THIRTY-TWO

EYES wide, my ex-husband stared. “Tell me that’s not an engagement rock?”

“That’s exactly what it is. Mike asked me to marry him. I said yes.”

“Is that why we need to talk?! When did this happen?!”

“Earlier this evening. Your mother and the baristas threw a surprise party.”

“And failed to invite me.”

“I think your mother felt it would be awkward.”

“Considering my current marital situation, or lack of one?”

“We didn’t find out about your troubles until after the party, which—as it turned out—pulled double duty as a police operation.”

“As a what?”

With a deep breath, I dropped on the couch and told Matt everything. It all poured out—the tense week of thinking Quinn was breaking up with me, followed by the prank engagement arrest, Madame’s gift of coffee diamonds, the party with guests in Kevlar underwear, and finally Sue Ellen’s confirmation that the whole thing was a sting operation designed to draw the cop shooter into the open.

When I was finally talked out, I expected a wisecrack or three, and a ranted warning not to marry a guy who would do that to me. But on this night full of surprises, it was my ex-husband’s turn to shock me.

“You shouldn’t be upset by what happened, Clare. You should be flattered.”

“Flattered?”

Matt nodded, looking almost defeated. “Tonight your Eagle Scout went all in. He’s decided to make you part of his life. His whole life, including the most important thing to that glorified gumshoe—his law enforcement career.”

He pointed to my engagement ring.

“That shiny piece of kitsch says it all. Those coffee diamonds he took the trouble to get from my mother show how much he respects what you care about, your involvement with my family’s business. I hate to admit it, but even I’m touched.”

Sliding close, he studied the ring. “Maybe he should have put a tiny NYPD shield on there, too, to remind you to accept his life’s work, as well.”

“I guess you’re right . . . except for the fact that he wasn’t forthcoming, and that really bugs me. He kept me in the dark about the reality behind tonight’s engagement party, and I’m pretty sure he’s keeping another secret, too.”

“A piece on the side?” Matt cracked—until he saw my glare. “Relax. I’m kidding!” He nudged me with his elbow. “Okay, what secret?”

“Right before Sully was shot, Quinn twisted the facts about one of the shootings that made the newspapers. He told me a stray bullet hit a female traffic cop.”

“Yeah, I remember that. The paper said something about it being a neighborhood with lots of gang activity.”

“Well, tonight I found out that Sergeant Franco—”

“Stop. I do not ever want to hear that mook’s name again. No joke. Not ever.”

“Fine. I found out that a young detective on Quinn’s OD Squad was right next to that traffic officer when she was hit. But Quinn failed to tell me the truth about that. Instead, he fed me a large helping of baloney, claiming that with all the cops in New York, the chances of someone I know getting hurt were miniscule.”

Matt raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“A minute later, Sully was shot.”

“So?”

“Add it up! What are the odds? Two members of Quinn’s small OD Squad are fired on in one week? And I don’t even have all the facts on the other shootings.”

Matt weighed my words. “You might be right. You might not.”

“But—”

“Listen, Clare, I’m no fan of men with badges—”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“—but as cops go, Quinn’s a good one. Maybe the only good one. If anyone can take care of himself, and bring this cop-hunting maniac to justice, your Mikey can. And, hey, if he happens to catch a bullet in the process, remember, I’m always here for you—”

I burst into tears.

“Oh, crap, what did I say? Stop, Clare, don’t cry. It kills me when you cry. Come on, I was kidding!”

“N-no you . . . y-you weren’t . . .”

As I swiped at my tears, I reached for that stupid bottle of soured Chianti. Now Matt was pulling it from me. He dropped it in the trash, went to his office fridge, and popped the cork on a demi-sec Moët & Chandon Nectar Impérial.

Grabbing two empty coffee mugs, he poured out the crisp, cold bubbly, pressed one into my hand, and sat back down.

“Since I missed the big event, I want to make a toast right now.” He put an arm around my shoulders and squeezed, then clinked our mugs. “To your future with Detective Michael Ryan Flatfoot Quinn.”

As Matt drained his cup, I took a few sips and felt better, until he added—

“And if your new fiancé ever fails to satisfy you—including and especially in the bedroom—I am always here for you.”

“Okay, enough consoling.”

“But not enough champagne!”

He refilled his cup, but when he moved to top off mine, I stopped him. “I’m driving, and we still have to talk.”

“There’s more?” He eyed me. “This isn’t a shotgun wedding, is it? I mean, we won’t be hearing the patter of tiny, flat feet? Please tell me Joy’s not going to have a Quinn-jawed little sister or brother.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” I fished the envelope out of my bag. “I came to talk to you about this.”

I told Matt about the attorney, who insisted I deliver the letter ASAP.

“He’s the one who clued us in about your breakup.”

“I love this guy already.”

“Quit complaining and open the letter. It’s about a legacy your late father left to you and Joy. It’s probably good news. It might be something valuable.”

“Now that is ridiculous, Clare. My mother struggled for years after my father died. If he had anything valuable, he would have left it to her.”

Matt set the bottle aside and tore into the letter. As he read, his bafflement increased.

“I’m supposed to go to 580 Fifth Avenue, Suite 400, at six PM tomorrow. This Sal Arnold guy is going to open a lockbox that has been sealed for decades. I’m named as a co-trustee with Sophia Campana—”

“Gus’s younger daughter?”

Matt lowered the letter and took another swig of the champagne. A long one. “This makes no sense.”

“Well, in about sixteen hours . . .” I tapped my watch. “Let’s hope it will.”