NINETEEN

SCRAMBLING to my feet, I grabbed my phone.

Finger poised to speed-dial 911, I flew to the main room, where I sagged with relief at the sight of Mike Quinn coming through the front door, using (oh, right) that key I’d given him.

Still wearing his clothes from yesterday, including the NYPD jacket that nearly got him killed, Quinn nodded his greeting in silence.

His face was drawn, his color off, his lips thin and tight.

I never saw the man so tired.

But after thirty-six hours hunting the bastard who’d shot his colleague and friend, what else would he be?

By now, the umami aroma of my sauce, mingled with the creamy scent of melting cheese, had permeated the duplex. And, despite his fatigue, Quinn lifted his head with the keen interest of a starving bear sniffing honey.

“It’s almost ready,” I assured him with a smile.

There was no smile in return, just another nod. And I saw more than exhaustion and hunger embedded in Quinn’s arctic gaze. Defeat was lodged there—and cold frustration.

I asked him about Sully, and the news was mainly positive. He was continuing to recover, although doctors were now closely monitoring an arrhythmia in his heart. But Fran and his family were keeping his spirits up.

I wanted more answers—about the pursuit of the shooter and Quinn’s visit to One Police Plaza—but I could see he wasn’t in any shape to be given a grilling, so instead I gave him a hug.

He wrapped his arms around me and dropped a kiss on my head. I touched his cheek and suggested he take a shower, although not for the reasons I’d advised my ex-husband to take one yesterday.

Holding my head under water had helped me feel like a new person. I hoped it would do the same for him. And, if I was lucky, the hot steam might just melt some of that blue ice.

*   *   *

TWENTY minutes later, Quinn was sitting at my kitchen table, his sandy hair still damp, his strong jaw freshly shaved. He’d grabbed a change of clothes from the bedroom, where I’d cleaned out drawers for his personals. Now his long legs were encased in NYPD sweatpants, his broad shoulders straining against the fabric of a light gray tee.

Unfortunately, the shower and change of clothes hadn’t changed his mood. He remained stiff and uncharacteristically sullen.

The baked ziti was bubbling nicely as I removed it from the oven, and it still needed to set, so I served up an appetizer of what I hoped would be literal comfort food: freshly fried mozzarella sticks, each encased in panko seasoned with rosemary, thyme, garlic, oregano, and sea salt.

To wash down these hot, crunchy, gooey-hearted treats, I poured us the Lambrusco I’d uncorked. Fruity and sweet, it was a bright complement to the unctuous appetizer—and, hey, if it also loosened Mike’s tight detective lips and let me in on some NYPD secrets . . . even better.

As he munched the mozzarella, he sent me grateful nods. The wine appeared to relax him, and . . . sure enough, by the time I dished up my baked ziti and meatballs, he began to talk . . .

“The Crime Scene Unit searched the abandoned building where you saw the shooter, but found no evidence the suspect used anything but the fire escape . . .”

When he paused for more hungry forkfuls, I noticed Frothy and Java staring up enviously, their tails sweeping the kitchen floor with pre-pounce eagerness.

I quickly rose and pulled cat treats from the cupboard before Quinn became the victim of an eight-legged stampede.

“So this Panther Man got away clean?” I asked, bending down to placate my felines.

“Looks that way . . .”

When his voice trailed off, I turned around to see why. His attention had strayed from his plate to my short skirt. With unabashed interest, his focus continued moving up the curves of my clingy dress to the shiny waves in my hair and gloss on my lips.

“You look . . . very nice.”

His blue eyes were much warmer now—and so was my face. I could feel the heat rising inside me, along with my (nearly lost) hopes for the night ahead.

“So,” I pressed, sitting back down to dish up my own dinner. “Did you pursue any leads?”

Quinn snorted. “Where do I begin? How about with Sergeant Sitko’s advice for CSU to gather up every discarded garbage bag in our perimeter to check for DNA . . . They did. And believe me, DNA is one thing those bags have plenty of.”

