Dead to the Last Drop (8 page)

I’d left the porch light off, not wanting to call attention to my nocturnal activities. I now regretted that, as I fumbled for my keys in near-total darkness.

The Canadian hemlock shrouded the small raised porch in shadows and I felt a shiver. Was that the whisper of tree branches swaying? Or a stranger’s heavy breathing?

When I spun to find out, my spine turned to ice.

A man’s silhouette was leaning against the front wall’s red bricks. His broad-shouldered form had been hidden by the greenery, barely illuminated by the streetlight’s distant glow.

“Who’s there?!” I cried as my fingers frantically fished around my handbag. “Don’t come near me. I have Mace!”

“I know you have Mace, sweetheart. I gave it to you last Valentine’s Day.”

Out of the gloom stepped Mike Quinn.

“For heaven’s sake, Mike, you stopped my heart! What are you doing here?!”

“For starters? This—”

His palms were warm on my cheeks, his lips soft then hungry, like a man who’d been deprived for days. I didn’t mind the scratches from his five-o’clock shadow, but when his hands dropped lower and began to roam I caught his wrists.

“Mike, the neighbors . . .”

As I broke our embrace, the sandy stubble of his unshaven cheeks looked even darker in the gloom. But that true-blue gaze was alive and bright as it focused on me.

He’d been gone for a week and his presence tonight was, like our relationship, something of a miracle. After all I’d been through, and all my tortured thoughts, part of me was thrilled to see him—but another part was still agitated by the events of the night, and a little annoyed he hadn’t warned me of his change in plans.

“I was expecting you tomorrow. What happened?”

“I missed you.” His worn expression cracked a sheepish smile. “So I took a late flight out of LA and came straight here from Reagan.”

He jerked his head toward a Pullman behind him, leaning against the
front wall. “Unfortunately, I left my keys to Scarlett’s mansion back at my apartment—where I was about to go, until I saw you roll up in a Metro DC cruiser. I thought I’d duck out of sight, surprise you.”

“Congratulations, you did.”

“So why the police escort? Did they release you on your own recognizance?”

“Something like that . . .” Turning quickly, I busied myself with unlocking the front door.

“Clare? What happened?”

“Nothing. A little trouble at the coffeehouse.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“A drunk broke in and collapsed, but the paramedics took care of him.”

“Why were you there so late?”

The front door opened onto a long hallway, and I busied myself with hanging up our coats. “Are you tired?” I called from the closet. “Because I’m wide awake.”

“I slept on the plane—and you’re evading a direct question.”

“You know, I could use a midnight snack. How about you? Are you hungry?”

Quinn caught my arm. “Cosi, what have you been up to?”

“Look, some things at the coffeehouse are broken. Tonight I was trying to fix them.”

“That’s pretty vague.”

“I know. But I don’t want to rehash it right now, okay?”

He studied me. “Okay. And the answer is
I’m starving
.”

“At last, something I
can
fix. Come on . . .”

S
eventeen

I
led Mike down the hall, through a pair of white columns, and into the elegantly furnished double parlor. The space was magnificent, with high ceilings, two fireplaces, and a display of eclectic souvenirs from the owner’s world travels.

In fact, evidence of the former ambassador’s extraordinary life was scattered all over her five stories, six bedrooms, seven baths, finished basement, and whimsical checkerboard patio. At the moment, however, I was leading Quinn beyond her double parlor and through a small connecting den. This led to a formal dining room, and finally—

“The kitchen!” I announced, flipping on the lights.

“Is that an echo?” Mike put a hand to his ear.

“I know. It’s a cavern . . .”

Mrs. Bittmore-Black’s gourmet kitchen was also a cook’s dream, decked out with a built-in Sub-Zero, a professional double gas range, and miles of countertop.

Mike didn’t care. “I prefer your cozy kitchen back in New York.”

“Me too. But you have to remember, this wasn’t a family kitchen. Mrs. B. used it for catering her Washington parties, which, according to Madame, were legendary . . .”

As I went to the fridge, Quinn moved with me.

“So, what are we having?” he asked, snaking his arms around me.

“Well, since I was expecting you tomorrow, I already made a succulent prime rib roast . . .”

