THIRTY-ONE

MIKE

“GOT a minute?”

Lieutenant Michael Quinn looked up from a desk buried in paper to find Detective Anthony DeMarco loitering in his office doorway. A quick glance at the wall clock told him he’d been at it nonstop for five hours.

“Come on in, Tony.”

“Burning the eight-o’clock oil again?”

“The work piles up . . .”

That was Quinn’s response, not the whole story.

He’d been stealing daylight hours away from his job with attempts to help the woman he loved. There were repeated face-to-face appeals to the Annette Brewster investigating officers (uptown), the DA’s office (downtown), the chief of detectives, and the deputy mayor—with little to show for his efforts.

His colleagues still didn’t see Clare Cosi as a credible witness. Nor did they see her as a candidate for protective custody. With her written consent for treatment, she was legally in Dr. Dominic Lorca’s care, and that was safe enough, as far as the NYPD was concerned.

Not as far as Quinn was concerned.

After a barrage of inquiries, he had secured a consultation appointment with a well-respected (and extremely pricey) law firm. That meeting, in which he hoped to use legal pressure to set Clare free, wouldn’t happen until Monday. Tonight was Friday, which meant this weekend would be the longest of his life.

Not that it mattered. There was no Clare to go home to.

And, anyway, all that stolen time from the job meant hours of catch-up, primarily with paperwork. People were another matter. Quinn had command responsibilities. Despite his personal problems, he would always try to support his people. Now he sat back in his chair and loosened his tie.

“What can I do for you, Tony?”

DeMarco looked frayed around the edges. He was on cleanup detail after a batch of bad fentanyl-laced heroin hit the Tremont section of the Bronx. From the anxious expression on the young man’s face, Quinn guessed there was more bad news.

“The medical examiner confirmed an overdose death. It’s that teenage girl I found on Montgomery Street.”

Despite near-numbing exhaustion, and the sad reality of what had become his OD Squad’s routine business, Quinn felt a stab of emotion. Five people in the hospital, one dead—and just a kid.

His frustration had been building for days. Now Quinn just wanted to rage. But he checked himself, and made sure his reply was calm, measured, managerial.

“It could have been worse. That was good work catching the dealers so quickly. Who knows how many lives you saved?”

“I know one I didn’t,” Tony muttered.

“You can’t save everyone . . .” It was a trite response. Quinn knew it, even as he said the words.

He remembered Clare serving that same mush to him one night.

“You can’t save everyone, Mike.”

“That’s a trite expression,” he’d snapped back to her, regretting the words as soon as he’d said them. He’d been feeling bitter over a lost cause, taking it personally, like DeMarco was now.

Before he could even begin his apology to her, Clare forgave him. Seeing the pain in his eyes, she put a hand on his cheek, brushed her lips across his, and whispered—

“Just because it’s trite doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

Unlike his first disastrous relationship—with an immature woman who never understood, never forgave—Clare was relentless in her love and her belief in his goodness. Her steely faith in him never failed to keep him propped.

He could still hear her soft voice in his ear; still see her smiling that unsinkable Clare smile, filled with a level of stubborn optimism that he’d never encountered before (not in this city).

Well, trite or not, words wouldn’t change a thing. Not for the men in this office. He felt as helpless as DeMarco.

If I could just hold her again . . .

Quinn felt a black shadow descending—until he realized Detective DeMarco had been speaking.

“Sorry, Tony, my mind wandered.”

“I was saying we’ve got another problem. The DA wants to press homicide charges against the dealers, but there’s a risk.”

He handed a sheet of paper to Quinn.

“The teenage victim posted this on social media hours before she overdosed. You’d better read it.”

Quinn cursed. “This could be construed as a suicide note.”

“And the defense will happily use that interpretation to pressure the prosecutors into reducing the homicide rap to a lesser charge—manslaughter or crim. neg.”

Quinn rubbed his tired eyes. “Nobody wants that, but you can’t suppress what you found in discovery.”

DeMarco sighed. “Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d say.”

“Just turn the information over to the DA. If they want to take their chances hiding exculpatory evidence during the plea process, it’s on them.”

“Okay.” DeMarco nodded. “By the way, Lieutenant, may I also say you look like crap.”

Quinn smiled weakly. “You trying to sweet-talk me? Or just get on my good side?”

“If you need fuel, Sergeant Perez made a fresh pot of joe. I can grab some for you.”

“Of Perez’s swill? Thanks, but no, thanks.”

DeMarco laughed. “Yeah, we all missed Franco this week. Where did that punk learn to make such great coffee?”

“It’s the company he keeps.”

Quinn’s phone buzzed. He checked the screen. “I’d better take this.”

“Already gone,” DeMarco called as he left the office.

“Quinn speaking.”

“Lieutenant, we have a problem—” The voice belonged to Detective Lori Soles. Her tone was all business. “It appears your fiancée flew the coop.”