Espresso Shot by Cleo Coyle

didn’t put Matt down. He didn’t even “handle” him with one of those canned cop speeches reserved for city paranoids who call the NYPD about official conspiracies and UFOs.

    “You know, Allegro,” he said instead, “I think you might be right to worry.”

    “You do ?” Now it was Matt’s turn to look genuinely surprised.

    Quinn nodded. “I don’t like the mud on the SUV’s license plate. I don’t like the execution-style hit on the victim while she’s dressed up like your fiancée and walking right beside you. And I don’t like that your bride-to-be is a public figure who seems to make enemies of people who have something to lose.”

    “Thank you!” Matt cried. He turned to me. “I could kiss him.”

    Quinn’s eyebrow arched. “Sorry, big fella. It’s not the best neighborhood for that . . . unless you mean it.”

    “So what do we do now?” Matt asked, palms up, brown gaze expectant.

    I figured Quinn would volunteer to talk to Soles and Bass about running a side investigation on Breanne’s possible enemies. But he didn’t say anything close to that. What he said was, “Use Clare.”

    “What?!” I said.

    “Clare?” Matt repeated.

    “Yeah, Allegro, at the moment, you’ve got nothing concrete, right? The PD can’t get involved with hunches. We need evidence. Have Clare stick close to Breanne this week, snoop around, look for something that might warrant police involvement.”

    “I don’t have time for that! I have a business to run and a gourmet coffee and dessert bar to finalize before the end of the week!”

    “Calm down,” Quinn said.

    “Mike!” I wanted to throttle him.

    “Allegro has some genuine hunches here, and you know I subscribe to the Blink theory on hunches.”

    “ Blink theory?” Matt said. “What’s that?”

    “It means you know more than you think you do,” I replied before Quinn started gassing on about it. “You take in a lot of data in the blink of an eye, which is why you’re supposed to trust your flashes of inspiration. Those flashes are usually right. Malcolm Gladwell researched the theory and put it in his book.”

    “Blink?” Matt nodded, looking pleased with himself. “Then I am right. Breanne is in danger.”

    I shook my head. “That may not be true—”

    “So find out,” Quinn said. His tone was pushy, almost taunting, yet his eyes seemed to be laughing, as if he were having fun !

    “What is this? A schoolyard dare?”

    Quinn ignored me and leaned toward Matt. “She’s good at it, you know. Clare has all the qualities we look for when we promote from the uniformed force, especially the four I s.”

    “The four what?” Matt said.

    “Inquisitiveness, imagination, insight, and an eye for detail.”

    “That last one starts with an E ,” I said flatly. “And what about intelligence?”

    Quinn shook his head. “We don’t want intelligent cops on the force. We want smart ones.”

    “There’s a difference?” Matt asked.

    “She might be able to turn up a lead,” Quinn continued, ignoring the question. “Unless she does, the Fish Squad’s going to go after the usual suspects on the stripper.”

    “Fish Squad?” Matt said.

    “Soles and Bass. It’s what we call those two around here. Not to their faces, of course. Lori Soles has a sense of humor, but I wouldn’t repeat the term within ten feet of Sue Ellen—not if you value an intact skull.”

    “Mike, come on!” I protested. “This is ridiculous—”

    “Your ex-husband’s scared, sweetheart. Can’t you see that?”

    Quinn’s tone was dead serious. His eyes were blue stone. I stared for a moment in dumbfounded disbelief. Oh, I didn’t doubt his words; I knew Matt was very worried. I just never thought I’d hear Mike Quinn express genuine concern for my ex-husband.

    “It’s true. I am scared,” Matt confessed. “If you could have seen the way that SUV came right for Breanne on the sidewalk . . .” He shook his head and grimaced, his