The man was average height—which is to say at least seven inches taller then my five two—early thirties, maybe a little older. His skin was dusky, his features betraying a mixed heritage of what might have been Hispanic, Italian, and possibly Russian; in other words, a typical New Yorker. With one gloveless hand, he scratched his chin’s dark brown stubble.
“You know this woman, Langley?” he said, shoving a square of nicotine gum between his lips.
Langley nodded. “She manages the Village Blend on Hudson.”
“So
you’re
that coffee lady I’ve heard about,” the detective said, working his jaw. “Never been in your place. My drink’s Red Bull.”
“My
name
is Clare Cosi,” I replied.
“And
you
found jolly old St. Stiff over there?”
“His name’s
Glockner
, Alfred Glockner.”
The detective paused a moment and studied me again. “You knew the victim?”
I nodded.
“Sorry.” He glanced away then back again. “I didn’t realize you knew him. Sorry for your loss.” His tone was sincere—or at least he’d blunted its street edge enough to make it sound that way. “Did you witness anything suspicious, Mrs. Cosi? Hear a shot? See the man who mugged your friend—”
“It’s
Ms.
Cosi, Detective—what’s your name?”
“Franco. Sergeant Emmanuel Franco.”
“Well, I’m not so sure he was mugged, Sergeant Franco. Or if he was, I’m not so sure something else wasn’t happening, too—”
“Excuse me?”
“I’d like you to look at these footprints I found in the snow—”
“Why didn’t you stay close to the victim like the 911 operator asked?” Franco continued as if I hadn’t spoken at all.
“I’m trying to tell you. After I found the body, I followed Alf Glockner’s boot prints, and I’m thinking it doesn’t add up to a mugging.”
Sergeant Franco glanced around the snow. “
What
prints are you talking about?”
“Follow me. They’re right over here—”
It was still snowing as I led Franco and Langley into the center of the courtyard, but the heavy downfall had once again tapered off into light flurries. I pushed back the hood of my white parka in order to see better. It didn’t help.
“Where are they?” the detective asked.
“They
were
right here.”
Officer Langley scanned the ground with his flashlight, but the clean trail of prints I’d followed had been obliterated by the mugger, the policemen chasing him, even Langley when he’d stopped to help me.
“Do you see any evidence of the victims’ footprints here, Officer Langley?” Franco asked evenly.
“No, Sergeant,” Langley replied. “Sorry, Ms. Cosi.”
Franco shifted his attention to me. “What is it you think you saw, Coffee Lady?”
“I didn’t
think
I saw anything. There
were
footprints here. Alf’s prints. I saw them. It looked to me like he pulled that wooden crate over to those garbage bins—” I pointed. “Then I’m deducing he climbed them to get onto the fire escape for some reason.”
Franco exchanged a glance with Langley. “So it’s St. Nick the Cat Burglar, now?” he said. His expression remained neutral, but his tone was obviously flip.
“Just look for yourself,” I said tightly.
Franco held my gaze a moment, saw that my glare was dead serious, and, with a sigh of obvious male annoyance, flipped on his flashlight. He walked over to the crate and examined the box and the ground. He took a long look at the bins and finally the fire escape above them. As he walked back to me and Langley, an electronically garbled voice interrupted us. Franco lifted his radio to his ear, listened for a moment, and cursed a blue streak. Finally, he turned to Langley.
“Four of you in pursuit and you
still
manage to lose that perp!”
Langley sheepishly shrugged.
“Fine. You
and
your partner can do some overtime.” He shook his head. “Me and Charlie aren’t going to be the only ones bracing local skells all night to find an ‘armed and dangerous’ stupid enough to actually pull the trigger—”
“Excuse me, Sergeant, but what makes you think the mugger these men were pursuing is the same person who killed Alf? I found Alf’s body before the mugger ran through here.”
Franco faced me, his denim-covered legs braced in the slippery snow. “Ms. Cosi, some scumbags work in teams. Some move from street to street in the same area, targeting victims. This perp hid Santa’s body pretty well from anyone passing on the street—it’s clear the shooter didn’t expect his victim to be found anytime soon, which would mean he was free and clear to keep looking for victims nearby. As to your friend here, his pockets were turned out, his wallet is missing, and the money box on his little green wagon was looted. Two and two is four. The motive here was obviously robbery—”
“
Unless
the robbery was
staged
to make you
think
this was just a random mugging. What if it wasn’t? What if there was some
other
reason—”
“Stop!” The harried detective spat his gum into a wrapper and stuck the wad into the pocket of his Yankees jacket. “Listen to me, Coffee Lady. You’re cold, you’re tired, and you’re probably feeling some level of shock or you’re not human. But I don’t see anything out of the ordinary back here in this courtyard—other than the mass of footprints from the police chase. There’s no sign of blood under the fire escape or anything else all that suspicious. The crime we’re investigating obviously took place in the alley and on the sidewalk, where the victim’s little cart was parked. So let
us
take it from here, okay?”
“I fully intend to, but I do have a theory of the case—”
“A
theory of the case
? Jesus—” Franco laughed, short and sharp, then glanced at Langley. “She’s a cute one, isn’t she?”
“Sergeant!” I cried. “I’m serious.”
Franco faced me. “Honey, if you and me were in a nice warm bar, I’d let you talk to me
all
night about your theory. But I don’t have time to play here. This was obviously a street crime. The mugger led the poor son of a bitch into the alley at gunpoint and”—he made a gun with his thumb and forefinger—“Bang! Bang! Santa’s dead.”
“Except your scenario’s wrong, Sergeant. Alf wasn’t forced into this building’s alley. The footprints I saw clearly showed he was coming
out
of this courtyard when he was shot.”
