THIRTY-FIVE
“GO on,” Sue Ellen said. “We’re all ears.”
Madame shifted uneasily. “While I feel compelled to tell you, I don’t wish to cause trouble for my son.”
“Say your piece, Mrs. Dubois. Let us decide if anyone is in trouble.”
“I believe it’s possible that Matteo had something to do with all this. He has plenty of friends around the city, and the globe, for that matter, who are always willing to help him.”
“Where is your son now?” Sue Ellen asked, eyes brightening.
Quinn recognized the look—a solid lead was like a shot of caffeine.
Madame’s reply was hesitant. “I’m not sure exactly where he is at the moment. But . . . if I were you, I’d check his Brooklyn warehouse. It’s certainly a good place to hide someone.”
Quinn smelled a rat. He knew Madame too well. The members of the Fish Squad were being played. It was obvious to him, but it wasn’t his job to straighten them out.
Sue Ellen remained wary. “If you really want us to believe Clare isn’t here, then I assume you’ll have no objections to our thorough search of these premises?”
“None at all,” Madame assured her. “I’ll be happy to show you whatever you like.”
The two detectives stood up. “Let’s go.”
Madame led the detectives toward the back staircase, taking them down to the basement. The coffeehouse included a second-floor lounge. The third and fourth floors contained a private duplex apartment, which was where Clare resided. The full tour would take at least twenty minutes.
Quinn sat back and released a breath.
Esther observed him. “So? How do you like being on the hot seat for a change?”
Quinn folded his arms. “It would go down better with a cup of coffee.”
Dante immediately stood. “What would you like, Lieutenant? I’ll be happy to get it.”
“Anything, thanks.”
“How about a red-eye? You look as though you could use a shot in the dark.”
“I guess I could.”
Esther leaned forward, presumably to say something else—
“Don’t,” Quinn advised. “Don’t say anything else to me. Don’t say anything else to them.” He pointed in the direction of the shop’s back stairs.
“But I was only going to tell you—”
“I don’t want to hear it. I know it’s hard for you, Esther, but for once in your life, just sit there, twiddle your thumbs, and keep your mouth shut.”
WHEN Soles and Bass returned, empty-handed (no surprise), they gathered up their laptop and coats. Madame handed them a card with Matt Allegro’s warehouse address on it.
“We’re going to Brooklyn,” Lori announced.
“I’m going with you,” Quinn said, rising.
“Oh, no, you’re not,” Lori returned. “Let us handle this, Lieutenant.” Then her eyes scanned the rest of the people at the table. “Can I trust you all not to warn Matteo we’re coming?”
Dante nodded.
“I won’t tell,” Esther said, crossing her heart.
Quinn faced the detectives. “Allegro will get no warning from me. I’d rather Clare were in the hands of Dr. Lorca than her lying, cheating, ex-drug-addict ex-husband. If you catch Allegro with Clare, punch him in the eye for me.”
“We’ll let you know what we find,” Lori promised as Esther unlocked the front door and let them out.
When the distaff detectives were gone, Madame laid a gentle hand on Quinn’s shoulder. He turned to find her smiling.
“You played those two very well, Michael.”
“Me? You played them like a Stradivarius. Now, stop fiddling around, and tell me what the hell is going on.”