, darlin’. Big Mike to my friends and a holy Irish terror to all others.”
He smiled, a single gold tooth flashing, as he stroked his crimson mustache. “They told me your name’s Clare Cosi and said you asked for me. How did you end up in the drink?”
“I was pushed off the ferry. My handbag was stolen.”
Big Mike gestured to a member of the crew. “Radio the terminal. It’s probably too late to stop the assailant from getting away, but maybe we can recover this poor woman’s purse.”
The imposing fireman faced me again. “I thought these boys probably got it wrong, Clare, so I put in a call of my own before I came down here. You were looking for Little Mikey, right? Sixth Precinct. My cousin, Mike Quinn, the cop?”
“Detective,” I clarified.
“Black sheep,” he replied.
“Black sheep?” I repeated. “Mike’s not a black sheep. He’s not
little
, either. He’s one of New York’s finest.”
The firemen watching us exchanged amused glances. Big Mike raised a bushy red eyebrow. “He’s little compared to me, darlin’. And the Quinns are firefighters. New York’s
bravest
. Little Mikey’s the only
cop
in our clan.” He cast a glance at his brothers in boots. “Black sheep.”
The men laughed, and then a voice called from the deck. “Here come the boys in blue!”
A minute later, Detective Mike Quinn entered the fireboat’s cabin, pushing through a wall of doting firemen to get to me. Dropping down beside the stretcher, he hugged me tightly.
“Clare, sweetheart, are you okay? What happened?”
“I’m fine,” I said, soaking up his steady warmth. “I was on the ferry. My bag was snatched, then I got picked up and tossed over the side.”
“Who did it, Clare? Did you see the person?”
“No,” I said, then lowered my voice to a whisper. “But I’m almost positive I can hand you his head on a platter.”
“Good, I’m glad, and we’ll get to that. But first you’re going to an ER—”
Before I could reply, Sean stepped up. “She’s a tough one, Detective. Managed to make it to the surface after that arctic plunge in the ferry’s chop. Saved her own life doing that.”
“No,” I clarified. “
You
did that, Sean. All of you did. Thank you.”
Mike joined me in thanking the men—and that’s when he noticed the big redheaded captain standing among the others.
“That’s what firemen do, Mikey boy,” the man declared with a smirk. “You hand out parking tickets. We save lives.”
Mike released me and rose stiffly, facing the other Mike Quinn.
“Michael,” he said flatly.
“Little Mikey,” Captain Quinn replied, folding his arms. “Are the traffic violations keeping you busy?”
The men around us glanced uneasily at each other, clearly picking up on the bad blood between the two cousins. I frowned at the tense exchange and almost blurted out:
What’s the beef between you two? You’re family!
But I held my tongue instead. This obviously wasn’t the time or place for an in-depth history lesson on the mighty Quinn clan.
Fortunately, a pair of female paramedics interrupted us. “Okay, let’s get you to the hospital,” said one of the women.
“What?” I replied, shaking my head. “I’m fine. I don’t need a—”
“Zip it, Cosi,” Mike warned and leveled a gaze at the medics. “Do not listen to her. Listen to
me
. Get her on a stretcher and get her into your ambulance.
Now
.”
 
 
THE ER doc assigned me to a hospital bed for “overnight observation.” Once more, I tried to argue. Once again, Quinn wouldn’t let me.
He never left the hospital, either. While I was being examined, I could hear him on his police radio, then on his cell phone to his partner, Sully. By the time the hospital staff moved me from the ER stretcher to a proper hospital bed, he’d even retrieved my stolen handbag.
“The ship was already emptied out by the time our uniforms got there,” he explained, taking a seat on the edge of my hospital bed. “Your attacker was long gone, but they searched the ferry and recovered your purse. It was shoved under a bench on deck.”
I took my bag and examined it. The strap was ripped. My wallet, cash, and credit cards were gone. My brush, makeup, and other incidental items were still there; even my keys to the Blend and my duplex apartment were still zipped inside their little pocket.
