SEVENTY-THREE

BY the time we got back to the house, a storm was brewing outside and in. We found Matt at the kitchen stove, making stew—and stewing. Before we could say a word, he announced (somewhat sarcastically) that absolutely nothing had happened while we were gone.

“No Stevens. And no NYPD SWAT team, though I’m still expecting them, thanks to the flatfoot here.”

The detective and I exchanged glances. It was obvious we were in for a tense dinner.

“Food’s ready,” Matt declared. “Are you two hungry?”

“Starving,” Quinn and I said together.

“What are you? A duet now? Set the table in the corner nook. You know where everything is.”

A few minutes later, Quinn and I slid onto the cushioned bench in the kitchen. Rain began to streak the dark glass behind us as Matt ladled stew into our bowls. Then he plopped down a basket of warm rolls and tortillas and dropped into a chair across from us.

I dug in and swooned a little with memory. “This tastes like your famous Coffee Beef Stew. You used to make it for me and Joy when we were married, right?”

“That’s right,” Matt said a little shortly.

“It’s not exactly the same, though, is it?” I already knew it wasn’t, but I thought the question might draw him out and warm him up—or at least take the edge off his bad mood.

“What you’re eating is my stripped-down version of the Carne con Café,” Matt informed me, voice still tight.

“That’s the recipe you brought back from El Salvador. The one with Mayan roots. What’s in this version?”

“Chunks of beef, veg, stock, coffee. I prefer this version when I’m in a hurry. What do you think, Quinn?”

“There’s coffee in this?” he asked, incredulous.

“Damn right. I use the coffee to tenderize the beef cubes before browning. Whatever the meat doesn’t soak up, I pour into the pot.”

“Gives the stew a rich, earthy flavor, don’t you think?” I gushed.

“Works for me,” Quinn said when he came up for air again. “It’s pretty amazing, Allegro. Thanks.”

“I’ll tell you how you can thank me—both of you. Give up this sleuthing nonsense.”

“Excuse me?” I said, dipping a torn tortilla into the beautiful beef broth. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means Harlan Brewster was a bastard, and I’m glad he’s dead. Whether he died accidentally or someone whacked him, I don’t care. I care about you, Clare. You’re the mother of my daughter and a partner in our business. One I count on. I brought you out here to protect you and help restore your memory. I don’t see how uncovering a dead man’s ugly scandals will help.”

“That’s because you haven’t heard what we discovered after we left you,” I calmly informed him.

Matt set down his spoon and leaned toward Quinn. “Are you happy now? Thanks to you, she’s got blocked memories and impaired priorities.”

Quinn put up his hands, and I slammed down my fist.

“Don’t you dare patronize me. Suddenly, your own intentions in bringing me out here were all pure as virgin snow, right? Well, good for you. Now, why don’t you try opening your ears and listening!”

“Easy! Take it easy,” Detective Quinn counseled. “Let’s all calm down. You have any wine, Allegro? I think we all need to unwind, decompress, okay? We’ll work this out.”

Matt threw down his napkin, along with a few angry words in Spanish. But he did as Quinn suggested, uncorking a reserved Chianti with notes of black cherry and oak, which were (not unlike me, frankly) bold enough to stand up to the other strong flavors at this table.

As we all continued eating—and drinking—the tension in the air began to subside.

“All right, tell me,” Matt finally said, refilling his wineglass. “What did you discover?”

I spoke first. “Remember that young woman, Dana Tanner, the one Galloping Gwen told us about? She went missing the day she was supposed to have lunch with Harlan. Then she turned up with partial amnesia and ended up committing suicide—”

“What about her?”

“We spoke with her mother, Flora Tanner. Guess who contacted the family, out of the blue, with an offer to treat Dana at his upstate clinic, free of charge.”

Matt put down his wineglass. “Not Lorca.”

“The same,” Quinn said. “Dr. Dominic Lorca.”

“Coincidence?” Matt asked. “After all, the man does research and writes books. Maybe he aggressively seeks out interesting cases.”

“Maybe,” Quinn said. “But something doesn’t smell right.”

“So what?” Matt challenged. “You found some facts. Big deal. What can you actually do about it?”

Detective Quinn pulled out his mobile phone. “Like Clare suggested, open your ears and listen . . .”

Quinn made a call to his second-in-command at the OD Squad, Sergeant Franco. After a few pleasantries, he placed the call on speaker and asked the sergeant to put together a report.

“Search for records, over the past twelve months, of missing persons who reappear with memory impairment. Do a separate search for crime victims or witnesses who report memory problems in the course of the investigation. And pull any and all records where a case mentions Dr. Lorca or his clinic.”

“What are you looking for?” Franco asked.

“I’ll know it when I see it.”

“O-kay. I’m on it.”

“I also want you to tap our contacts at the hospital where ‘your cousin’ was being treated. Find out who called in Lorca. I want a name.”

“Right. Anything else?”

“One more thing. Run background checks on Ernest Belling, Flora Tanner, and any incidents involving Ernest Landscaping.” He gave Franco their address.

“That all?”

“Keep in touch. I’ll do the same.”

When the call was over, Matt shook his head. “What do you think you’ll find?”

“I can speculate, but I’d rather be patient and see what Franco dredges up from the database.”

“Sounds like you’re just fishing,” Matt said.

“Detectives go fishing all the time,” Quinn replied. “And I can tell you from experience, you can’t catch a thing without patience.”

I laughed. “Patience is not one of my ex-husband’s virtues.”

“Can’t argue there,” Matt said, lifting his glass in toast. “Speed is my style.”

“Spoken like an ex–cocaine addict,” Quinn noted.

“No, spoken like a current caffeine addict.” Matt rose from the table. “You people want coffee? Or shall we open more wine?”

“More wine,” Quinn and I said together.

“Better be careful, you two. In vino veritas.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

“In wine lies the truth.”

“I know the Latin,” I said. “What I don’t know is your meaning.”

“My meaning is that stone-cold sober, you and the Eagle Scout have been pussyfooting around each other. Getting tipsy lowers inhibitions. You may not be ready to handle that.”

“I’m not planning on getting drunk,” I said. “Are you, Mr. Eagle Scout?”

He smiled. “I’m an Irish cop. I think I can hold my drink.”

As Matt continued vino-ing, however, he refused to shut his veritas. “I still believe he’s putting you in jeopardy by being here.” Matt waved his glass at Quinn. “Any second now his mobile’s going to ring and—”

The timing couldn’t have been better. Or worse. Quinn pulled out his vibrating phone and raised an eyebrow.

“Lori Soles is calling.”

“Who is that again?” I asked.

“One of the two detectives tasked with trying to track you down.”

Great, I thought. “Are they here? In the Hamptons?”

“Let’s find out.”