Holiday Grind (16 page)

Authors: Cleo Coyle

Tags: #Fiction, #Detective, #Mystery, #Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction - Mystery, #Coffeehouses, #Suspense, #Women Sleuths, #Cosi; Clare (Fictitious character), #Mystery fiction

BOOK: Holiday Grind

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Around then is when Franco strutted in, his boot hitting the wall. Now the sergeant was glaring at me full out, his face flushing as red as the stripes in the American-flag do-rag covering his shaved head. (How many of those did he have, anyway?)

“I understand you waived your right to an attorney,” he said, dropping his Doritos and Red Bull on a chair in the corner. “You want to talk to me, Coffee Lady? Are you waiving your right to remain smart, too?”

“I have nothing to hide,” I stated, “and neither does Matt.”

Franco stepped closer. “Okay then. Talk.”

“Sure, Sergeant. How are you?” I saw no reason not to be civil. “You wouldn’t want to reconsider that coffee and jelly doughnut offer you made me last evening, would you? Explaining everything would be a lot more comfortable in my coffeehouse, don’t you think?” I rattled my cuffed wrists to make my point.

“You think this is funny?”

“I assure you, Sergeant, there’s nothing about my friend’s murder that I find the least bit amusing. But this arrest? That’s downright hilarious. So would you mind unmana cling me now?” Once again, I
cha-chinged
my S&M wrist-bands. “This is positively medieval. Plus I’m really hot under all these layers.”

“So . . .” Franco folded his arms and leered. “You want to
strip
for me now, honey? Is that it? Tops or bottoms first? I vote tops.”

“You son of a—”

That did it. Matt blew. Straining against his cuffs, he angled his body on the bench enough to violently kick out at the detective’s private parts. Franco jumped back—in plenty of time—as if he were expecting it.

“Calm down, Pit Bull,” he warned, “or I’ll have you
put
down.”

The threat was harsh, but Franco’s expression appeared borderline amused by the little dance. Matt replied by cursing him out—in several languages.

Franco moved down the bench and kicked the wood, hard. I felt the jolt all the way up my already aching spine.

“I said calm down! Unless you actually
want
leg shackles and additional charges.”

Matt’s jaw worked, but he settled back and zipped it.

Then Franco stepped closer—a fairly plucky move, considering his privates were once again within my ex’s target range. “Look, Rover, I know you’re tough, okay?” he said, his voice actually carrying a modicum of respect. “That doorman used to be a bar bouncer and he’s no pushover. But understand this. I’m armed.”

“Yeah, Matt,” I whispered. “Stand down already.”

Matt shot me the kind of look you reserve for a kitten who claws you up right after you save her from a nasty mutt. I didn’t blame him. Being hassled by corrupt uniforms in banana republics left Matt lacking respect for pretty much anyone flashing a badge and a gun. Given Franco’s unprofessional manner (and leering comment about my giving him a strip show), Matt’s reaction was downright valiant. But if he didn’t chill, he wouldn’t be sleeping beside Breanne tonight. He’d be sharing a cell on Rikers with a much less attractive anorexic, pierced person.

So I leaned closer to his ear and whispered, “You don’t need to keep defending me. I can handle him.”

Franco smirked, obviously overhearing. “Is that right, honey? Go ahead, then. Handle me.”

“Listen to me, Sergeant, I found something important in that courtyard. Something germane to Alf’s case—”

“Christ,” he laughed, rubbing his eyes. “Nancy Drew’s got another germane clue.”

“I found it on the fire escape—”

Franco met my gaze. “So you admit you trespassed?”

I blinked. “Of course.”

Franco went quiet. My direct admission obviously surprised him. He moseyed back to the chair in the corner, opened his Doritos, munched a few, then popped his Red Bull and took a swig—a cover, it seemed to me, for figuring out how to handle
me
. Finally, he shook his head.

“Twenty-four hours after a murder takes place next to that building, you have the nerve to climb that fire escape? Are you certifiable? Or just one of those bubbleheaded broads who’ve sniffed too much nail polish remover?”

“Don’t you
get
it?” Matt snorted with disdain. “She was looking for something you idiots probably missed. Then that scumbag doorman locked her in a Dumpster. In a Dumpster! He should be the one chained up here like a dog! Not me!”

“Listen, dude . . .” Franco cast me a sidelong glance, then locked eyes with Matt. “Your little ex-wifey here is dressed like a gangbanger, and I’m the one to know, believe me. For all that doorman knew, Coffee Lady could’ve had a Glock tucked between those tasty butt cheeks of hers.”

“Shut your damn mouth about my wife—”

“Ex-wife,” I corrected.

“—or I swear to God I’ll shut it for you.”

Franco put the Red Bull to his lips again—less to take a swig, it seemed to me, than to hide a chuckle.

I groaned, half convinced Franco’s antisocial behavior was part of some good-cop/bad-cop ploy. But only half. For one thing, where the heck was the good cop?

“Sergeant, will you please stop trying to provoke my ex-husband and listen to me. I have something for you. Just uncuff me and I’ll show you.”

Franco eyed me for a long, silent moment. “Where is it? This thing you want to show me”

“It’s right here in my pocket.” I gestured with my chin.

“I don’t know about uncuffing you, Coffee Lady. You look pretty unpredictable to me. You might even go for my gun.” He took another swig of Red Bull. “Plus you look kinda hot, all chained up like that.”

“Fine. Have it your way. Don’t uncuff me. Just put your hand in my pocket and get it yourself.”

Franco smiled. It wasn’t a cheerful, have-a-nice-day sort of smile. It was the sort of smile bad boys give you before they start easing down your zipper.

Matt gritted his teeth. “Don’t go
near
her.”

