TWENTY-FOUR

QUINN stopped in the kitchen to hug his kids and say good night, but after we left the apartment, he didn’t say a word. Jaws clenched, he stewed in quiet fury.

As we rode the elevator in deafening silence, I pulled out my phone. No messages.

I knew the lawyers were working their legal magic to free Prince Matt from evil Endicott’s clutches, and there wasn’t much I could do, but waiting for word wasn’t easy. I wanted to discuss the situation with Quinn, get his advice, even his help. But he didn’t appear to be in the talking mood.

When we crossed the building’s grand lobby, I wished the doorman a good evening. A scowling Quinn barely noticed.

On the sidewalk outside, I stopped him. “Are you all right?”

He looked ready to punch the No Parking sign. “Leila should have thanked you,” he bit out. “Instead, she nearly attacked you. You did not deserve to be treated like—”

“Calm down. Leila and I don’t get along. That’s the way it is. What matters is those kids. How were they when you spoke to them?”

Quinn shook his head, loosened his tie.

“Jeremy was afraid I’d be angry, but he did the right thing. He remembered the Oak Bridge was a well-lighted area, so he followed the downhill paths until he saw the lights. Then he kept Molly calm and safe, watching the ducks, while he waited for a police officer or park worker—someone he could trust.”

“Jeremy’s a smart kid.”

“He’s a good kid. I’m proud of him.”

“They’re both good kids, Mike, and they have good hearts.”

“So do you.” He tugged me close. “But right now I’m more concerned about your mind.”

“My mind?”

“Yes, your recurrently curious mind. You were asking Leila some pointed questions about Anya . . .”

For a split second, I was surprised he’d picked up on that, but I shouldn’t have been. Quinn might be wearing a G-Man suit these days, but he’d spent years reading into things—from witness statements to suspect denials.

“Are you going to tell me why?” he pressed. “Or do I have to . . . coerce it out of you?”

“Tempting as coercion sounds, I need to tell you what’s going on. But it’s a long story, and I’m not telling it out here on the sidewalk.”

Quinn nodded, “You’ve had a tough day. Let’s get you home.” Turning toward the curb, he raised his arm to hail a cab. I pulled it down. The cool night air felt refreshingly good against my flushed face, and I took a deep breath of it.

“How about we stretch our legs instead? I think we could both use a moment’s peace after that pressure cooker upstairs . . . and maybe a snack?”

“Great idea, but you’ll have to choose the restaurant. My stomping ground was the West Side, not Upper East. The only restaurant I’ve heard of around here is Babka’s.”

My mouth watered at the mere mention of that legendary eatery—a cozy, comfort-food paradise with lines around the block at its adjacent bakery.

“While Babka’s food would be amazing”—I tapped my watch—“we’ll never get a table at this hour. That’s true of most of the places around here.”

“Then let’s take a walk and see what comes.”

“Promise me one thing,” I said as Quinn looped his arm around my waist. “Wherever we end up, let’s sit in a back booth.”

“You want privacy, eh?”

The man’s thrilled little smile made me realize he’d gotten the wrong impression about my request. It wasn’t for intimacy. My festival costume might have been a turn-on for Quinn, but to the general public, I would still look like Eva Braun at a biergarten.