A Brew to a Kill (22 page)

“As far as the Crazy Quinn stuff,” Buckman continued, “I like Mike. The fact is, I owe him, and I don’t want you to get the wrong impression of your guy.”

“Oh, come on. One story…”
Spill it, Bucket-mouth, you’re dying to tell me.

Buckman shrugged. “You twisted my arm.”

He retrieved his coffee cup from the dash and drained it. “So here’s your Mike Quinn, three months
maybe
on the narcotics squad, and he’s stuck doing the grunt work: scooping up street sellers, interrupting trade, stop and frisk. That sort of crap.

“One reason he can’t move to bigger stuff is because he won’t skell up—grow the hair, the beard, wear crap clothes, behave like a dirtbag drug buyer. He was still trying to make that underwear model wife of his happy and she wouldn’t allow it.”

“That I believe.”

“One day Mike’s on the street. He collars this guy just out of the joint who’s looking to take up his old crack-dealing
ways. The scumbag’s got a jacket as long as Trump’s tax return and he’s facing twenty more years mandatory time if he’s convicted again. Well, Mike figures he’ll turn the guy, get him to wear a wire when he goes in to talk to one of the biggest independent suppliers in the Bronx, a thug who’s familiar with the perp and seems willing to do business with him.

“Only on the day Mr. Parole Violator is supposed to get wired and go to the meet, he pulls a Jimmy Hoffa.” Buckman gestured with his hands. “The dude is gone. Most cops would pack it in at that point, but not Crazy Quinn. He wires up and goes in himself, all alone,
as is
, police-academy haircut and all. He’s even wearing his badge.”

“You’re kidding?”

“
Now
you see? Crazy Quinn. What he did was suicide, and everybody knew it—including the dealer. But Mike is so ballsy and so convincing that the dealer actually buys his off-the-cuff story that he’s a bad cop ready to facilitate smuggling in exchange for bribes!”

Buckman laughed, relishing the memory. “For three months Quinn takes bag money from this dealer. All the while he’s learning the dealer’s routes, his connections, even the names of cops who really were on the take.

“When the hammer finally came down, fifty guys were taken off the street. The kingpin decided to shoot it out and was killed—good thing for Mike, because the dealer would have reached out from prison to get revenge.”

I cringed at the thought of Mike taking a chance like that. But he didn’t have to prove himself anymore. He was a necktie guy now, off the street, for the most part, behind a desk, safe.

“Wait for it.” Buckman laughed. “Because this story gets better. One of the deputy mayors, a total political animal, hears about the busts and comes up to the precinct to glad-hand. Wants to meet Mike personally and find out how he did it. Crazy Quinn could have been vague, mumbled something about solid police work and that crap. But no, Mike tells the DM the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“It’s wrong because this guy knew
zero
about police work. He comes out of the meet, calls the police commissioner, and ‘suggests’ Mike be investigated by Internal Affairs for corruption because he admitted to accepting bribes in the line of duty!”

“What did the commissioner do?”

“For once, ‘politics’ worked out for the good guy. The commish had a strong bond with the mayor—and he couldn’t stand that DM. Out of spite, he did the exact opposite of the man’s ‘suggestion,’ and kicked Mike upstairs. Bigger job. More responsibility. Mike passed his sergeant’s exam the following year, and the rest is an NYPD success story.”

“Then maybe Quinn wasn’t so crazy after all.”

“You’ve got a point. Only now I hear Mike’s big rep is finally giving him blowback. Uncle Sam has been watching—and now they want him.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“In a short window of time, Mike brought down an illegal Internet pharmacy and then exposed a rotten apple high up inside the NYPD. An ambitious U.S. attorney took notice, singled out Mike to be part of a special team based in D.C.”

“Excuse me? You’re saying Mike got a job offer from the Justice Department?”

“Sorry to give you the bad news. Powerful people got that way for a reason. When they make you an offer, they don’t expect to be refused.”

No,
I thought,
there is no way Mike is considering a move to Washington.
With firmness I told Buckman, “You got it wrong.”

“A little birdie I know in D.C. says otherwise.”

Oh, that tone was insufferable. I’d grown to like Mad Max, but I could see how trying he could be—and irritatingly persuasive. He actually drove me to rethink my last phone conversation with Mike. He hadn’t mentioned a job offer last night. But something wasn’t right with him, either. He was stressing. And he was drinking, which wasn’t like him.

“You’re wrong, Detective,” I said—though not as firm this
time. “Mike wouldn’t leave his guys on the OD squad. He put the whole team together. It took him years…”

And what about me?
I silently added.
Would Mike expect me to move with him? He knows how much the Village Blend means to me, not to mention my relationship with Madame, my family of baristas, the century-old legacy I mean to pass to my daughter…

Buckman didn’t reply. He was staring straight ahead, through the windshield, at the empty street. His attention had strayed back to Lilly’s case, or more likely, from what I knew after being with Quinn, a part of his brain had never stopped thinking about it.

“I just can’t figure out that wineglass,” he muttered. “What was it doing on the front seat? Was hitting Lilly Beth something to celebrate?”

“Are you okay, Detective?”

“Sharp as a tune-up.” Buckman said, suddenly back to business. “And I want you to stay that way, too, which is why I’ll be giving Mike Quinn a call.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re his main squeeze, right?”

