A Brew to a Kill (13 page)

“Turf war.” Once again, Matt scratched his furry face. “Sounds like your problem—only without the frosting.”

“Um… Matt?”

“Yeah?”

“Mike has
shaving
stuff in the medicine cabinet. Foaming cream, septic pencil, razor…”

Matt grunted once before taking the towels and closing the door.

Did he get the hint?
I wondered, heading for the master bedroom.
Maybe razor was too subtle. What I should have said was Weedwacker.

“H
ELLO?”
My greeting came out froggy and a bit muffled, thanks to two purring felines dozing under my chin.

“Forget me already?”

“Mike?” I propped myself up—a little too quickly. Java and Frothy slid down, protesting mildly. Detective Lieutenant Mike Quinn joined in with his own complaint.

“What happened to my ‘Goodnight Kiss’ call?”

“I’m so sorry, Mike… I must have passed out…”

I glanced at the window, still dark. After I’d left my ex to his shower and (I hoped) his beard trimming, I called Terry Simone, got her voice mail, and asked about Lilly’s status. Then I stretched out on the antique four-poster and closed my eyes, whispering prayers for my friend, waiting for the phone to ring.

Clearly, I’d dozed off and Quinn’s call had roused me. “I would have phoned earlier, but I didn’t know how late your dinner meeting would run. How did it go?”

“Fine. They took me to Georgetown. Nice restaurant. Lousy coffee.”

I could imagine Quinn sitting at a linen-covered table in his
blue serge suit, the color intensifying the hue of his scalpel-sharp gaze, his dark blond hair in Spartan trim, square-jawed face shaved clean, nodding at the G-men and frowning at his cup.

I smiled. “Who needs coffee when the Feds are footing the bar bill?”

“I was strapped, sweetheart. You know I don’t drink when I’m carrying.”

“Well, you’re un-strapped now, aren’t you? Back safe in your hotel room?”

“Close. I’m on the balcony. Nice view of the Potomac. Pretty lights on the dark water…”

I heard ice against a glass—not the careless rattle that comes with soda-pop blocks, but the edgy clink-clinking that suggests hard alcohol swirls.
Unusual for Quinn to drink alone,
I thought.
Something must be stressing him.

“Very romantic view,” Mike went on. “I wish you could have gotten away.”

“So do I. More than you know…” And it hit me
: If I’d gone to D.C., Lilly wouldn’t have come to the Blend, or crossed the street just when that metal shark was cruising for a victim…

“Clare? What’s wrong?”

I swallowed my tears, told him everything. From my street-food fight with Kaylie to the arrival of the Accident Investigation Squad. That’s when he interrupted—

“They sent AIS?”

“Is that unusual?”

“Not if they expect the victim to…” His voice trailed off.

“They expect Lilly to
die
, is that what you were going to say?”

“Take it easy. There could be another reason.”

“What?”

“It’s pointless to speculate.”

“Not to me. What aren’t you telling me?”

“It’s not for me to tell. Who’s the lead?”

“A detective named Buckman.”

“Mad Max…” Mike paused a long moment, as if he needed time to gather up memories—or weigh his words.

“He seems like a good guy,” I prompted, “although he’s not easy to deal with.”

“That’s an understatement.” Mike paused once more, and then said plainly: “Max has been Mad for a long time.”

“Is there a reason? Or is he just eccentric?”

“There’s a reason. The story’s practically legend in the PD.”

“Well, would you mind telling me? It may give me a leg up in dealing with the guy.”

“Max Buckman lost a beloved wife to a hit-and-run driver.”

“Oh, god… How long ago?”

“About fifteen years. At the time, he was a young Bronx precinct detective. Highway patrol handled the crime; didn’t gather evidence properly. The driver had a sharp defense attorney. There was no conviction. He walked away.”

“Oh, Mike…”

“Yeah, you can imagine, right? Buckman and his wife were childhood sweethearts, real soul mates. He lost it. Took a leave from the department for almost a year. But after he…”

These pauses were getting to me. “Mike?
What
don’t you want to tell me?”

“Let’s just say after he ‘pulled himself together,’ he transferred to highway patrol investigations, dedicated himself to improving their methods, making them better. He earned degrees in applied physics and mechanical engineering, and he brings in new technology all the time, even makes his own stuff. Did you see that tool belt his men wear?”

“The DIY bandoliers?”

Mike chuckled. “Good name for them. He designed those things himself so he and his team wouldn’t have to check equipment out. They have what they need at all times, and they can be sure the equipment is in good working condition.”

“Funny about the wife.”

“What’s funny about it?”

“Langley and Demetrios told me that Buckman doesn’t like women.”

“He liked his soul mate well enough. But after he lost her,
he lost his compass. Made one bad marriage after another. Believe me, I speak from experience. When you’re with the wrong woman, you do crazy things.”

“Is that how you got the name Crazy Quinn? That’s what Buckman told me.”

A soft curse followed.

“Mike?”

“That
Bucket-mouth
.”

“So it’s true?”

“It was a long time ago, Clare. Ancient history.”