Quinn made yummy noises in my ear, a ticklish delight as I pulled out the tray of beautifully cooked beef. Unfortunately—

“Houston, we’ve got a problem. No bread. Your premature homecoming came before I had a chance to shop.”

“No problem,” he murmured, “just give me a fork.”

Back in New York, I would have used split
tortas
for the sandwiches. The Latino population had made them popular in the city and the chewy little flatbreads made amazing French dips. Here in Georgetown, baguettes were easier to find, and I was going to buy fresh-baked loaves—but Quinn failed to give me a heads-up.

This begged a return to a question still bothering me.

“Mike, why did you
really
come home early?”

“What?”

The sudden tension in him said it all. “Okay. What aren’t you telling me?”

“Sweetheart, I missed you,” he claimed again. Then he gave me the boyfriend pout. “Aren’t you glad I’m here?”

“Of course . . .”

But I had a strong suspicion that I was dying to check out.

“Tell you what, you get comfortable,” I said, pulling off his blue blazer and draping it over a chair, “and I’m going to make you my Thirty-Minute Dinner Rolls.”

“Oooh,” he moaned, loosening his tie. “I do love your fresh bread . . .”

“The smell of it baking?” I asked, moving to get the flour.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Or the butter melting on the hot, warm crumb?” I purred, taking out the mixing bowl.

“Oh, hell, now you’re just torturing me—” He grabbed my hand. “Let’s go upstairs.”

“Not yet.” I tugged my appendage back. “I’ll need this hand to mix the dough.”

“Clare, you’re not really baking bread at three in the morning.”

“Why not? That’s when most bakers make it. And like you, I’m wide awake. After what I went through tonight, I’m also wired. Baking the rolls will calm me down.”

He hooked my waist. “I can think of something else that will do that.”

“I know, and I’m looking forward to it—
after
we eat.”

“You’re sure you want to wait?”

“Yes, Mike,” I said, breaking away to preheat the oven, “because I know exactly what will happen if we rush upstairs like we usually do. You’ll still be starving; and after we, uh—spend our energy—you’ll come right back down here to raid the fridge. Let’s try taking things in a civilized order tonight, shall we?”

“When the lady’s right, she’s right. Be right back . . .”

It wasn’t easy letting Mike depart. As his long legs strode across the room, he pulled off the leather straps of his shoulder holster, and I couldn’t help noticing his muscles move beneath his dress shirt.

I quietly sighed.

Baking rolls was a ruse. What I really wanted was to follow him upstairs and help him off with that shirt. But tonight my curiosity trumped my libido. And, besides, my evil plan was hatching perfectly.

Quinn had left his blazer on the kitchen chair.

It took me one minute to stir together the warm water, oil, and sugar, and sprinkle on the RapidRise yeast. As the mixture proofed, I dried my hands and fished around the coat’s side pocket to find—handcuffs?
Whoops.
Not what I was looking for. I tried his other pocket without any luck. But in his breast pocket—
bingo!

Quinn’s mobile phone.

I fired it up and (unlike Chef Hopkins’s private office) found it unlocked.

Okay, Mike, in the interest of truth in our relationship, let’s see what you’re hiding from me . . .

E
ighteen

F
IFTEEN minutes later, Quinn returned looking comfortable (and distractingly masculine) in his NYPD sweatpants and tee. But there was now an intensity in his blue eyes that wasn’t so comfortable.

He accepted the cup of French-pressed Sumatra I’d made him (bold but smooth with a comfortingly thick body) and sat down at the center island to watch me blend salt, egg, and flour into the yeast mixture; knead the dough smooth; break it into pieces; and shape it into dinner rolls.

Quinn’s steady gaze was unnerving, but I ignored it. And as the pale white dough balls waited out their quickie rise in the greased pan, I heated up slices of the prime rib on the stove with some of my special American-style au jus. Then into the oven the rolls went, sending the heavenly aroma of fresh baked bread throughout the house.

Minutes later, they came out golden brown, and (much like Quinn) crusty on the outside, fluffy and tender in. He split two of them warm, slathered butter like crazy, and inhaled them before we settled into the formal dining room.

“Table for twelve?” he quipped, looking down the long expanse of polished mahogany. “I think the Walton family is missing.”

