soon.”
“Oh no, Mike. Isn’t there any way to hold him? Charge him with attempted murder?”
“We searched his apartment, but that single bottle of OxyContin that he handed you was the only narcotic we found.”
“What about the other pills he had? I saw them!”
“Other than a little more OxyContin, we found zip. We raided his closet, but the only items in there were the kinds of supplements and herbal products you’d find in any health food store. He must have his dirty stash somewhere else, most likely under another name. We couldn’t find it in his residence, and he wouldn’t talk. So the only charge that stuck to him was one count of intent to distribute an illegal substance.”
“No murder weapon, either? No gun.”
“No weapons of any kind in his apartment.”
“What about all the other things he’s guilty of?”
“The DA’s office can’t charge Winslow for the robbery in Queens, or Monica Purcell’s overdose, or attempted murder of his ex-wife, because he wouldn’t admit to any of those things, and there’s no evidence that directly connects him.”
“And the Rxglobal Web site?”
“That’s an angle we’re working with the DEA, but that will take time. No judge will hold him without bail based on the evidence against him right now. And your testimony against him is just about the only thing we’ve got to even make the first charge stick. The prosecutor’s office wasn’t even comfortable charging him with conspiracy to commit robbery.”
“But he agreed on the wire! We have it on tape!”
“The rings were never actually stolen, and he never accepted them from you, just agreed to let you steal them. The defense will cry entrapment. It’s not enough for the prosecutor to go forward, Clare.”
I rubbed my forehead, tried to figure out a next step. “Winslow couldn’t have been the mugger at the restaurant,” I reasoned aloud, “because he was still in custody then. But if he’s going to be free soon, he might try to hurt Breanne himself.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I’ll try to reach Breanne and warn her. I’ll try Matt again, too, but he’s been unreachable for hours.”
“Why?”
I sighed. “It’s too long a story to explain now.”
“Fine, but you better suggest to Breanne that she hire a bodyguard.”
“I will.”
We signed off, and I rang Breanne. By now, she was out of the ER and back in her Sutton Place apartment—no hairline fracture, no damage to her vocal chords. She was just bruised, sore, and shaken. Before I could ask her about Randall Knox, she asked me about Matt.
“Have you heard from him yet, Clare?”
Bree’s typical cool, clipped tone was gone. Her voice sounded vulnerable and human. For the first time since Matt had announced their engagement, Breanne Summour sounded like a woman in love.
“I’m sorry,” I said gently, “he hasn’t come back yet. I can’t reach him on his cell, either.”
“Neither can I. You’ll let me know when he shows, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
I told Breanne about my visit to Knox’s office, including the Miriam Perry appearance. I also warned her about gossip boy’s declaration that he’d be publishing a scandalous story on Monday, something that included an angle on the stripper Hazel Boggs.
“Whatever this story is, he promises it’s going to upset you a great deal. So brace yourself.”
Breanne had little to say after that, just thanked me for informing her. Finally, I told her about her ex-husband being released on bail.
“. . . and since Matt isn’t there with you, Mike Quinn strongly suggests you hire a bodyguard.”
“I already have,” she said. “He’s outside my apartment door right now.”
It’s about time. “Okay, Breanne, just make sure you show him a photo of your ex-husband, so he can stop the man the moment he comes near you. Would you do that?”
“Good idea, Clare. I’ll do that right now.”
I hung up, went back to the bar for another double shot, and sat back down near the fireplace to continue thinking things through. When the bell jangled over the door a few minutes later, I glance up and noticed an African American woman walking in.
“Janelle!” I waved her over.
Janelle Babcock waved back and crossed the wood plank floor, her ample hips smoothly negotiating the crowded café tables.
“Espresso?” I asked as she sat down across from me. “Latte?”
“No, thanks, Clare.” She smiled.
Like the city she hailed from, Janelle had a smile that was warm and easy. Her flawless skin was the shade of a lightly creamed cup of Sumatra, and her features were Creole, not surprising since she’d grown up in New Orleans. She’d