good to me now. It was time to distill my fears down, concentrate them into the essence of something useful.
I poured myself an ink-black shot and bolted it back. I poured a second and drank it down, too. The phone rang before I could pour a third.
I snatched up the kitchen extension. “Hello!” I blurted, a little too loudly. (The caffeine was starting to hit.)
“I spoke with Lieutenant Salinas,” Mike began without preamble. “Got his home number from the desk sergeant, since he wasn’t on duty. Got him out of bed, actually. But he wouldn’t tell me much—”
“What do you mean, he wouldn’t tell you much?” I paced the small kitchen, all set to fight somebody, anybody. “He’s a cop. You’re a cop. You’re both cops, for heaven’s sake—”
“Sweetheart, calm down—”
“Don’t tell me to calm down! This is my daughter’s life we’re talking about—”
“Clare! Listen to me! Salinas is not Ray Tatum, whom I’ve known for years. Salinas is a cop in a different borough, and as soon as he realized I knew one of his prime suspects, he clammed up. He had a right to. But at least I got him to admit he sent a man to Brigitte Rouille’s apartment. Unlike Tatum and Lippert, Salinas followed your lead. His detective found out that Ms. Rouille skipped out on her rent several weeks ago with no forwarding address.”
“Then she’s still at large!”
“But the trail is cold. Salinas started the initial paperwork on finding her, requested a warrant for her banks records, her ATM and credit card charges. But we’re not officially on the case, so we’re going to do it another way.”
“Another way?”
“Yes, Clare. We’ll find her another way. I promise.”
“I’m sorry, Mike.” I massaged the bridge of my nose. “I didn’t mean to yell just now. I—”
He cut me off with a terse, “Forget it.”
After a long pause, I asked, “Where do we go from here?”
“We start wherever the trail ended. I have the last known address for Brigitte Rouille. It’s in Washington Heights.”
“Salinas is still suspicious of Brigitte, right?”
“Not anymore. She was a person of interest in the death of Vincent Buccelli, but last night he learned about Joy’s arrest and the details of Keitel’s murder. Salinas is now looking to charge your daughter with a second murder.”
I closed my eyes, hating the sound of the inevitable. “Both men were killed in the same manner,” I rasped, “chef’s knives plunged vertically into the base of the throat. Both men had relationships with Joy—one a lover, one a friend. Joy found both bodies. Oh, Mike…”
The room started a slow spin. I sank into a chair at the kitchen table, dropped my forehead into my hand.
“Clare, listen to me. We’re going to find Brigitte Rouille. We’re going to do it together. Give me a few hours, and I’ll pick you up at your coffeehouse. Okay?”
Mike’s confident, assertive voice sounded far away, like it was coming from another solar system. The room was still spinning; I had trouble thinking, forming words.
“Clare! Okay?”
The detective’s deep shout jolted me awake again. My mind began to clear; my focus returned. I lifted my head.
“Okay,” I said.
We bade each other good-bye, and I hung up. Then I rose from the chair and bolted my third cuppa nerves. If there was a solution to this horrific mess, I had to find it for my daughter’s sake. With Mike Quinn on my side, I might have a chance.
Putting down the empty demitasse, I turned to leave the kitchen. I had to shower and dress fast, get down to the Blend, and make sure there was coverage for the day. I checked the master bedroom. It was still dark and empty. The four-poster’s pillows and comforter appeared undisturbed.
I knew from long experience that Matt could be anywhere at the moment: eating breakfast with the Waipunas after their long night of partying or waking up in a new bed with a hot young thing he’d hooked up with at a dance club. Either way, I had to watch for the arrival of my ex-husband.
Joy’s father would have to hire the criminal defense attorney today, because Joy’s mother was going into the field. Despite the expressed feelings of my daughter, I was about to put my complete trust in the police—or rather, one very special police detective.
SEVENTEEN
MIKE picked me up at noon in a battered beige Dodge sedan that he sometimes used for undercover work. We drove north to Washington Heights, on the hunt for an address near Wadsworth