“It must have been. I mean, I tried telling the man what you’re like these days—careful, methodical, in control to a fault. What could you have possibly done to get a handle like ‘crazy’?”

“Well, I’m not giving it up tonight, Inspector.”

“But—”

“Forget it. Look, given what you went through this evening, you should get some rest. Before I sign off, do you have anything else troubling you about the hit-and-run? Any questions about how Buckman’s handling it?”

“He told me everything depends on finding that van.”

“It does. The van was the weapon—so to speak. He’ll treat it like I used to treat a gun or a knife. The most solid case Buckman can make is to connect the driver to the vehicle and the vehicle to the incident.”

“I get it. What I don’t get is why there was no muffler on that thing. I mean why would anyone use a vehicle with no muffler for an intentional hit-and-run? Doesn’t that strike you as wrong?”

Mike’s ice clinked again. “Offhand, I can give you two possibilities. One: The van was in rotten shape when the perp stole it. The muffler fell off, but it was too late to change plans so he or she went ahead with the incident.”

“What’s two?”

“The perp wanted to call attention to the vehicle. You told me it had graffiti on the side, right? Maybe gang symbols? The driver may have wanted witnesses to see the accident.
With those gang markings on the van, they could be sending a message, telling a rival where the hit was coming from. Was your friend Lilly involved with a gangbanger, Clare? Maybe a drug dealer?”

“No way.”

“You’d be surprised how regular these guys can seem at first. How nice, how generous. They have money to throw around. They can buy big-ticket items for single moms and their kids. Isn’t it possible, given the brutality of this crime, that Lilly was seeing someone she didn’t even know was a dealer or member of a gang?”

“Well, anything’s possible. I mean, isn’t it possible you could be looking at this crime through your OD squad mirrored shades?”

Mike laughed. “Fair enough, Detective Cosi. But I do see turf wars from time to time. One dealer terrorizes another by going after an innocent girlfriend, a child, a family member.”

“I understand—and it’s awful to consider. I just don’t think that’s it.”

“Well, if it was a gang hit, the van would have been ditched by now. Probably torched, as well, to destroy any physical evidence, and in that case, I’m sorry to tell you…” Mike’s voice trailed again. I heard the ice clinking, a bottle pouring. He needed another drink.

“What?”
Just say it!

“When it comes to using vehicles as deadly weapons, there are plenty of ways people can get away with murder.”

I closed my eyes, refusing to accept it—at least in Lilly’s case. But the denial took something out of me; the mental effort drained my last reserves.

“I’m sorry, Mike, but I’m done in…”

“Of course you are.” His voice softened. “I wish I were there.”

“So do I.”

“Just a few more days. Then we can get back to our sweet routine.”

“Sounds like you miss my coffee already.”

“I miss everything about you.”

“I love hearing that.”

“And I love you. Sweet dreams, sweetheart.”

After bidding Mike good night, I settled myself under the covers, comforted by the company of my two furry girls, one the color of a medium-roast Arabica bean, the other white as cappuccino foam.

As Java and Frothy tucked themselves close, one on each side, something occurred to me. I’d forgotten to mention that Matt was crashing here. It bothered me now.

I should have told Mike…

Given the circumstance, I knew he’d understand. Yawning, I decided there was no harm in waiting.
When he’s back in New York, I’ll tell him. I’d rather explain it face-to-face, anyway.

I was about to turn off the light when I heard it—

Rat-tat-a-tat-tat…

Slowly, the bedroom door cracked open. “Are you having trouble sleeping?” Matt called. “I saw your light?”

“I was just about to turn it off.”

My ex-husband didn’t take the hint. He moved farther into the room. I could see his muscular chest was bare, a fluffy white towel wrapped loosely around lean hips.

“I mean, if you
were
having trouble sleeping…” Matt smiled. “I could help you relax.”

Matteo Allegro’s philosophy, in its own way, was stupidly innocent. To him, sex was a simple physical act to be shared with a willing partner—along the lines of bowling or badminton. No harm, no foul.

His marriage was working very well because his new wife understood this character flaw and allowed him a long leash. But I knew Breanne, and I was absolutely certain she equated Matt’s dog runs with flings in Rio or beach bunnies in Bali.
Not
rolls in antique four-posters with his New Yorker ex-wife.

But that was beside the point, which was (for me) just as simple and pure: A good man was sleeping alone in a hotel room, two hundred miles away—a good man who trusted
me, which is why I flatly informed my ex-husband: “Quinn called. He said: ‘Keep your hands to yourself.’”

Matt smile widened. “And what do you say?”

“I say you didn’t take my hint.”

“About what?”

“The beard.” (If anything the shower made it look darker—and curlier.) “I want you presentable for the party tomorrow. What’s the story?”

Matt shrugged, folded his arms. “Putting a raw blade to my face every morning has gotten tiresome—and there’s something atavistic about it, too.”

I stared at his caveman bush. Atavistic was right, but he had it backward. “We’re at least six millennia out of the jungle, and three centuries beyond Benjamin Franklin. Can’t you get with the program?”

“What do you mean?”

“Go electric.”