I nodded.

“I’m sure he’s mentioned what happens on the street. How drug dealers sometimes go after a rival’s girlfriend or family member.”

“No. You’re not saying—”

“It’s another possibility. The driver of that van could easily have been some friend or relative of a scumbag that Quinn put away. So watch your back. Officer Gifford will be outside until the party’s over. If anyone threatens you in any way, let him know.”

“I will.”

“I don’t have the manpower to assign you a private bodyguard. Gifford’s off duty after the party, so go home and stay there. Will you do that for me?”

“I’ll try.”

“Do more than try, Cosi. I do not want the next hit-and-run I investigate to be yours.”

B
UCKMAN
threw me a short wave and pulled out, his GTO engine revving with the power of a Formula One on the starting line. When he was gone, I glanced across the street at Officer Gifford, still astride his motorcycle. The burly cop noticed my gaze and smiled behind dark glasses.

Turning, I discovered Matt leaning against the warehouse fence, the harsh bite of industrial chain-links softened by our hand-painted party balloons, some shaped like muffins, others coffee cups—courtesy of Josh Fowler, Dante’s Five Points friend.

“So, what did Bozo want?” Matt asked.

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Too long.”

I shrugged. “Detective Buckman was just giving me an update. I’ll fill you in later.”

“You know that car he’s driving is worth a quarter of a million dollars? How does a supposedly honest cop afford something like that?”

“Buckman’s a motor head, Matt, with a degree in MechE. I’m sure he bought it used in the seventies when it wasn’t worth spit.”

“Here’s another question.” Matt unfolded his arms and pointed. “Why is that Chopper Cop sitting across the street from my warehouse?”

“Security for our party.” (That was true.) “With two city officials here—both about to run for mayor—it makes sense, doesn’t it?”

Matt grunted suspiciously. “Seems to me Dominic Chin and Tanya Harmon brought their own entourages, security included.”

I could have said more, but the truth was too complicated to explain with three hundred guests in our parking lot. Besides, that sticky issue—the part where Buckman believed Quinn’s work may have put my life in danger—would have sent Matt over the moon. And I needed him here in Brooklyn. So I changed the subject.

“Did I mention how good you look today?”

He blinked. “No…”

“Well, you do! Good enough for Helen Bailey-Burke to eat…”

I wasn’t fibbing this time. My Esther needed Helen’s approval to get us that grant money for the Muffin Muse. Matt could be a big help schmoozing her up. Thankfully, he looked tanned and rested, but best of all, he’d done as I’d asked and spent the morning hacking through jungles of facial hair. Like Michelangelo sculpting David, Matt had come away from the mirror with a masterpiece. Unfortunately, the neat, perfectly shaped goatee was a little too sexy.

“That’s the problem,” Matt said. “Maybe you failed to notice, but Helen arrived
with
wannabe mayor Tanya Harmon.”

“I noticed. But then Helen is well connected. She raises money for a lot of causes, including political ones. I’m sure Tanya wants Helen in her pocket—if she’s not there already.”

“Well, here’s the problem. Remember that little story I told you about me and Ms. Harmon?”

“Let’s see… after one of your mother’s fund-raisers, you and our city’s current public advocate had a night of too much champagne. Is that about right?”

“Yes, and today I learned the champagne didn’t affect her memory.”

“Excuse me?”

“She wants an encore.”

“You’re kidding? She made a pass?”

“To put it mildly. First the woman dropped every suggestive double entendre she could think of, and when that failed to grab my attention, Tanya grabbed something else of mine. And right in front of
Mother
.”

I bit my cheek to keep from laughing. “Take it easy, okay? Your mother is a bohemian at heart. And she knows your history. I’m sure she took the display in stride.”

“Well, I didn’t! Tanya doesn’t even care that I’m married now.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Being married never seemed to hamper you before.”

“This is different. And I’ll be frank: Tanya’s a man-eater. She treats her employees like servants and her constituency like they work for her. Do you know what a woman that awful is like in bed?”

Matt fell silent. The statement was rhetorical, and I should have minded my own business, but the snoop in me was already on overdrive.

“Don’t stop there,” I said. “You’ve got me curious.”

He sighed, glanced around, and lowered his voice. “You know me, Clare. I like to have fun in bed, but it’s got to be a mutual thing. Spending a night as Tanya Harmon’s lover was on par with being her waiter. The woman snapped her fingers and expected to get what she wanted,
when
she wanted it. And if you didn’t deliver, a tongue lashing ensued—and not the good kind.”

“Okay, I get it.” I checked my watch. “The woman hasn’t been here long, and she probably won’t stay long, either. Just try to avoid her…”

“What do you think I’ve been doing? Thank goodness Dominic Chin is here. I’ve been hanging around him near the Five Points group at the truck. Tanya won’t go near the guy—” Matt shuddered. “He’s like a cross to her vampire.”

“Come on. She can’t be that bad.”

While Matt assured me she was, I pulled out my cell phone and checked for new text messages. With relief, I saw Franco had responded to my request for help:

“I’ve got to hand it to you, Clare,” Matt was saying. “How did you manage to lure the city’s two biggest political rivals to your muffin mixer?”