With a jolt I realized something else was missing. “The letter!”
Mike frowned. “What letter?”
“I had a letter in this bag. It was evidence of someone trying to blackmail Omar Linford.” I was still pretty much convinced the note had not come from Alf. “It’s been stolen, too! And that proves my case!”
“What case, Cosi? You better start from the beginning.”
I brought Mike up to speed on everything I’d uncovered. “. . . and I’m sure it was Dwayne Linford who tossed me over the rail. I saw his tricked-out SUV in the parking area—I know it was his. Before he tore off, he was even fighting with his father about taking care of something
his
way. And that letter he tried to kill me to get was all about incriminating him.”
“So the punk tossed you overboard to shut you up, too.”
“He knew I was there with his father. He knew I was looking into Alf’s murder. His father handed me a letter that practically declared the kid a drug dealer!”
Mike nodded. “Motive and opportunity.” He reached for his police radio. “I’m calling Hong and Franco on this. It’s their case.”
“You think Dwayne Linford shot Alf, too, don’t you?”
“Or had him shot. Yes. And made it appear to be a mugging—exactly your theory, Detective.”
I shook my head. “Franco’s going to be pissed.”
“Why? He’s right, too, isn’t he? Think about it. If Dwayne Linford is a drug dealer, then he probably has known associates who are gangbangers. He could have hired one of them to do the hit on Alf and make it look like a street crime. We’ll get a warrant to search Dwayne’s property. Question him. If we’re lucky, we’ll get a confession, maybe the murder weapon, maybe the name of the person who did the hit.”
“Just get him off the street, Mike.”
“I will, sweetheart.” He smiled, then took my hand and squeezed it. “Looks like you’ll be getting what you want for Christmas, after all.”
As I leaned closer for something a little more intimate than a hand squeeze, a light knock came on the half-open door. The heavenly smells of fresh-baked crust, tangy tomato sauce, and floral oregano preceded a familiar voice—
“Someone here order two pies?”
I glanced up to find a pair of giant pizza boxes coming toward me. Above them floated the carrot-topped face of Detective Sergeant Finbar Sullivan.
“Loaded?” Mike asked his partner.
“
Fully
loaded,” Sully assured him with a grin.
Mike motioned him closer and turned to me. “Hungry?” he asked, lifting one of the box lids.
Closing my eyes, I inhaled the scent of pepperoni and sausage, roasted peppers and mushrooms. “Oh, Mike . . . ,” I gushed as my empty stomach gurgled.
As usual, the man knew just how to make me swoon.
TWENTY-TWO
“AND then you
what
?!”
“I went into the water.”
My ex-husband gritted his teeth. “Clare, why the hell didn’t you leave with Esther?!”
“Because if I’d left with Esther, I never would have gotten the information to nail Alf’s killer! And I’m perfectly fine, as you can see.”
“Dumb luck, Clare. Emphasis on the
dumb
.”
The next day was Tuesday and the Blend was as busy as ever. Matt stopped by during a late-morning lull, and I took a short break, grabbing a stool next to him at our espresso bar’s marble counter. Sipping reviving jolts, I brought him up to speed on my adventures on Staten Island and literally
in
New York Harbor.
“So Dwayne Linford is in custody now?”
Matt pulled off his fisherman’s sweater, too thick for the warmth of the cozy coffeehouse, draped it over his broad shoulders, and began rolling up the shirtsleeves on his well-developed forearms, the ones that came in so handy for me when I was locked in that Dumpster last week.
Unlike Matt, the heat of the roaring fire and steaming hot java didn’t bother me. Not in the least. Frankly, after my freezing dip, I couldn’t get warm enough.
“The police arrested Dwayne late last night at a Manhattan club,” I explained. “He’s got a high-powered lawyer—no surprise. But detectives are reviewing digital images from every Staten Island Ferry security camera they can get their hands on. They have warrants to search his home and SUV, and they already have him booked on a drug charge.”

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