A Brew to a Kill (37 page)

“Was Public Advocate Tanya Harmon one of those special clients?”

“Now how did you know
that
?” Buckman asked, astonished again.

“Another educated guess. I met her at my party. She appeared addicted to Botox—and a close friend of hers used Dr. Land for her daughter’s surgeries, so…” I shrugged.

“Well, you’re good at hunches, Cosi. Tanya Harmon was on Land’s patient list. Whether she was in his little black book, too, we don’t know yet.”

I didn’t know, either, but it
was
an intriguing notion, and one I hadn’t considered before. Could Tanya have killed Dr. Land in some kind of jealous rage? After a relationship had gone sour?

I wasn’t sure an ambitious man-eater like Tanya was capable of such feelings, but she may have had another motive. Could she have been doing a favor for her well-heeled political-donor friend Helen Bailey-Burke? Those two had been tight for years—until lately, anyway—and Helen had been openly hostile with Dr. Land’s ex-wife, Gwen. She’d actually slapped the woman in public, so she must have been even more upset with Dr. Land over the death of her daughter, Meredith. But why would either of them have gone after Lilly? That didn’t make sense.

“With Dr. Land dead and Lilly unconscious, I can’t ask either one if they were lovers,” Buckman said. “But whatever their connection, we have to find it.”

“You said we.”
(There it is.)
“I take it you want me in on this?”

Buckman locked eyes with me. “I’ve spent time at the hospital—”

“A lot of time, I’ve heard.”

“And I’ve talked to Lilly Beth’s mother, Amina Salaysay.
Nice lady, but every time I try to question the woman about her daughter’s past, she claims she knows nothing.”

He leaned forward again. “I know she’s holding back something. Maybe Mrs. Salaysay is ashamed of something her daughter did. Or maybe it wasn’t kosher, something outside the law, and she’s afraid to share it with the police. Whatever it is, I have to know, so…”

“So?”

“So I’m thinking a woman’s touch might work on Lilly’s mother, not another cop, but someone she knows and trusts already. I’m thinking you could talk to Mrs. Salaysay.”

Buckman paused to rub his eyes, and I flashed back to a man from my old neighborhood, a widower who worked on his vintage Cadillac daily after his wife died. By the end of that first summer, the car was a showpiece. My nonna used to say it was sad, that he focused on his car because he didn’t have a woman in his life any longer, a real human being to lavish his attention on.

It seemed to me, Buckman was that man.

But who was Lilly Beth to him? A stand-in for the wife who’d been run down? A new pet project? Or something more?

Seeing the tortured expression on Buckman’s face, I wasn’t so sure the answer mattered. Not now, anyway. So despite my own problems—and I was up to my assets in them—I agreed to help Buckman, the way he’d helped me. The way he was trying to help Lilly Beth.

“I’ll do it…” I said and squeezed Max’s hand. “I’ll reach out to Mrs. Salaysay tomorrow morning, have a talk with her, and pass along everything I learn.”

A bit of Buckman’s weariness seemed to lift with my reply. I asked him a few more questions and we discussed Lilly’s condition. The news was good. Her vitals were strong and the doctors were more hopeful than ever.

Finally, Buckman drained his cup and stood.

“See you soon, Cosi. Thanks for the coffee.”

“M
IKE?”
Hearing a noise, I lifted my head off the pillow.

“Don’t bother with the lamp, Clare. I can see…”

The image of the man I loved moving toward me in a silver pool of shimmering moonlight might have been romantic, even magical, if he hadn’t been peeling off a shoulder holster—and I hadn’t been waiting to talk with him about a brutal hit-and-run.

I rubbed my eyes, trying to wake up. “Did you see the carnitas burrito I left for you?”

“Zapped it in the microwave. It was good, thanks.”

As I propped myself up, Quinn wrapped his holster straps around his weapon, set it on the dresser, then removed his extra ammo clip, gold badge, knife, and pepper spray.

“So…” I said, suppressing a yawn. “How is Matt holding up?”

The edge of the bed depressed as Quinn’s solid form sunk down. He unlaced his shoes. “Considering everything he’s going through, I’d say your ex-husband is doing okay…”

I really felt for Matt this week. While Quinn had stopped the DEA from totally trashing his warehouse (and my coffeehouse),
the agents who’d arrested us had ripped open and dumped out the entire shipment of Ambrosia beans, crushing a percentage in the process.

Luckily, most of the lot was salvageable. For days now—when Matt wasn’t answering an endless list of questions for Quinn’s squad, NYPD brass, and a select group of federal officers—he was in Red Hook with bodyguards, determinedly shoveling up those exquisite beans and preserving them in plastic containers.

“I’m no fan of Allegro’s, you understand,” Quinn added, “but under this kind of pressure, plenty of guys would have broken down by now.”

“Matt’s made of tough stuff,” I said. “He’s spent a lot of time in the Third World, seen a lot of harsh things.”

“I know…” Quinn pulled off his tie, unbuttoned his shirt. “I haven’t been to the countries he has, but I’ve been to plenty of those places… dark places. You know what I mean?”

“I do… and I think Max has, too.”

“Max Buckman?”

“He stopped by tonight.”

“Oh?”

I shifted on the mattress, making room for Mike’s broad shoulders. As he stretched out under the covers, he exhaled a familiar little note: the “Quinn Hymn to Being Horizontal,” that’s how I always thought of it.

