Holiday Grind (5 page)

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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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“It’s a private party,” Tuck informed the man. “But you can join us.”
“Great ’cause I’m freezing my butt off out here!”
“And a very nice butt it is.” Tucker laughed.
“Who’s this?” I asked, stepping closer.
Tucker introduced us. “Shane Holliway, Clare Cosi.”
“Charmed.” Shane threw me a wink.
“Shane was in my cabaret last summer,” Tucker explained. “We met when I was on that daytime TV show—
before
the writers killed my character! Shane played the suave private investigator with an eye for the ladies.”
Shane shook his head. “Those were the days, weren’t they, Tuck? Easy lines. Big paydays. Gorgeous females using shared dressing rooms—of course, that was a perk for
me
more than you.”
I raised an eyebrow.
So Shane’s straight
, I thought,
and a soap actor. No wonder he’s so good looking.
Tucker snapped his fingers. “No doubt.”
“Now what’s this I hear about your putting a show together for Dickie?” Shane asked.
“You mean the Elf extravaganza?” Tucker smirked. “Come on in and we’ll dish.”
“As long as there’s a part for me,” Shane said.
Tucker laughed. “You want to play a dancing elf?”
Shane shrugged. “I could use the gig. Dickie mentioned you needed another dancer and—”
“Nice to meet you,” I told Shane, moving out the open door as his big boots clomped in. Then I caught Tucker’s eye. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I promised as I flipped up my hood, “
with
our Christmas spirit.”
 