“Stop—” I raised my hand. “My garbage bag discussion with Sitko was a theory at best. What I want to know is exactly how the shooter tricked everyone with a badge into running into the wrong building.”

“Buildings. Plural. You remember the pyrotechnics I mentioned yesterday?”

I nodded.

“These bangs also came from two additional rooftops. As soon as SWAT realized they hit the wrong building, they were diverted to another—and another, all leading us away from your lone gunman sighting.”

“Sounds like a professional.”

“A high school kid could have made the devices. The noise came from M-80s—fireworks you can buy on the street in Chinatown. But the way they were deployed?” Quinn nodded. “You’re right, Clare. It was sophisticated. The explosives were wired to timers with disposable phones as triggers so the shooter could control the blasts. One call and boom, instant diversion.”

“Couldn’t you get anything else from the devices?”

“Forensics looked for fingerprints, clues to where the items were purchased, anything they thought could be a lead . . .” He shook his head. “We ran down everything—all dead ends.”

“No leads at all?”

“We’re still canvassing residents of the decoy buildings, and detectives reviewed plenty of digital recordings by the waterfront, but so far all they found were violations of the public urination statutes.”

As Quinn drained his wineglass, my spirits drained with it, until I remembered my visit with Gus.

I told Quinn about Gustavo Campana’s willingness to ask around about the shooter. “How his very ‘diverse’ clientele might have some useful information.”

“He sells to the criminal element?”

“He sells to people with the money to buy. He doesn’t question where the money comes from—in his view, that’s for people like you.”

Quinn snorted. “Guess I should get to know the man.”

“I don’t doubt he has a reach. You should have seen the woman who pulled up while we were walking away. Her driver was this big guy with a U-shaped scar on his cheek—like something out of The Godfather Saga. The Campana family’s compound is really something, too. It’s hidden off the street in one of those secret Village courtyards.”

“Did you see Panther Man hiding there? Up a tree maybe?”

“No, but Gus’s home wasn’t in your dragnet, was it?”

“Too far north and east. Unless your superhero can teleport, there’s no way he could have gotten by the police presence on Hudson.”

“First of all, he’s not my superhero. He’s obviously a coldly calculating killer with professional skills—and some kind of dedicated plan or purpose.”

“That’s not what they think downtown. The brass believe we’re dealing with a psychotic with a Panther Man fixation, like that nutjob—excuse me, ‘troubled youth’—who dressed up as a comic book character before opening fire on a theater full of innocent people. They think our nutjob is only injuring cops because he’s such a bad shot.”

“That’s not what I think.”

“I don’t, either. Neither do some of my men. They think it’s revenge. Remember Eduardo De Santis, the one that got away?”

“How could I forget—I was tripping over stacks of his surveillance photos for weeks . . .”

A slight man with a hawk nose, aggressively tanned complexion, and close-cropped white beard, De Santis was a wealthy nightclub owner and fastidious dresser, his suit jacket’s breast pocket never without a brightly colored handkerchief that always matched his silk shirt. After Quinn and his squad closed down Eduardo’s club for distributing cocaine and heroin, he hired the best defense team money could buy—and managed to escape conviction.

“You think Eduardo is behind the shootings?”

“Some in my squad think so, but there’s no proof, just a theory. He’s not even in the country. According to Interpol, he moved to Cape Town and then to Dubai—probably too far away to worry about.”

“Unless he hired someone to get even.”

“It’s possible, but it doesn’t seem likely, and without evidence the brass rejected that theory outright. It’s also conceivable this Panther Man stunt is connected to a known gang in the area who brands their drugs with superhero labels, Panther Man included. Remember that street dealer Sully and I flipped during our overnight interview? He’s part of that crew, and that’s the most reasonable revenge theory at the moment. But it doesn’t really matter to me because the shooter’s motive isn’t my concern.”

Quinn’s tone was clear enough and so was the look in his eyes.

“You don’t care why he’s shooting cops, do you? You just want to find him and arrest him.”

“Arresting is an option, sure. But if I see him take aim at another human being—in or out of uniform—I’ll shoot the bastard dead.”