Franco shrugged his shoulders. “So?”
“So . . . find out why Alf was in this courtyard and you might find out why he was killed.”
“Did it ever occur to you that maybe Santa Claus had to drain his pipe?”
“What?”
“This place is private,” Franco said, gesturing. “An old geezer like that likely had a prostate the size of a cantaloupe. Santa probably had to take a leak.”
Officer Langley shifted on his feet as Franco exchanged a glance with him. “Maybe we ought to canvass the crime scene for yellow snow, eh, Langley?”
Langley lifted a hand to hide a smile, then moved it to pat my shoulder. “I’ll find a paramedic to look you over, Ms. Cosi.”
The second Langley left, I stepped up to Franco. “Listen, Sergeant, Alf was only fifty-two, hardly a ‘geezer.’ I’m reporting what I saw. I think it’s germane to your case.”
“Good,” Franco replied. “The PD wants your
germane
statement. Okay? Feel better?”
“Stop patronizing me.”
The man’s jaw worked so hard I got the impression he was trying to pull his next few words out of the cavity in his left molar. “Let’s just say I see the events coming down differently than you do: a simple robbery gone very freakin’ bad, all right?”
I sighed.
Franco glanced toward the mouth of the alley as if to make sure Langley was out of earshot. “Look . . .” He took a step closer to me—a lot closer. “How about we make nice, you and I?”
“What do you mean?”
Franco’s dark eyes studied me some more. “I mean you and I should get together. I just came on for a night tour, but I’ll be off duty in the morning.”
“I, uh—”
His voice went low and soft. “You serve jelly doughnuts at that coffee shop of yours?”
I folded my arms. “A jelly doughnut
latte
—we just added it to the menu for Chanukah.”
“Coffee and no doughnuts?”
“It’s not that kind of coffee shop.”
“Jeez—”
“Clare! Clare Cosi! Are you in there? Clare!”
Matt’s bellow cut through the buzz of voices around the crime scene and echoed all the way into the desolate courtyard. I moved across the snow and around the corner of the building to find my ex-husband at the other end of the alley, shouting like a crazy man from behind the yellow crime-scene tape.
Franco came up beside me. He tilted his head in Matt’s direction. “You
know
that guy?”
“He’s my . . . business partner—”
“Clare!” Matt shouted when he finally saw me. “Over here!”
“Well, go shut him up,” Franco commanded, his sweet overtures immediately souring after one glance at Matt. “We don’t want to disturb the citizens in these nice, expensive apartment buildings any more than we need to, right?”
I didn’t reply, just continued through the alley, now painted ruby red by flickering emergency lights. As a uniformed officer lifted the yellow tape to let me pass, I glanced one last time at the still figure lying beside the Dumpster. Alf’s corpse was surrounded by members of the crime-scene unit, examining him, taking notes, flashing photos.
Swiping new tears away, I ducked under the tape and groaned—the bending had aggravated my bruised torso. Just then, Officer Langley appeared at my shoulder. “The paramedics are here, Ms. Cosi.” He pointed to an ambulance behind the half-dozen police vehicles. “They can check you out. If you’ll just come with me—”
“Thanks, Officer Langley, but I don’t need a para—”
“You got hurt?!” Matt interrupted, rushing to my side. “You said on the phone you were okay!”
I shrugged. “I got the wind knocked out of me after I talked to you, that’s all.” I explained about following Alf’s boot prints and getting nailed in the process by a police chase across the courtyard. “My side’s pretty sore at the moment, but I’m fine—”
“You don’t know that!” Matt insisted. “You could have a cracked rib!”
Before I could prevent him, my ex pulled off his gloves, unzipped my parka, and began running his hands along my bruised body.
“What are you doing?!” I cried so loudly several cops glanced in our direction.
Matt ignored them. “Remember a few years ago, when I was in Rwanda and Timo flipped that Land Rover?” he asked, his fingers still busy probing my chest. “He cracked his rib and I had to wrap his torso with canvas to prevent his lungs from being punctured. We were stranded for a whole day and a night. Poor Timo could have died.”
“So?”
“So I know what to look for,” Matt said. He felt me up for another few seconds. “You’re okay, Clare. Nothing’s broken.”
“Good.” I said. The examination was clearly over, but Matt’s hands remained planted on my hips.
“We’re done, right?” I said.
His eyes held mine. “Are we?”
“Yes!” I assured him, nudging his hands away.
As I zipped my parka back up, Sergeant Franco approached me again, this time with another man in tow. The man looked younger than Franco by a few years and appeared to be of Chinese heritage. He was also more conventionally dressed, his athletic frame draped in a suit, tie, and camel hair coat.
“Give Chan here a statement, Coffee Lady,” said Franco. “Tell my partner everything you remember. Then you and
your
partner here can both go home and get on with your fondling in
private
.”
“Matt was
not
fondling me,” I clarified. “It was purely medical. He was just making sure—”
But Franco was already striding away. His partner shook his head as he watched him go. Then he turned to me and flipped a page on his detective’s notebook.
“Your name is
Coffee
?” he asked.
“Cosi,” I corrected. “And you’re Detective
Chan
?”
“My name is Charlie. Charlie
Hong
,” he said.
“Not Chan?”
Hong smirked. “You’ll have to excuse Sergeant Franco’s sense of humor.”
While I gave Detective Hong a statement, Matt hovered close by. The process took no more than ten minutes, and through it all my discomfort level grew. The flurries had stopped completely now, but the snow down my parka had turned to water, my side still throbbed, my nose was running, and my voice was raspy from the cold.