“Walton’s Mountain never saw a dining room with four sets of bone china, a wall of priceless paintings, and sideboard that once served Abraham Lincoln.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You think my bottle of beer is outclassed?”

“No. It’s got a coaster.”

“But no opener.”

“Oh, sorry. I’ll get it.”

“Allow me,” he said, gently pushing me back in my chair.

“Top drawer, next to the fridge!” I called.

Some grumbling ensued about not being able to find it, but before I could get up again, he reappeared with something that was definitely
not
a bottle opener.

“Mike, what in the heaven’s name are you doing with those?”

“You’ll see . . .”

In one swift move, he closed his handcuffs around the neck of my frosty bottle, angled the metal edge upward, flipped off the top, and handed it back to me.

I blinked, staring at my open bottle.

“It’s an old beat-cop trick,” he explained.

“I hate to ask where you learned it.”

“Stakeout, of course. Upper Manhattan.”

“You were drinking beer on a stakeout?”

“No, old-school Coca-Cola from a Mexican bodega. But after the job was over . . .” He smiled as he flipped open the cap on his own beer and took a long, happy swig. Then he dug into the food and went quiet until every bite was gone and his fingers were licked clean.

That’s when Quinn’s laser gaze was back on me, and I uncomfortably turned my attention to Mrs. Bittmore-Black’s Smithsonian museum of a dining room.

“If these walls could talk . . .” I mused.

“You don’t know how many times I’ve thought that on homicide investigations.”

“I can imagine.”

Quinn looked over the antiques. “If you could choose one item in this room, just one, what would you like to hear talk? That cuckoo clock?”

“A gift from a German chancellor,” I informed him. “And I’ve heard it talk already. Can you imagine that clock going off during the formal dinners here? Eccentric lady.”

“Or a very wise one.”

“What do you mean?”

“Consider the pontificating that must have gone on here among officials and bureaucrats. The sound of a cuckoo bird every hour would have been a brilliant reality check on pompous speeches.” He lifted his beer
bottle. “So how about the Lincoln-era sideboard? You said this house was part of the Underground Railroad, didn’t you?”

“It was, but that’s not what I would choose.”

“What, then?”

I gestured to the ornate tray on top of the sideboard.

“The silver coffee service?”

I nodded. “It was a gift to Mrs. Bittmore-Black from Jacqueline Kennedy.”

“Really?”

“I understand they were lifelong friends. Did you know Mrs. Kennedy lived at two addresses on this street? First in a town house with Jack, before they went to the White House, and then . . .”

“And then?”

“After the President was assassinated, Jackie moved back to Georgetown. This street served as a launching pad for her highest heights and in a stunningly short time—”

“Her crash pad for god-awful depths.”

I shook my head. “That poor woman. The whole thing must have felt surreal.”

“The whole thing was a monumental crime, Clare, that’s what it was. A conspiracy to commit cold-blooded murder.”

“Conspiracy? You don’t think Oswald acted alone?”

“At this point, few detectives I know do. And if it wasn’t a conspiracy, then it was a conspiracy of dunces.”

“You mean the Secret Service not properly protecting the President?”

“Members were either in on it—or incompetent.”

“Either one is hard to believe.”

“Why? They’re not robots. They’re human. They make mistakes. And they can be corrupted like anybody else in government. Power corrupts, sweetheart.”

“Even good people?”

“Without checks and balances and transparency—what we in the crime-fighting trade call
witnesses
—power corrupts . . .”

“Absolutely?”

“No.
Insidiously.
”

I studied him. “You’re not talking abstractly, are you?”

“I’ve got . . . shall we say
problems
 . . . at work.”

“Yes. I know. I’ve known for a long time. What I don’t know are the specifics. I’ve been waiting for you to open up.”

He drained his beer bottle and set it aside. “How about we start with what you know.”

I shifted uneasily, but then leaned forward.

“I know your work is classified, some special DOJ task force focused on corporate wrongdoing that utilizes your years of drug enforcement expertise. I know your new lawyer boss—that Katerina creature—is trouble. And it’s not simply about snapping her fingers, and calling you at all hours, and forcing you into unpredictable overtime.”