Twenty-two

“BREAKFAST or dinner?”

It was a valid question at 4:35 AM.

“I could go for either,” Quinn replied between sips of my smooth and soothing low-caffeine dark roast. “Dinner, breakfast, glorified snack, whatever you like. You decide.”

We were back in my duplex apartment above the Village Blend. Dawn would soon be lightening the dark canvas outside my kitchen window, signaling the start of a new day. For me and Quinn, it was also the end of a very long one.

True to his promise, after I’d found my deceased customer’s missing shoe, Quinn had called his contacts in Night Watch. Once a patrol car took our mugger away, my newly discovered “crime scene” became an NYPD social scene.

Hand shaking and backslapping increased as more uniforms and CSU detectives appeared. Fellow officers, whom Quinn hadn’t seen in months or even years, congratulated him on our recent engagement.

That’s the way things were on the street. Whenever cops came together, they caught up with one another, talked about the Job, shared personal news.

As for business: NYPD tower lights went up, along with a perimeter of crime-scene tape, and the search for forensic evidence began. A female Night Watch officer took my statement, which (Sorry, Franco!) included not only the facts, but my theories about Richard Crest, and my strong suggestion that the police question the man as soon as possible.

As I expected, the officer told me the case would be assigned to detectives who would follow up with me in the next few days.

When we finally left the chilly gloom of Hudson River Park, my long-suffering lieutenant had offered to warm me up and “reward my good work” with a carb-fest at Veselka—a twenty-four-hour East Village diner that had been stuffing New Yorkers with stuffed cabbage and other Ukrainian soul foods, from cheese blintzes to potato pierogi, for over sixty years.

But I turned him down.

If I could stay awake a few more hours, I’d be able to open my coffeehouse on time and arrange coverage of the shop while I got some sleep. Given my goal, descending two flights of stairs from my apartment would be a lot easier than drowsily driving twenty blocks from Quinn’s East Village neighborhood.

Sure, a plate of warm blintzes was tempting, but I knew what would happen with my last bite of cheese-stuffed crepe. Quinn would start whispering sweet ideas about his king-sized bed—and that would be the end of my conscientious manager plan.

Instead, as we left the cold waterfront, I suggested he come home with me. I needed to feed my two furry roommates (Java and Frothy). And I had enough adrenaline left in my system to fix a human snack, too.

In fact, Madame had given me a wonderful recipe for Blueberry Blintzes. She’d gotten it from (of all people) the legendary abstract expressionist Jackson Pollock—another painter who loved the art of cooking. No doubt he also loved the splatter of blueberries on the blank canvas of folded crepes.

The question was: Did I have the ingredients for this foodie work of art? The answer came with a quick inventory of my fridge.

Pollock used a combination of cottage and cream cheeses for his blintz filling, neither of which I had. Farmer’s cheese would have been a good substitute (that’s what Veselka used), but I didn’t have enough.

So what did I have?

Italian cold cuts—check.

Mild provolone—check.

Flour tortillas—check.

“Okay,” I announced, “we’re on!”

“We are?” Quinn raised a lecherous eyebrow. “You’re ready to join me upstairs?”

“Behave, Lieutenant—at least a little longer—because I have all the ingredients for my famous Italian Sub Quesadilla.”

Intrigued, Quinn loosened his tie, sat down at my table, and stretched his long legs.

“In that case, I’ll wait.”