I tossed in salt, pepper, and parsley, then stirred and sipped; sipped and stirred . . . and when the white clam sauce finally thickened enough, I turned off the burner, covered the pan, and allowed the flavors to blend while I boiled the linguine—just the way my Nonna had taught me (in a big ol’ pasta pot with a splash of olive oil to keep the noodles from sticking and enough sea salt to mimic the Mediterranean).
At last, with my wineglass nearly empty and my patience with Quinn’s Quiet Man act worn through, I turned off the Christmas music and turned on the cop.
“Aren’t you ever going to say anything about my arrest?! You haven’t asked me one question all night!”
Quinn slowly stood up. Without a word, he casually poured more wine into my glass then his own.
“Well?”
“I told you already,” he softly replied. “Allegro filled me in plenty.”
“He also ordered you to talk some ‘sense’ into me!”
Quinn cracked a smile at that.
“What?” I prodded. “You find that funny?”
“Yeah . . .” Quinn’s fingers brushed some damp hair off my cheek, curled it around an ear. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
“And what exactly is so funny?”
“Allegro. The guy was married to you for a decade and he still doesn’t realize that no one can talk sense into you. That’s what’s so funny. It’s a complete waste of vocal cords.”
“Ha. Ha.”
“Listen, Cosi . . .” Quinn reached around me and began using the tips of his fingers to work the stiff tendons in my neck. “The day I met you—” He stopped, smiled. “The minute I met you I knew you had a mind of your own. I accept it. I like it. I’m not about to lecture you on the fact that you put yourself in a precarious, even unduly dangerous position tonight. You know that already, right? No one needs to tell you that.”
“But you know why I did it.”
“Yes . . . I just wish you had waited for daylight, asked permission of the doorman. You know, done it legally.”
I might have been annoyed at the subversive way Quinn was putting across his censure, but his magic fingers felt too good.
“The trouble with doing it safely is hearing the word no,” I pointed out. “Then what? Another freak evening storm, this time with rain instead of snow, and that button I found would have been washed away.”
Quinn’s eyebrow arched. “True.”
“And don’t forget, Lieutenant, it was you who taught me to bend the rules. Remember how you lied to that super up in Washington Heights so he’d let us illegally search an apartment?”
“I can see I’ve been a bad influence.”
Before I could argue, Quinn’s fingers encircled my wrist and he tugged me toward the kitchen table. Sitting back down, he coaxed me onto his lap.
“Now what? Am I supposed to tell you what I want for Christmas?”
Quinn grinned. “That’d be a good start.”
“I want to discuss Alf’s case with you.”
“That’s what you want for Christmas?”
“Now that you mention it, yes—Alf’s killer brought to justice with a jingle bell bow on top.”
“I see . . . and do you have a theory?”
“Not yet. But I’ll tell you one thing: I do not trust Sergeant Emmanuel ‘Do-Rag’ Franco. Do you know Detective Hong practically implied the man was a vigilante? What do you think of that?”
“I’ve heard rumors.”
“Do you think it’s possible . . .” I hesitated, then felt Quinn’s fingertips return to working my neck muscles. I sighed. That spine slam I’d endured against that Dumpster wall was finally melting away.
“I know this may seem out there,” I continued, “believe me, I do. But do you think that Franco might have been involved somehow in killing Alf?”
Quinn went quiet for a long moment. “Why? Why would Franco want to kill Santa Claus?”
“What if Franco caught Alf doing something bad or illegal—or thought he caught him doing something like that. Maybe Franco decided to exact street justice.”
“You want me to ask around about him? I know some guys in the borough precincts where he worked street crime task forces.”
“Could you?”
Quinn nodded. “I can make a few calls.”
“There’s also another man, James Young. He lives in the apartment that Alf was spying on the night he was murdered. Franco says Young had nothing significant to add to the investigation, but maybe the man didn’t want to talk to the cops. Maybe, if he has something to say, he’ll talk to me.”
“Good lead, Cosi. But guess what . . .”