Franco’s eyebrow rose. “You heard her. She wants me to.”

“Don’t
touch
her.”

Oh, good God.
“Matt, will you stop letting this guy push your buttons?” I shifted my body so Franco could easily reach into my front jeans pocket. “Just reach in and get it!”

The cocky sergeant stretched out a hand, glanced furtively at Matt’s cocking leg, and stepped around me—positioning his privates far, far away from Matt’s itchy foot. Finally, he dipped his fingers into my pocket.

For all his roguish taunting, Franco didn’t play around. His hand came right out again, clutching the white button.

“Recognize it?” I asked.

“It’s the missing button from Santa’s costume,” Franco said without meeting my gaze. For the first time tonight, he dropped the swaggering supercop act. “How did Crime Scene miss this and you didn’t?”

“Because it wasn’t on the ground. I found it all the way up on the fourth floor of the fire escape—”

“At the window you were looking through when you got spotted?”

“Yes.”

Franco nodded while he turned the button in his hand. “Okay. So your Santa friend may have been a peeping Tom. Or maybe even a burglar.”

“No. I think Alf was murdered because of something he
saw
—”

“On the fire escape?” he said doubtfully. “When he looked through that apartment window?”

“Yes!”

“Sorry, Coffee Lady. Finding this on the fire escape isn’t evidence of anything like that—only that he may have been some kind of pervert.”

“Alf was
not
a pervert!”

“How do you know?”

I met Franco’s stare. “The same way you know I’m not a murderer.”

The detective frowned, then looked away.

“I found the body, didn’t I?” I quietly challenged. “I knew the victim. Yet you never once considered me a suspect. Why?”

“Because . . .” Franco’s dark eyes returned to mine. “I didn’t see evil inside you.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

It’s true. I’d heard him. I just couldn’t believe what he’d said. “So . . .” I continued carefully, “you can see evil in a person? Just like that?”

“Yes.”

I paused to study the detective in front of me. The man’s tone was no longer taunting. He sounded deadly serious, and his unrelenting stare felt borderline chilling. I knew most cops had hunches, trusted their instincts on reading people. But this was something else—something kind of bizarre, if not downright disturbing.

“Don’t you think a little thing like a trail of evidence would be helpful?” I asked the man. “I mean, if the DA’s office wanted to pursue charges based on something other than your insightful, apparently infallible intuition. What do you do after your nightly tours, turn in a list of who’s naughty and who’s nice?”

Franco’s eyes flashed. “A little advice, Coffee Lady. Sarcasm’s not the way to ‘handle’ me.”

“What about Vicki Glockner’s allegations?”

Franco’s irritation changed quickly to surprise—unhappy surprise. “What do you know about Glockner’s daughter?”

“She came to me earlier this evening. The girl’s convinced Omar Linford had her father executed, or even did the job himself. Don’t you think you should—”

“I spoke with the victim’s daughter already. I’m well aware of her accusations. And let me tell you something, Coffee Lady, everybody’s got a conspiracy theory in this case. I’m waiting for the Zapruder film to pop up next.”

“But aren’t you going to look into this Omar Linford person Vicki was talking about?”

Franco appeared to tense. “I already have—not that it’s your business.”

“Alf Glockner was my friend. His daughter came to me. So, yes, it’s my busi—”

“Okay, all right, I’ll tell you—” He might as well have added
just to shut you up
. “Omar Linford has made no threats or shown himself to be guilty of anything. He has no state or local criminal record, and there are no charges pending. There’s no DEA file on him, and a personal contact I have at the FBI claims they have nothing on the man and no interest in him.”

“But Linford’s loaded. If he wanted to, he could have hired a hit man.”

“So could Donald Trump. But why would he?”

“Donald Trump didn’t lend Alf Glockner two hundred thou. Money he never got back.”

Franco narrowed his eyes. “How could offing St. Nick score Linford his Benjis? Answer me that.”

“Vicki thinks it might have been a warning, that this Linford character is going to use Alf’s murder as a scare tactic, pressure her mother into selling their home or the same might happen to her—or even Vicki.”

“Look, honey, if Omar Linford really is guilty of hiring the gunman or if he proceeds to make threats, we’ll build a case against him. But first things first. We have to arrest the perp who pulled the trigger. Locating the murder weapon would help, too.”

“Or you could talk to the person who lives in that fourth-floor apartment,” I said. “Find out if he knows anything. Heard or saw anything. Is
guilty
of anything—”

“We canvassed the building,” said Franco, cutting me off. “I questioned the occupant of that apartment—”

“You mean James Young,” I stated as if it were fact, even though I wasn’t at all certain. Sure, I’d spotted a Studio 19 identification badge issued to a James Young; but for all I knew, that badge belonged to a friend or relative of the person who lived in that apartment. Crossing my slowly numbing fingers—still locked behind me—I prayed Franco wouldn’t notice the ploy. He didn’t. A second later, he confirmed what I’d dug up.

“Mr. Young had nothing significant to say regarding our investigation.”

“Mr.
James
Young?” I pressed.

“Are you deaf?
Yes.
James Young!”

“And you’re certain he’s the only tenant in that apartment?”

“As far as I know.”

I heard male voices in the hallway. The door opened and a man leaned in—Franco’s partner, Detective Charles Hong.

“Yo, General,” he called, gesturing.

“General?” Matt whispered.

Franco drained the last of his Red Bull, crumpled the can with ease, and smirked at Matt. “Stick around, Fido. I hear there’s an in-flight movie.”

Matt shifted on the bench.

“Temper,” I whispered.

“
General
Franco,” Matt muttered, shooting me an unreadable look. “Now I’ve got this guy’s number.”