and Tucker and I were swamped.
“Got that lat?”
“Got it!”
“Skinny cap with wings!”
Cappuccino with skim milk, extra foam.
“Dopey X!”
Doppio—aka “double”—espresso.
“Caffé Carm!”
Caffé Caramella—a latte with caramel syrup, sweetened whipped cream, and a drizzle of warm caramel topping.
“Americano!”
Espresso diluted with hot water.
“Grande skinny!”
Latte with skim milk.
“XXX!”
Triple espresso.
“Cap, get the lead out!”
Cappuccino with decaf. I shuddered—decaf drinkers truly gave me the creeps.
“Clare,” called Detective Quinn, approaching me behind the counter. “I have a question for you before I go.”
With his grim expression back, I expected a query concerning Valerie Lathem…or at the very least one about the list of coffee drinks that seemed to constantly perplex him. But to my stunned surprise, he didn’t mention either one.
“Are you free for dinner Thursday?”
THREE
SHE lived in one of those high-priced new buildings they’d put up near the river with rooftop parking and a view of the Jersey swamps.
HUDSON VIEW read the white metal sign bolted to the red brick building. “CONDOS AVAILABLE, INQUIRE IN-SIDE.”
The bricks were new, the cheap chrome light fixtures shiny as a drawer full of QVC cubic zirconias, but the building had no style, no character, and no history. A nearly featureless rectangle, which, in the Genius’s view, would succinctly describe the woman inside—if you added a pair of pathetically second-rate breasts.
Her SinglesNYC.com profile had lied, of course.
“All of them lie,” whispered the Genius. “All of them…”
From the building across the street, the Genius watched the woman prepare for her Thursday night date. With her drapes left wide open, the blonde probably assumed no one was peeping. An easy mistake, since she was fifteen floors up, the office building directly across from her condo was only half leased, and the space where the Genius now stood appeared unlit and uninhabited.
Through the dark window, the Genius watched the woman drop her white towel and step into a lacey pair of black panties.
“Well, well, well, I see our hair color’s a dye job…”
Next came the bra—a push-up lace number that matched the black panties.
“That’s it, honey, work what you’ve got,” whispered the Genius, disgusted by the woman’s attempt to disguise her second-rate breasts.
Then came the little black dress, the shoes, the jewelry, the makeup. And…what’s this? The Genius peered through a pair of binoculars to find the woman moving toward her laptop. After punching up the SinglesNYC Web site, the woman stared at the photo, reread the profile.
“Yes, and what do you think of tonight’s date? Quite a catch isn’t he?”
Inside her apartment, the woman strode confidently to the mirror to survey herself. Then, giving herself a dirty little smile, she reached up beneath her skirt and slowly pulled off her panties.
“No panties for the big date? Hmmmm…another bad girl.”
“So what’s bothering you about it?” I asked Mike Quinn that Thursday evening.
“Something doesn’t sit right,” he said. “I mean apart from the fact that the transit boys let the news vultures snap away before the blood was swabbed up.”
“Those front page photos were…unfortunate,” I said. “I can’t imagine how Valerie Lathem’s poor grandmother felt, seeing her granddaughter’s blood on the tracks like that. Splashed all over the newspapers.”
“You got it,” said Quinn on an exhale of disgust. “You got it.”
I put down the salad bowl of fresh mesclun, raddiccio, and grape tomatoes, glistening in a dressing of olive oil, aged balsamic, and freshly ground sea salt, the shaved Pecorino Romano cresting over it all in creamy curling waves. Then I sat next to the detective in the cozy dining room of my duplex, which was located in the two floors above the Village Blend.
I’d set the antique Chippendale table with care, using the handmade lace cloth Madame had purchased in Florence and the candleholders of blown Venetian glass. Before Quinn arrived, I’d lit the candles and lowered the chandelier’s wattage, so the flickering glow of candlelight would reflect itself in the polished wood sideboard and bring a feeling of warmth to the room.
Earlier in the day, Quinn had offered to take me out to a nearby restaurant, but I told him it was a better idea for me to cook dinner for him at my place. No mental slouch, he understood.
Quinn was a married man. A lot of people knew us in this neighborhood. Since I had nothing prurient in mind—and I sincerely doubted he did, either—I didn’t think we should take the chance of giving the wrong impression to some passing acquaintance. Ours, or worse, his wife’s.
Better, I thought, to keep our private friendship just that—private.
“Wine?” I asked.
He’d thoughtfully brought a bottle of Pinot