WHEN I reached the two men, Matt looked me over. “Are you okay, Clare? Should you be out of bed?”
“I’m fine. And wide-awake, thanks to both of your big mouths.”
The two men looked sheepish. Good, I thought. Given the way their animal-kingdom-level “discussion” was going, sheepish was a vast improvement over pigheaded.
I faced Matt. “Where are the groceries?”
“In the van.”
“Would you bring them in? And take plenty of time putting them away. It will give us some privacy.”
“Excuse me?”
“I want to talk to this gentleman.” I tilted my head in the direction of the stranger. “And I’d like to do it without you butting in. So move it, please.”
Folding my arms, I waited for my ex-husband to leave. When he finally clomped away, mumbling in what sounded like Haitian Creole, I turned to the stranger.
“Let’s sit down . . .”
By now the detective had removed his rumpled trench coat. I suggested he take off his suit jacket, too, and make himself comfortable beside me on the sofa. When he did, I couldn’t hide my surprise at the sight of the leather shoulder holster strapped across his dress shirt.
“I’m sorry,” he said, seeing my startled reaction. “I’d take this off, too, but I honestly don’t trust your ex-husband. I’d rather stay strapped for a while, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind . . . It’s just that . . . I had a dream about a man wearing a gun like that.”
“I hope it was me.”
“I couldn’t see the man’s face, but he was looking for me.”
“That’s what I’m doing here, sweethear— I mean, Clare.”
“If you’re going to call me sweetheart, I should at least know your name.”
“You don’t remember? I did tell you when I first arrived.”
“I’m sorry, but things got a little fuzzy before I . . . you know—”
“It’s Michael Quinn . . . Mike.”
“Mike,” I said, trying it out. “Nice to meet you.”
“I’d say the same, but the last time I did, you went down like a sack of rocks.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Stop apologizing. You have nothing to be sorry for. This situation would feel overwhelming for anyone.”
“So you took care of me after I blacked out? You carried me upstairs?” When he nodded, I asked about the emergency medical gear I saw in the bedroom. “I thought you were a police detective. What are you doing with an EMT kit?”
“Before I joined the PD, I was a New York firefighter. I’ve got the skills, so I carry the jump bag. You never know.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “On top of that, the sort of work I do for the department sometimes requires acute response.”
“What do you do exactly?”
“I’m the head of a special unit tasked with investigating criminality behind overdose cases. I also carry a naloxone kit. All my people do—” At my questioning look, he explained, “It’s a countermeasure for opioid overdose, that is . . . when we reach them in time.”
“I see . . .” I said those words because I did see, or at least I was beginning to. There was more to this rumpled detective than ice-blue eyes and a morose demeanor. “I have more questions. Is that okay?”
“Shoot.”
“Not with that, I hope—” I pointed to his gun.
“Still the same Clare.”
“Well, that’s good to know. I mean, who wants to find out that life beat the sense of humor out of you?”
“That’s how most of us feel on the job. Gallows humor is pretty common at crime scenes.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re a laugh riot.”
“Let’s just say I appreciate a joke. Telling them is another animal.”
“Then the whole stand-up-comedian thing is a pipe dream?”
“Funny,” he said, though he didn’t laugh. He was too tense for that, but he did loosen his tie and quip: “I particularly appreciate the drug reference.”
“I thought you might.”
“Any other questions for me, Clare?”
“Seriously? How did someone like you meet someone like me? Wait. Let me guess. Matt overdosed and you came to the rescue with your supercop kit?”
“No, although the first time I met your ex-husband, circumstances were—let’s just say, less than convivial.”
“Then how did you and I meet?”
“At the time, I was newly assigned to your local precinct. Your Village Blend was the scene of an accident that turned out to be a crime. I was the detective on the case.”
“Did you solve it?”
“Actually, Clare, you did.”
“Really? How?”
“It’s a long story. Maybe you’ll remember it.”
“Maybe . . .”
As we continued to talk, I studied the man’s weary face. I thought his sandy brown hair was cut too short, but I liked the solidity of his jaw, shadowed with bark-colored stubble. I could see he was tired, yet his glacial eyes were still admirably sharp. And I liked his creases: the crow’s-feet and frown lines. He’d obviously been through hard times, and I liked that, too.
I didn’t like that he was so stiff. Even when we joked around, he remained guarded. Maybe it was occupational habit. Maybe he didn’t trust me enough to reveal his feelings. Either that or he didn’t trust himself.
After a few more questions, I finally asked the big one, at least in my mind—
“Are we sleeping together, Mike?”
His eyebrows lifted. I had surprised him with the question. His answer was a quiet nod.
“And I’m supposed to be in love with you?”
“Yes. Madly.”
“Is that so?” I made a show of looking him over. “Must be your inner qualities.”
He smiled, the first time tonight. I liked it. My own smile, in response, must have encouraged him because he shifted uneasily before asking—
“Do you think you could . . . I mean, is it possible you might fall for those ‘inner qualities’ again?”
“Let’s put it this way. From what I’ve learned so far, I’d like to remember you.”
“And if you don’t?”
Now it was my turn to shift. “Honestly, Mike, you seem like a nice guy, but you’re still a stranger to me.”
His disappointment was palpable.
“Don’t be discouraged,” I told him. An impulse to touch his hand flowed through my body, but my mind pulled back. Instead of reaching out, I made a fist. “Can we give it more time?”
“Of course,” he said, forcing a weak smile. “That’s why I’m here.”