But first we’ll drop Mr. Brio here and those one-of-a-kind rings he’s holding at his home, before something else happens that jeopardizes the wedding”—he met my eyes—“and any chance of ejecting Allegro from your living space.”
Ten minutes later, Quinn had double-parked in front of Roman’s Soho building, and we both escorted the man through the lobby and all the way up to the front door of his loft apartment.
“Are you sure you won’t come in?” Roman asked. “There’s a passable port and an exquisite Stilton in the larder, and I always have Dom Perignon well-chilled for just such an occasion.”
“What occasion?” Quinn asked.
“Surviving New York. What else?”
Quinn’s eyebrow arched (which, in my experience with the man, was as good as a hearty guffaw). “Maybe some other time,” he told Roman. “Just be sure to get a good night’s sleep. I’m going to dispatch a sector car to check up on you at ten AM. Answer the door, okay? Or I’ll have them break it down.”
I half expected a sarcastic retort from the acerbic foodie, but none came. Roman simply nodded. “Thank you, Lieutenant, for all of your help. Good night to you both.”
Fifteen minutes after that, Quinn double-parked again, this time on the West Side. (I did love parking with the man, since he essentially had a license to ignore New York’s draconian regulations.)
Monica Purcell lived in a nineteen-story apartment building on Amsterdam, a few blocks away from Lincoln Center. The ground floor was dominated by a national clothing outlet and a Go Mobile phone store. A door between the two storefronts led to the lobby and the apartments above. Mike showed the sleepy doorman his gold shield, and the man admitted us.
“Monica Purcell?” I asked.
“Twelve D.”
We rode the mirrored elevator to the twelfth floor. Quinn’s knuckles politely knocked on the woman’s door several times; then the meat of his fist took over. He pounded for a while, but no one answered. A small dog began yapping in another apartment. A middle-aged man opened the door; a tiny furry head poked out and back in again.
“Can I help you?” he said.
Mike flashed his gold shield. “Do you know if Ms. Purcell is home?”
“Sorry. I don’t know anything. I mind my own business.”
The door shut in our faces, and the little dog resumed its annoying yapping. I smirked, remembering Breanne’s comment to Roman, calling me a badly dressed Chihuahua.
“Mike, if I were a dog, what breed would I be?”
“Huh?”
“Forget it.” I checked my watch. “Monica really should be home. It’s almost two in the morning on a Tuesday night. The girl said something about clubbing. But tomorrow’s a workday for her.”
“She could be sleeping at a boyfriend’s house—or with a guy she picked up. Either way, there’s no way to find her now. Why don’t we go to Trend’s offices in the morning and question her there?”
I stifled a yawn. “Okay.”
“All right then, Cosi, let’s get going.” Mike’s long strides were already halfway down the carpeted hall.
I had to move double the speed to keep up. “Slow down, Mike. Where are we going?”
Mike shook his head. “How quickly she forgets.”
“Forgets? Forgets what? Seriously, Mike, where are we going?”
Mike jabbed his thumb into the elevator button. He braced his legs, folded his arms, and looked down at me. “Don’t you remember our little conversation this morning in Interview Room B?”
I folded my own arms. “I remember blaming you for getting me into this case.”
“And did I or did I not promise I’d make it up to you?”
“Your point?” My hands moved to my hips.
Mike’s blue gaze followed my hands. Then it dropped lower and traveled back up my body, taking its time moving over my new little Fen outfit. Ever so slightly, the edges of his mouth lifted.
“Simple, Cosi. A promise is a promise.”
With a bing, the elevator arrived. Seeing it was empty, Mike gave me a full-on smile. “C’mon,” he said, “we’re going to my place.” Then he reached for my wrist and pulled me inside.
WHEN I opened my eyes the next morning, I felt something heavy draped across my bare midriff. Confused for a moment, I glanced around. Mike was lying beside me on his stomach, his arm curled possessively around my torso.
I relaxed and sighed. It was a good sound, a happy one—for the moment anyway.
Mike and I hadn’t been on a sugar sand beach last night, just the king-size mattress of his Alphabet City bedroom. There was no rhythmic pounding of Pacific surf, either, just smooth FM jazz