I want right now is to say good night .”
“Oh, I get it. You’re tired.”
“No. I had a nap earlier. I’m wide awake. That’s not the reason.”
“Another time, then?”
I popped the car door and lunged onto the sidewalk. Landry called after me—
“Hey, Clare, I didn’t forget. I’ll be sure to tell them!”
I tensed. “Tell who? Tell them what ?”
“My friends. I’ll tell them how awesome your Village Blend coffee is.”
“You do that. Now go back to work, Officer!”
I slammed the door and, for the first time in hours, exhaled with relief—but not until the police cruiser disappeared around the corner.
What a horrible night!
F ourteen
“M IKE, are you laughing ?”
“I’m sorry, Clare . . .” Behind the wheel, Mike Quinn shook his head. “It’s just . . .”
“What?”
“Tom Landry made a pass at you. In any other context that sentence would have to involve a football.”
“Please. I’m embarrassed enough.”
“Why? Don’t ‘older ladies like yourself’ have a sense of humor?”
After years of detective work in the NYPD, Quinn had developed a poker-face approach to human interaction. Over time, I’d schooled myself in reading his subtle emotional cues. But this? This wasn’t subtle. The man’s shoulders were shaking.
I punched his arm.
“Ow!” The squawk came from me. Quinn’s biceps were made of granite. I rubbed my knuckles.
“Assaulting me will get you nowhere, sweetheart. I’m armed. But I promise to stop laughing—in a minute.”
“You know what, Mike? I think you’re cracking up because you’re cracking up.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re punch-drunk. You’ve been driving these back roads for hours.”
“I’m not risking Baltimore until night falls.”
“Well, we’ve got to stop. You’re tired, hungry, and in need of caffeine—and so am I.”
“Look, I told you. Restaurants, gas stations, and convenience stores have security cameras.”
“Okay, fine . . .”
I banged open the glove compartment. Quinn’s .45 sat beside a pair of sunglasses and on top of a mid-Atlantic travel guide. I grabbed the guide, checked the index, and then the map.
“There’s a mom-and-pop donut shop a few miles from here.”
“Clare, they’ll have a security camera, too. I guarantee it.”
“It’s way off the beaten trail. Warm donuts and hot coffee. We’re going. ”
Minutes later, Quinn was parking around the corner of the little white clapboard shop. He donned a baseball cap and Windbreaker from his bag, and I handed him the glove-compartment sunglasses.
“Everything go okay?” I asked when he returned to the car.
“They had a security camera, but I kept my head down. And the teenager who rang me up barely noticed me. The line was out the door.”
“Really? Must be good stuff . . .”
We dug into the pastry box and were soon moaning with bliss as we sank our teeth into the pillowy piles of fried yeast dough dipped in delectable honey glaze. The four giant cups of coffee were hot and highly caffeinated. Quinn practically chugged one of them.
“Pretty good for roadside coffee, don’t you think?”
I took a test sip. “Colombian. Large batch. City or city plus . . .”
“Plus what?”
“Sorry, occupational hazard.”
“Don’t apologize. You’re a master roaster. I expect you to have an opinion on the brew.”
“I do, and . . .” A flash of color in my side mirror froze my tongue—and then my bones.
“Clare? What’s wrong?”
I told him.
Pulling up behind us was a local police cruiser. The cop at the wheel was staring right at us and placing a call on his radio.
F ifteen
“M IKE, start the engine. What are you waiting for? Get us out of here!”
“Relax, Clare. Sit back and relax .”
“Don’t you see the cop behind us? Look in your mirror!”
“I don’t have to. I expected this.”
“Excuse me?”
“The guy’s a good cop. He saw me in the donut shop with the sunglasses and ball cap,
“Oh, I get it. You’re tired.”
“No. I had a nap earlier. I’m wide awake. That’s not the reason.”
“Another time, then?”
I popped the car door and lunged onto the sidewalk. Landry called after me—
“Hey, Clare, I didn’t forget. I’ll be sure to tell them!”
I tensed. “Tell who? Tell them what ?”
“My friends. I’ll tell them how awesome your Village Blend coffee is.”
“You do that. Now go back to work, Officer!”
I slammed the door and, for the first time in hours, exhaled with relief—but not until the police cruiser disappeared around the corner.
What a horrible night!
F ourteen
“M IKE, are you laughing ?”
“I’m sorry, Clare . . .” Behind the wheel, Mike Quinn shook his head. “It’s just . . .”
“What?”
“Tom Landry made a pass at you. In any other context that sentence would have to involve a football.”
“Please. I’m embarrassed enough.”
“Why? Don’t ‘older ladies like yourself’ have a sense of humor?”
After years of detective work in the NYPD, Quinn had developed a poker-face approach to human interaction. Over time, I’d schooled myself in reading his subtle emotional cues. But this? This wasn’t subtle. The man’s shoulders were shaking.
I punched his arm.
“Ow!” The squawk came from me. Quinn’s biceps were made of granite. I rubbed my knuckles.
“Assaulting me will get you nowhere, sweetheart. I’m armed. But I promise to stop laughing—in a minute.”
“You know what, Mike? I think you’re cracking up because you’re cracking up.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re punch-drunk. You’ve been driving these back roads for hours.”
“I’m not risking Baltimore until night falls.”
“Well, we’ve got to stop. You’re tired, hungry, and in need of caffeine—and so am I.”
“Look, I told you. Restaurants, gas stations, and convenience stores have security cameras.”
“Okay, fine . . .”
I banged open the glove compartment. Quinn’s .45 sat beside a pair of sunglasses and on top of a mid-Atlantic travel guide. I grabbed the guide, checked the index, and then the map.
“There’s a mom-and-pop donut shop a few miles from here.”
“Clare, they’ll have a security camera, too. I guarantee it.”
“It’s way off the beaten trail. Warm donuts and hot coffee. We’re going. ”
Minutes later, Quinn was parking around the corner of the little white clapboard shop. He donned a baseball cap and Windbreaker from his bag, and I handed him the glove-compartment sunglasses.
“Everything go okay?” I asked when he returned to the car.
“They had a security camera, but I kept my head down. And the teenager who rang me up barely noticed me. The line was out the door.”
“Really? Must be good stuff . . .”
We dug into the pastry box and were soon moaning with bliss as we sank our teeth into the pillowy piles of fried yeast dough dipped in delectable honey glaze. The four giant cups of coffee were hot and highly caffeinated. Quinn practically chugged one of them.
“Pretty good for roadside coffee, don’t you think?”
I took a test sip. “Colombian. Large batch. City or city plus . . .”
“Plus what?”
“Sorry, occupational hazard.”
“Don’t apologize. You’re a master roaster. I expect you to have an opinion on the brew.”
“I do, and . . .” A flash of color in my side mirror froze my tongue—and then my bones.
“Clare? What’s wrong?”
I told him.
Pulling up behind us was a local police cruiser. The cop at the wheel was staring right at us and placing a call on his radio.
F ifteen
“M IKE, start the engine. What are you waiting for? Get us out of here!”
“Relax, Clare. Sit back and relax .”
“Don’t you see the cop behind us? Look in your mirror!”
“I don’t have to. I expected this.”
“Excuse me?”
“The guy’s a good cop. He saw me in the donut shop with the sunglasses and ball cap,
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