 
OUTSIDE the heavy snowfall was tapering off into light flurries. The occasional icy flake pelted the hood of my white parka, then fell to the ground to join its brethren, but for the most part the storm appeared to be over. The glistening blanket it left behind, however, now draped every inch of the historic district—the cobblestone streets and narrow sidewalks, the parked cars and town house roofs.
There was nothing like walking through the Village on a snowy winter night. The few vehicles on the slippery street crept along no faster than horse-drawn carriages. Every surface appeared flocked with white; the pungent smell of active old fireplaces floated through the air; and bundled couples hurried past dark storefronts, eager to get back to their warm apartments or inside a cozy pub for a glass of mulled wine or mug of Irish coffee.
As I passed by St. Luke’s churchyard, the whole world seemed to go silent, save the icy flurries that still pecked at my parka and the
crunch, crunch, crunching
of my winter boots. At one intersection I stood alone, watching a traffic light provide a signal for crossroads that had no traffic. Hands in pockets, I waited half-amused as the bright red light flipped to green in an unintentional Christmas display just for me.
Suddenly I was a little girl again, back in Pennsylvania, slipping away from my grandmother’s house and carrying my cheap little red plastic toboggan to the dead end of her street. The other kids were tucked in for the night, but the snowfall was fresh, not a mark on it, and the vast, empty hillside was all mine.
That kind of exhilarating privacy was rare in Manhattan. Snow almost always melted to rain upon entering the heat and intensity of this crowded island. But tonight—for a little while, anyway—the world was mine again, a blank canvas, fresh and clean for me to mark as I pleased. And block after block, I did make my mark, each footfall breaking through the frozen crust to leave its momentary print in the soft powder.
When I finally reached the corner of Bank and Hudson, I sighed, stamped the snow off my boots, and reluctantly rejoined civilization. The White Horse Tavern was crowded despite the weather, and I knew Alf often stopped here for a burger or Coke. (Being an ex-alcoholic, he told me he no longer drank alcohol, but he still loved the atmosphere of pubs.) Unfortunately, I didn’t see him inside.
I chatted with the bartender, who told me he’d served Santa a cranberry juice. “He came in to get warm, wait for the snow to ease up, you know? And we were just hanging out, shooting the breeze when he jumped up all of a sudden and left in a big hurry.”
“Which way did he go?” I asked.
“West,” said the man, pointing. “Toward the river.”
That sounded wrong on a night like this, but I didn’t say so. I simply thanked the bartender, left the tavern, and returned to the chilly sidewalk. Moving off the bright main drag, I headed purposefully down the side street. Within two blocks, however, my firmness faltered.
The picturesque charm of the officially designated historic district was gone now. This close to the river, there were no more legally protected Italianate and Federal-style town houses. The buildings here were mostly remnants of the nineteenth-century industries that once supported the working waterfront.
Protected or not, however, the location of these former factories, garages, and warehouses put them right next door to a real estate bonanza. With the West Village commanding some of the highest rents in all of New York City, developers had taken advantage over the years, converting these old white elephants into residences for new money.
To make matters worse, the flurries started changing back into serious snowfall again. The clouds had thickened once more, and the icy flakes were getting heavier and more frequent. Even the halogen streetlamps were straining to cut through the returning blizzard.
With a shiver, I flipped up my parka’s hood. But my mood didn’t get any warmer. Traffic was nonexistent on this stretch, and the few commercial businesses I’d passed were shuttered. Uneasy on this desolate street, I was about to throw in the towel and abandon my search when I spied a familiar sight a little farther up the block: Alf’s bright green Traveling Santa sleigh!
For a moment, I was elated. Then I saw that the green sleigh was parked alone on the sidewalk, its red wheels propped against the curb, white powder piling up on its surface.
Okay, this makes no sense.
Under the weak glow of a streetlamp, I could see that the cash box was still on Alf’s little cart. The box was really a round plastic container about the size of a large soup pot. The top of the container was molded to look like a pile of presents, and it slid into a much larger plastic case on the sleigh that was shaped to look like Santa’s big red bag. Pedestrians threw their cash donations through a small hole at the top of the cash “present” box. Because it was removable from the sleigh by a hidden handle, Alf always brought the plastic cash box into the Blend with him. He never let it out of his sight. So there was no way he’d leave it unguarded on the street like this.
Alarmed now, I approached Alf’s sleigh along the slippery sidewalk. The structures on this street were mostly brick, their ground-floor windows either curtained or shuttered, emitting little light. The sleigh had been left at the mouth of a narrow alley between two seven-story apartment buildings—twin century-old warehouses that had been gutted and remodeled into high-priced lofts.
Reaching the sleigh, I finally saw that Alf’s plastic cash box was broken open, only a few coins left inside. More coins were on the ground, making little round sinkholes in the snow. There were footprints in the powder—
two
sets of prints. Both led away from the sleigh, into the alley. Only one set of footprints came out again. They continued down the sidewalk in the direction of the river.
Those can’t be Alf’s footprints
, I decided.
Why would he head toward the river and leave his sleigh behind?
I decided to follow the other tracks of footprints in the snow, the ones leading
into
the shadowy alley. I had to make sure Alf wasn’t lying at the end of those prints, hurt, bleeding, even unconscious.
I couldn’t see much as I moved toward the narrow passage between the buildings, just a gunmetal gray garbage Dumpster. But as I moved farther in, I realized the alley eventually opened up into a snow-covered courtyard.
“Alf?” I called. A wind gust suddenly howled, swallowing my voice. I called out again, stronger this time, but there was no reply, no movement.
I dug into my pocket and pulled out my keychain flashlight. The beam was weak, but it was better than the dingy dark. I stepped forward, paralleling the two sets of snow prints that led into the alley. Both sets of tracks were larger than my own small boots, and I took care not to disturb either one.
As my flashlight beam glanced along the white surface, a flash of cheery red color suddenly made me stop. I pulled the light back and saw the Santa hat.
“Hello!” I shouted, more urgently than before. “Alf! Are you here?”
Again no one answered.
I stooped to pick up the hat, and that’s when I saw the shiny black boots. They were sticking out from behind the gray Dumpster.
For a moment, I stood still as a gravestone, staring at Alf’s boots, vaguely aware of St. Luke’s bells ringing the hour. The church wasn’t far—not physically—but in that frozen flicker of time those clear, innocent, beautifully pure peals sounded as if they were coming from another world.
A second later I was down, kneeling over my red-suited friend sprawled in the snow. “Alf, can you hear me? Alf!”
He couldn’t. Choking back a scream, I realized Alfred Glockner was dead.
FOUR
IN the frigid air, my breath was still forming little pearl-colored clouds. No steam was coming from Alf’s lips or nose because there was no surviving the gaping hole in his chest or the amount of lost blood pooled around his body.
Despite the clear evidence, I went through the motions, checking for any way to help him. I played the flashlight across his wide, unfocused eyes, looking for a reaction. There was none. His wrist had no pulse; neither did his neck.
I pulled out my cell and dialed 911. The call was answered immediately by a female operator who took down all the information. She told me to remain at the scene in order to speak with the investigating officers. Finally, the woman asked if I wanted to stay on the phone with her until the officers arrived.
“No,” I said. “I need the line.”
I was still kneeling, the cold, wet snow soaking through the legs of my jeans. I didn’t care. I hit speed dial. When I heard the reassuring timbre of Detective Mike Quinn’s gravelly voice, I started ranting—only to realize I was talking to his prerecorded message telling me to leave my name and number. When the tone sounded, I took a breath.
“It’s Clare. Call me back as soon as you have the chance . . .”
I was tempted to say more, but Mike was on the job now. If he wasn’t picking up, there was a good reason. He could very well be at a crime scene of his own.
After getting the commendation last spring for taking down a major West Side dealer of prescription drugs—a case I helped him solve—his superiors asked him to continue heading up the “OD Squad,” the nickname for a city-wide task force recently formed out of the Sixth Precinct to document criminality in cases of narcotic drug overdoses.
Tonight he was overseeing an operation in Queens, which meant, even if he
had
picked up, he would still be an hour’s drive away.
I wasn’t the one who’d been shot in this alley; I was perfectly okay, and the police were on their way. A hysterical message from me wouldn’t do either of us any good. So I ended the call, closed my eyes to gain some objectivity, and shifted the beam to illuminate Alf’s wound.
Judging from the scorch marks on the breast of the velvet Santa suit, Alf had been shot at point-blank range. The lapel pocket was turned inside out—no doubt when the mugger rifled Alf’s pockets. The killer had ripped open Alf’s costume, too, using so much force that one of the big white Traveling Santa suit’s signature buttons was ripped off.
I passed my flashlight over the nearby snow, but I didn’t see the button. I did, however, see Alf’s blood. There was so much of it pooled around him, it was impossible to miss. Its warmth had even melted the snow around it, forming a gory pile of pinkish slush.
I stilled, realizing something for the first time:
Alf’s blood hasn’t frozen solid yet.
In weather like this, that could only mean one thing:
He was shot very recently.

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