FIVE

“EASY, Cosi. Don’t overreact—”

“Overreact? To what? The fact that you’re a member of a subset being actively hunted and gunned down? Or that you kept it from me?”

Quinn raised his hands in mock surrender. “The press is blowing a couple of random events out of proportion to sell papers, that’s all.”

“That’s not all—”

“True, but Sully and I just spent twelve long hours arresting and flipping a street dealer who just gave us the means to nail the most notorious suppliers of synthetic drugs in the five boroughs. Can’t we have a little coffee and kindness before we start explaining why you shouldn’t worry?”

I was no less desperate for answers on the shootings, but Quinn got me on that one.

I directed them to the espresso bar, tied on my apron, and soon the two were drinking up steaming cups of my new City Sunrise blend and chowing down on a mountain of fresh-baked muffins.

“Okay . . .” I rested my elbows on the counter. “Start explaining why I shouldn’t worry about these shootings.”

Sully couldn’t do much explaining with half a Snickerdoodle Muffin in his mouth. Swiping crumbs off his NYPD jacket, he pointed to Quinn, who told me—

“The first incident happened during a vertical patrol in Brooklyn. That’s a routine sweep of a building’s stairwell. A rookie housing cop stumbled into the middle of an armed robbery. Cop wounded, suspect caught. Happens a few times a year.”

“I see. Next?”

Now Quinn’s mouth was stuffed with a Maple-Glazed Oatmeal Muffin, so Sully took over—

“Shooting number two was a traffic cop, Clare. She was writing parking tickets in Queens when—”

“She took a bullet in the shoulder. But she’s fine.” Quinn forcefully jumped in, mouth still full. “Treated and released.”

It was quick, but I saw Sully and Quinn exchange a grim glance.

“What was that look?” I challenged.

“What look?” Quinn asked.

“Don’t play with me. Who shot that poor woman?”

“It’s right there in your paper.” Quinn tapped the tabloid. “No one was apprehended, but the blame was put on an ongoing gang feud in the neighborhood.”

“Then what about shootings three and four?” I asked. “I scanned the article, but there’s very little beyond the fact that two cops were shot last night.”

Both detectives went suspiciously silent. Quinn looked cool as a cuke. But Sully was starting to sweat. Before I could press them, Sully’s smartphone buzzed—

“It’s Fran, phoning from her mother’s place in Rochester.” Looking relieved, he glanced at Quinn. “I’ll just take this outside . . .”

He also took our seasonal Pecan Pie Muffin (a beautifully caramelized cross between a mini pecan pie and a breakfast muffin). “See you soon, Clare!”

“Give your wife my best,” I called to him. “And let her know I finally typed up that Baileys Chocolate Chip Cookie recipe. I’ll e-mail it tonight.”

“Thanks for her—and me.” Sully winked, waving the muffin. “I could have eaten that whole plate myself last Sunday!”

As he headed out the door, Quinn threw me a half smile. “I think he did eat the whole plate, didn’t he?”

“Half the plate. You ate the other half.”

“Speaking of second helpings. I’d love a refill,” Quinn said, holding out his cup. “And maybe one of those cute little Pumpkin Pie Muffins?”

I delivered both. “Now where were we?”

“On the Baileys Irish Cream Cookies?”

“On the third and fourth shootings.”

Quinn made a show of shrugging. “Those two incidents happened last night. I haven’t been officially briefed on the details.”

“Officially briefed? But you’ve heard all about it unofficially, haven’t you?” His expression appeared unreadable—to the general public. Not to me. “What are you hiding, Michael Quinn? What don’t you want me to know?”

“Take easy, Cosi, or I’ll charge you with harassment.”

“Don’t joke about this!”

“Look, sweetheart, there are thirty-five thousand cops in this city. Even if one of them got shot every single day, the odds of anyone you know getting hurt are miniscule. You’d probably have a better chance at winning the New York Lottery—”

A sharp crack interrupted him, loud and unmistakable. A gunshot.

We both froze as the blast echoed off the buildings along Hudson, followed by frightened cries and stampeding feet.

Finally, a shocked silence descended, broken only by a woman’s hysterical plea—

“Oh, God! Someone call 911. A policeman’s been shot!”