A Brew to a Kill (33 page)

Softly, a different voice seemed to answer…

“In times like these, Clare, failing to take a risk is the biggest risk of all…”

The words were Madame’s, advising me on the difficulties of running a business. But love was a difficult business, too, and as I lay in bed next to Mike, I began to wonder:
Is playing it safe with him creating another kind of risk? Could delaying our union lead to the end of it?

The very idea caused me far more pain than the purple welts on my arms.

Almost of its own accord, one of those arms now curled around Mike’s long, powerful form. Needing to be closer, I pressed my lips against his neck, brushed my fingers lower, and heard his thrilling intake of breath. Thirty seconds later, he was rolling to face me.

We’d made some very sweet love before drifting off earlier, and I hadn’t bothered to get up for a nightshirt, which meant the only stitch currently covering my curves belonged to a thin section of bedsheet.

Utterly naked, I looked into Mike’s eyes and silently promised:
When this whole thing is over,
I’m going to tell you how I feel. I may be worried, doubtful, even a little bit scared, but I don’t want to risk losing you. Not after you’ve risked everything for me…

In the hazy light of the half-closed curtains, Mike gazed at my secret smile and slowly his expression changed from pleasantly aroused to intensely ravenous.

“Oooh… la-la-la, la-la-la, la-la-laaaaa!”

It was enough to render us both deaf—at least, for the next twenty minutes.

“Y
EAH
, Sully, find Franco. This is his assignment for the foreseeable future. We can brief him later about our meeting at 1PP… No, not 24/7. He’s with Clare only when I’m not, and he’s got to appear as a barista…
uh-huh.
Just get him here. One hour. I’ll fill in the blanks…”

“Shower’s free,” I called, returning to the master bedroom in my terrycloth robe. (Mike had one, too. It usually hung on the bathroom door. Now it appeared to be missing.)

With a nod to me, Mike wound up his call with Sullivan, his right-hand man on the OD squad—although, technically, it wasn’t a squad. It was a special NYPD task force with a more official-sounding moniker.

A few years back, an epidemic of deaths from prescription drug overdoses alarmed the mayor’s office. The police commissioner
was asked to find a solution. The OD squad was it. Mike got tapped to take it over and remade it completely, bringing in his own people, aggressively pursuing leads, and shaping it into one of the most effective teams in the NYPD.

A few of Mike’s cases carried high profiles, so I wasn’t all that surprised he’d caught the attention (if not admiration) of VIPs in the U.S. Justice Department. I hadn’t enjoyed Mike’s time away, but I had to admit, I was grateful they’d brought him to Washington when they did. Who knew whether last night’s phone calls would have had the same impact without that trip?

“So,” I said, “are you calling God this morning, too?”

Mike smiled. “It’s Sunday. God’s busy.”

“I talk to him all the time, you know?
Especially
on Sunday. So if there’s anything else you need?”

He pulled me over, touched my cheek. “I need you to be careful.”

“Well, if shots ring out again, I certainly plan to duck.”

Mike was no longer smiling. “I need to tell you something, Clare. A secret.”

“Oh?”

“Last night in the kitchen with Allegro, I lied. Your life is not in danger. If I thought it really was, I’d be bundling you off to some safe house in Tennessee.”

“Well, could you make it Memphis? I hear they have good coffee in Memphis.”

“Listen to me. It’s important. If these dealers wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be standing here now.”

“What about the hit-and-run?”

Mike shook his head. “Murderers for hire are paid to get the job done. If some assassin planned to run you over and failed, he would have remedied his mistake the next morning, before the drug lord found out. And I guarantee he would have used a more reliable method than a van with no muffler.”

“What about the gunshots?”

“Those weren’t meant for you.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because drug dealers assassinate at close range, almost without exception. And there are other reasons. I talked at length with Sergeant Ortiz. You were standing in front of a large truck yesterday. If an assassin was aiming for you, our CSU would have picked up bullets or fragments in or around that truck. Yet they found nothing. To top that off, witnesses said they heard shots coming from behind the truck while the balloons popped were in front of it.”

“That was my impression, too. The sound of the shots didn’t match their supposed trajectory. So what was it?”

“Maybe a coincidence. Maybe stray shots from the projects at the exact time the balloons popped for some other reason.”

“You told me when it comes to investigating cases, there are no coincidences.”

“I did. And maybe there really was something deliberate behind yesterday’s incident. Whatever it was, it was not an attempt on your life. But, listen, here’s where the secret comes in: I want Allegro to think your life is in danger. If he does, he’ll stick around. And it’s vital that he doesn’t flake out on me or disappear on the squad. He has to continue to cooperate or we’ll lose any chance we have of getting a lead on the dealers on this end. The ones who were supposed to pick up and distribute that new Brazilian crack.”

“Okay, I get it. I’m not a sitting duck a l’orange, after all. So what’s Franco for then? Show?”

“Franco’s there to back you up if the dealers approach you. Despite what I said last night, I think it’s highly likely they will want to talk with you, Clare.”

“Talk with me! Me? Why on earth?”

