THIRTY-SIX

“I broke Clare out,” Madame confessed. “She wanted to go. Clare no longer trusted Dr. Lorca for her treatment—and they were depriving her of coffee!”

“Do you know where she is now?”

When Madame nodded, Quinn felt a measure of relief, but only a small one.

“Look, I’ve got to make a show of leaving the coffeehouse in case Soles and Bass are watching. I’ll walk back to the precinct. Then I’ll double back. Meet me upstairs.”

It didn’t take long for Quinn to complete the show.

As he approached the coffeehouse again, he saw that Esther and Dante had reopened for the Friday night crowd. A line was already forming at the espresso bar.

Good. Everything is back to normal.

Quinn moved around the building to the alley. Clare had given him a key to the shop’s rear entrance so he could slip in after hours. Once inside, he took the back stairs, two at a time. He had a key to the apartment, as well, but decided to knock.

The door opened immediately.

“Come in, come in!”

Madame waved him into the living room, sat him down on the sofa, and poured him a hot cup of coffee. She had already poured one for herself, and settled into the antique chair near the hearth, where a low fire was burning.

As he drank and sat back, Java and Frothy hurried into the room, happy to see their favorite male human again. While Java rolled around Quinn’s big shoes, Frothy jumped up next to him on the sofa to take swipes at his loose tie.

Quinn felt a tug inside him, too, as if Clare should have been here with them, playing with the cats, talking about her day, asking about his.

“I’m glad you did it,” he said, snatching his tie back from the determined cat’s claws. Frothy looked miffed, until Quinn began making it up to her, rubbing her ears and scratching her chin. Then the purring began and the rolling around—a fluffy white ball, half on his lap.

Madame smiled at the sight of man and cat. “I’m glad we did, too.”

“How was it done exactly? Will traffic cameras be able to trace your getaway vehicle?”

“Only as far as New Jersey . . .” She described the license plate switch and vehicle swap once they reached a secluded area, clear of public and private cameras.

“How is Clare? Her mood? Her memories?”

“Her mood is good. Her memories are still blocked, but there is a glimmer of hope. She’s responding to sensory stimulation . . .” Madame described their success with a coffee tasting. “She’s not sure why she knows things, but she does. Her mind can recall recent knowledge, even though she can’t tell you how she gained it.”

“That’s something.” Feeling encouraged, he took another hit of the coffee. Smooth and earthy, bright and balanced, perfectly roasted. It had to be Clare’s.

“What about our acute police problem?” he asked.

“You mean those nice lady detectives?”

“I assume you sent them on a wild Allegro chase.”

“Yes, of course. When Detectives Soles and Bass get to Brooklyn, my son’s warehouse manager is going to reluctantly tell them that his boss mentioned he was heading down to the Village Blend, DC, to see his daughter for the weekend.”

“That will buy us time, but not much. Where exactly is Clare? I assume you sent Matt to Washington as a diversion and Clare in the opposite direction. Is she on a train to some friend in New England?”

“No, Michael. Clare is not on a train. And my son is not traveling to DC tonight.”

Watching Madame squirm, Quinn took a tense breath. “Don’t tell me—”

“They’re together,” she blurted, pulling the tooth in one hard tug. “At the moment, Clare and Matt are on the road, just the two of them, driving to his ex-wife’s house in the Hamptons. He was given the property as part of their divorce settlement.”

“I’ll need the address,” Quinn said, rising so rapidly that Frothy nearly rolled off the sofa.

“Take it easy,” Madame said as he gathered up the offended cat and set her gently on the carpet, next to Java, who began licking her mroowing! head.

“How can I take it easy? He’s alone with her!”

“It was the only way. There’s nothing to worry about. The property where they’re headed is still listed as owned by Breanne Summour. My son’s name is not attached to it, and he left his mobile phone in Brooklyn.”

“That’s not what worries me.”

“I understand. But I fully assumed you would be joining them out there. I’ll give you the address, as soon as I’m finished packing Clare’s things.”

“And how long will that take?” he asked, checking his watch.

“Almost no time at all.” She pointed to Clare’s large gym bag. “There are clothes, shoes, and toiletries inside. Please take them to her.”

“What else is there to pack?”

“Only one thing. Come with me . . .”