“Come here…”

He didn’t have to ask twice. I tucked into him, resting my head on his solid chest. His sigh this time was one of deep pleasure. I felt it, too. Then his callused fingers began drawing sweet little circles on the bare skin of my upper arm.

I closed my eyes and sighed. Ben Franklin had nothing on the electrifying charges Mike Quinn’s lightest touches sent through me, but I couldn’t shake my worries. So I took a deep breath and explained—

“The reason Buckman stopped by… he needed a favor.”

The delicious caressing stopped. “I hope it involves coffee and muffins.”

“A little more than that…” I cleared my throat. “He asked me to talk to Lilly Beth’s mother. She won’t talk to the police, and he thinks I can help fill in some blanks in her life.”

“Mmmm…” (This noise I recognized, too—it wasn’t happy.)

“Early tomorrow, I’m going to Queens.”

“Franco goes with you, Clare. That’s not an option.”

“Don’t worry. He’s driving us.”

“You and Buckman?”

“Me and Matt’s mother. Lilly’s mom might feel more comfortable with Madame there.”

“I hope you’re able to help, but remember, it’s Buckman’s case.”

“That’s what’s troubling me.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s trying to make a connection between a hit-and-run that killed a plastic surgeon and one that killed Lilly. But it seems to me Max might have a motive beyond simply solving a case.”

“And what would that be?”

“Add it up. He came to see me on a Sunday night, clearly obsessed about having every year of Lilly’s life accounted for. I think, on some level, he’s still chasing that driver who killed his wife, the one he couldn’t put away.”

“No,” Quinn said without hesitation. “That’s not it.”

“How can you say that so definitively?”

“Because, Clare…” Quinn hesitated then plowed forward. “Max Buckman did put away the man who killed his wife.”

“What?” I sat up, brushed back my hair. “How?”

“I shouldn’t really share this—”

“Tell me!”

Quinn blew out air. “I’ll have to start with the incident… the one that killed Sara. An insurance broker got crocked at a Second Avenue bar, hopped the curb, struck Max’s wife with his SUV, and drove away. Sara Buckman had massive internal injuries, head trauma, the works. Max fell apart after it happened. She lay in the hospital two weeks before the docs
told him she wouldn’t wake up. He kept hoping, praying—until he put her in the ground.”

“God, that’s awful…”

“Six weeks after her death, Max went back to work, found out how badly things were handled during the on-site investigation. The driver wasn’t found in time for a breathalyzer test to matter. He hired a top attorney and with spotty evidence, the prick walked.”

“And that’s when Max went after him?”

“Yeah. He’d been saving up to build a dream house for his wife. He didn’t need that money anymore, so he took a leave from the PD, moved into an apartment in Jersey near the guy’s brokerage firm.”

“What did he do? Wait for him to drive drunk again?”

“No. He wanted more than a simple DUI. This man’s firm was worth millions. He had clients across the whole tristate area, and in his year of investigation, Max uncovered an interesting hitch. Every third policy this guy wrote was a fraud. He’d sign up clients and pocket their money instead of passing it on to the insurance companies. Then he’d hand them phony policies not worth the paper they were printed on. Max built the case. The prick was doing this in three states, which made it interstate commerce fraud.”

“So he went to the Feds with it?”

“Yeah, when he was ready, Max called in the FBI, and the Feds did the dirty work. The man was sentenced to twenty-five years.”

“And he called me a vigilante.”

“Is that right?” Quinn said, tone clearly amused. “Well, Buckman’s entitled to his opinion. To me, you’re a concerned citizen, maybe a little more
curious
than your average taxpayer, but you’re a good woman, Clare, with a good heart.”

“He said we were two of a kind.”

“Then you might as well include me and make it three. We all want to get the bad guy. We want to see justice done.”

“Let me ask you something,” I said. “How did you know
all this? I mean, Bucket-mouth talks a lot, but I can’t see him sharing all that with just anyone.”

“I know the story because while he was on leave, Buckman needed help on occasion—running background checks, getting addys off license plates, that sort of thing.”

“And you risked your career to help?”

“Me and a few other friends—on and off the force. We were Max’s Mice, quiet little fact finders.”

“You had a code name? Like a comic book?”

“Max was hurting. We were motivated.”

I stared off into the moonlit room. “If Buckman resolved the issue of justice for his wife’s killer, then what’s driving him so hard with Lilly? Transference? Is he looking at Lilly in that hospital bed and seeing Sara?”

“No, Clare. He’s aware that Lilly is not his wife.”

“But it’s the best explanation. A man can’t fall in love with a woman he doesn’t know.”

“Take it from me. He knows her.”

“No he—”

“He knows Lilly Beth Tanga because he’s investigated her. By now, Max has talked to her mother, her son, her family and coworkers. He’s talked to friends in several circles. He knows things about her that her own family doesn’t. He’s seen photos of her, heard stories of her—”

“And he sits by her hospital bed, every night, putting it all together as he gazes at her face?”

“Yes.”

“So what happens when Lilly wakes up? Everyone’s confident now that she’ll survive this, but what’s she going to make of this odd man who’s fallen for her?”

“That’s one I can’t answer. And neither can you.” Mike tapped his chest. “Lie down, Clare, please. Give it a rest for a few hours. I know I need to.”