“If this drug lord wanted you dead, you would be. The only reason you aren’t is the same reason those DEA agents tried to break you last night—you’re a way to get to me. This new crack involves new people, brand-new networks. That’s why they were hot to set up Allegro. They’re going to want their own corrupt cops in their pockets, too, which makes you the opposite of a target. It makes you an asset.”

“But I’m
your
asset.”

“They don’t know that… and Franco’s there so you won’t be afraid or wonder what to say and do. We’ll go over all of it. I’ve seen you in action, sweetheart. You like to take down bad guys, just like me. In fact, you’re the main reason I was able to sell my story to Justice Department brass.”

“Me again?”

“It’s all on the record. You were instrumental in the case that caught their attention.”

“You mean when I helped you take down that creep’s Internet pharmacy?”

Mike nodded. “You weren’t just our primary witness then, Cosi. You’re the primary reason Allegro is not on his way to a federal penitentiary now.”

I closed my eyes. “This is a lot to digest, Mike. I need coffee. Bad.”

He pulled me close, pressed his lips to my forehead. “I’ll see you downstairs.”

“C
LARE
, I have a problem…”

I was taking two-dozen Oatmeal Cookie Muffins out of the oven when Matt marched into the kitchen wrapped in Quinn’s missing bathrobe. (Mystery solved.)

“My thing doesn’t work anymore!”

“Your what?”
Geez, was Tanya rougher on him than I thought?

“My smart phone! Those fascists at the DEA must have fouled it up.”

“Matt, don’t you remember? You bounced ‘your thing’ off the ceiling in Bree’s BMW. You broke it yourself when we were evading those drug dealers.”

“What’s that about dealers?”

Now Quinn was sauntering in, freshly showered, his short light brown hair still damp. He’d donned slate gray slacks, a white dress shirt, and a silver-blue tie that brought out the cobalt of his irises. What drew my attention, however, were the items on his belt. I recognized the usual signs of his profession—a gold shield and a pair of handcuffs. But I noticed a few other things, too, an extra magazine of ammo, OC spray (aka pepper spray), and a pouch for a multifunctional
tool, which I knew included a serious-looking knife. The man was packing for war, which didn’t exactly cheer me.

“You saw the dealers following you?” Quinn asked, hanging his shoulder holster off the back of a kitchen chair.

“They were,” I said, “until Matt made some clever moves and shook them.”

“What make of car?” Quinn asked.

“Chevy Impala,” Matt said. “Late model. Black.”

Quinn’s lips quirked. “Seventy percent of federal law enforcement drives late model Chevy Impalas, black.”

“You mean I shook the DEA?”

“Not for long, apparently.” Quinn touched my shoulder, kissed my head. “Something smells wonderful.”

I smiled. “Cinnamon, brown sugar, raisins, and buttermilk-soaked oats, all baked up for you in a nice, warm muffin…” I gestured to the cooling treats.

“Mmmm… I love those. They smell just like my mom’s oatmeal cookies.”

“That’s the idea.” He reached for one, but I directed him to the chair. “Those are for your squad meeting. I have another favorite for breakfast.”

Matt leaned against the counter. “I don’t get it, Quinn. I mean, I’ve been thinking this through. You work with some of these DEA people, right? Why didn’t you get some kind of tip about last night’s raid?”

“Simple,” he said, sitting back. “They knew I was involved with Clare. The last thing they would have done is inform me or my squad. And by the way, Blanco’s claim was a load of crap. No ‘paperwork’ was going to cross my desk. Those agents planned to take me down along with you and Clare, once they broke you in the interview. That was the plan, anyway.”

“So you really are in it with us.” Matt said, smirk finally gone.

“We’re a team now, Allegro. The three of us. We sink or swim together.”

“Then answer me something. Do you know how they
found out about the drugs? I mean, I didn’t even know until last night.”

“They didn’t tell me, but it’s highly likely some asset tipped them—an informant, just like you two, only in that drug lord’s circle. The Justice Department… that is the NSA, CIA, DEA—”

“All the ‘As’,” said Matt. “We get it.”

“They have informants all over the world. The tip came in and they watched you. I’m sure they would have kept watching you to see where those drugs went. Who picked them up—and where and how they intended to distribute them.”

“And that’s what you want to know?”

“That’s what God wants to know. And we’re going to find out for him.”

“Who is God, anyway?” Matt asked.

I froze, hoping to hear…

“That’s a very personal question. A spiritual matter, really. Not something I can answer for you…”

Before Matt could snap back, I pointed to Quinn’s face. “Mike, you have something on your jawline…”
(Like a half-dozen tiny dots of scarlet-speckled white tissue.)
“What happened?”

“Well, it seems
somebody
used all of my Barbasol, which left me with trying to get a lather out of my Irish Spring. And my razor was dull as hell…” He glared at Matt, whose hacked-away black beard, courtesy of Quinn’s shaving kit, was presently reduced to a slight morning stubble.

“Maybe you should keep more than one disposable around,” said Matt. “Even a second can of shaving cream. I mean, I realize on a public servant’s salary, things are tight, but you might consider an occasional backup.”

“Allegro, do me a favor today?”

“What?”

“Resist arrest.”

“Come on, guys. Don’t fight. Eat!”

With that, I set down a napkin-lined basket of my fresh-baked Blueberry Muffin Tops—my healthier and much more convenient alternative to pancakes.