Espresso Shot

Mike’s expression was priceless-somewhere between amazed and amused. “Nice work, sweetheart.”

“There were five numbers on Monica’s call log,” I said. “Two of them had names attached, and Roman recognized them both. The first was Mrs. Muriel Purcell, in New Haven, Co

“That’s Monica’s mother,” Roman piped up. “A divorced beauty queen on a Botox bender. Someone should really stop that woman.”

“The other call was to Petra, Trend’s art director. The final three didn’t have names in her log. I was going to run them through the Internet’s reverse directory.”

Mike nodded, and I went to work. The first two of the three numbers had Manhattan area codes, and the search engine revealed that one was for the Fitness Plus Day Spa on Eighth Avenue and Seventy-first Street; the second was a health food store on Amsterdam.

“The local numbers are a bust,” I said, disappointed.

I’d scribbled a star beside the final telephone number, because that was the call Monica had made outside of Fen’s boutique, when she informed someone not only where Brea

I typed the number into the search engine.

“Information not available?”

“It’s unlisted,” Mike said. He scribbled the digits down in his notebook and pulled out his cell phone.

“Are you calling your precinct to have someone trace the number?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I’m calling the number.”

Mike listened for a moment then disco

“What did you get?” I asked.

“An answering machine. No name or business. Just a ca

While Mike spoke with the precinct’s night commander, I pulled yet another espresso for Roman-at his request. Then I dug up the Manhattan phone book. Monica Purcell was listed; her apartment was on the Upper West Side, not very far from the health club and veggie deli stored on her cell phone log. I wrote down the address and finished my own latte.

“Thanks for your help,” Qui

I set the cup down. “Well?”

“Captain Blunt strongly suggests you both return to Queens tomorrow to file crime reports with his detectives. It’s the 107th Precinct on Parsons Boulevard.”

“A police report? With my name on it!” Roman’s eyes bugged. “I’ll be ruined. No one will ever invite me to an underground restaurant again.”

Mike’s glance at me wasn’t amused. “Believe me, Brio, word about your little secret garden in Flushing is already out. The detectives of the one-oh-seven are all over the crime scene as we speak. It was the woman who owned the house, a Mrs. Weng, who called the robbery in. Several other diners have also filed reports, so I think you’ll be forgiven.”

Qui

“We’re not out of leads yet, Mike. We still have Monica Purcell. She lives near Sixty-ninth Street, on Amsterdam Avenue. I say we go see her right now.”

Qui

Ten minutes later, Qui

“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?” Qui

“Surviving New York. What else?”

Qui

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, Qui

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. Qui

“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 a

“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.