Now I moved onto the small, open platform, closing the door behind me. Through its Plexiglas window, I saw Dragon Man in the middle of the aisle. He paused to reach into his jacket, pull a gun from his belt, and take off the safety.

I moved quickly to the next car, realizing something awful. Even if we ran full out to the other end of this car, Dragon Man’s bullets would be faster.

“He’s coming!” I yelled to Roman over the roar of the train. “And he’s got a gun. We can’t outrun him. We’ll have to fight!”

I felt the temperature changing and realized the train had emerged from the underground tunnel. A blast of chilly nighttime wind ripped through my hair, and I saw we were racing up an incline to an elevated position, heading for the sprawling auto junkyards of Willets Point.

Dragon Man was stepping out now onto the ledge between the two train cars. Grinning at me, the punk waved the gun in the air, making sure I saw it.

He stepped forward, and I suddenly remembered that scumbag from the White Horse Tavern, the one who’d jammed his motorcycle boot into the back room’s doorway. Only this time, the door in my hand wasn’t flimsy wood, it was heavy steel on a sliding track. I reached up to release the overhead safety latch. As Dragon Man’s foot moved into the car, I slammed the door on the gunman’s instep.

The man’s bellow of surprise and pain was loud enough to be heard over the clatter of the metal wheels on the track. Cursing, the man slammed the butt of his weapon against the window. The Plexiglas cracked but didn’t shatter. He repositioned the gun in his hand.

“He’s going to shoot us through the window!”

Roman’s eyes narrowed. “The hell he is!”

The big man yanked the door back open, stepped around it, and with a shriek of pure fury lunged at the gunman, arms flailing like windmills.

Dragon Man’s weapon discharged, but the bullet went wild, ricocheting off the train’s metal framework. Roman kept flailing, and the gun was knocked free. It dropped down between the cars, swallowed up by the night and the ancient tracks.

The train kept rolling, and Roman continued fighting. Dragon Man lunged backward, desperate now to get away, but the door behind him was shut, and Roman kept coming, using his girth to slam the man like an angry bull.

With a string of raging curses, the robber was knocked off his feet. He tumbled over the chain-link guardrail, his screams diminishing in the shadows of the junkyards below. I grabbed the hem of Roman’s safari jacket and pulled with all my might to keep him from following the man over the side.

Panting, the two of us moved back into the car and collapsed on the orange seats. Then we stared speechlessly out the open subway door, watching for long minutes until our train was clear of the rusting graveyard.

TWENTY

MIDNIGHTcame and went, and the Blend had long since closed its doors to paying customers. But lights still blazed behind the coffee bar and the cozy, caramelized aroma of freshly pulled espressos was still going strong.

Roman Brio balanced on a tall stool, his heavy legs curled under him. Beside him, my laptop was open and connected to the Internet. I stood behind the counter, watching the food writer mainline his third espresso.

“I’ll need another one,” he said, dabbing his lips. Roman set the napkin on the blueberry marble beside the demitasse. I noticed his hand tremble. I wasn’t sure if it was the result of too much caffeine or the aftershock of tonight’s events. Either way, I knew it wasn’t a good sign.

“Maybe you’d like a cappuccino instead,” I suggested. “I have one almost ready to go.”

“No, thanks, Clare. I haven’t lapped warm milk since my nanny force-fed me the stuff in the nursery. Make it a doppio, please. Rapidamente.”

I shrugged and went back to work at the machine. Twenty-five seconds later, the beautiful caramel-colored crema had oozed into the cream-colored cup, and I heard a knock on the front door. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a familiar silhouette through the beveled-glass window. I handed Roman his freshly pulled shot, stepped around the counter, and unlocked the front door.

“Hi, Mike.”

“Hi, Clare.”

Quinn stared down at me, blew out air. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, but it was pretty scary. I could really use a-” Mike pulled me against his chest. I closed my eyes and held on, soaking up his strength. He stroked my hair for a quiet minute, then broke our embrace and held me at arm’s length to look me over.

“Relax. Nothing’s damaged. Not even bruised. You know I can take care of myself.”

Mike didn’t agree or disagree. What he said was, “What the hell were you doing in Flushing?”

I didn’t care for his tone. “I was investigating the threat against Breanne. Just like you thought I should.”

He folded his arms. “And you were attacked and nearly robbed?”

“Not nearly. I was robbed. I lost my brand-new purse. And we have another I word to add to your list, by the way.”

“Sorry? Another what?”

“You remember that little list of attributes you look for in a detective? Well you can add incredulous to it, because that’s your expression right now. You’re surprised, and do you know why, Lieutenant? Because you never believed there was any threat to Breanne, did you?”

“Slow down, Clare!” Mike unfolded his arms and put his hands on my shoulders. “Listen,” he said, “I know you’re tired and upset, and it’s true, I am surprised-you’re right about that-but only that you were ever in any physical danger. Now, start from the beginning and tell me everything that happened.”

We moved to the counter. I made us a couple of lattes. The rote routine calmed my nerves (it always had), then I sat down beside Mike on a barstool and told him the whole story, starting with Neville Perry’s feud with Breanne and ending with the incident aboard the Number 7 line. Roman provided a few details here and there, but he wasn’t his usual loquacious self. When I mentioned that we’d both seen the robber’s face, Mike directed his next question to Roman.

“Did the man seem familiar to you?”

Roman shook his head.

“Someone you might have seen at the office, maybe?” Mike pressed. “A delivery guy? Someone from the mail room? The local deli? Or someone from your neighborhood? Someone you met in a bar? A club? Think.”

“No, no, no, and no, Detective. But I’m sure I could identify that rough beast if I saw him again. He had the face of a stone-cold criminal.”

“I’ll set you up at a terminal tomorrow,” Mike said. “But you might end up looking at mug shots all day. The files on armed robbers are extensive.”

“These were more than armed robbers,” I insisted. “These guys targeted us, Mike. They knew about the rings, they knew Roman had them. They even knew precisely where and when to find us.”

Mike nodded. “They probably would have hit you in front of the Friends Meeting House on Northern if there hadn’t been so much traffic and a strong police presence nearby.”

I plopped my elbows on the counter, pulled my hair back. “I wonder why they didn’t wait for us to leave the dinner and rob us in the alley?”

“The punks got greedy, that’s why. They probably saw how many whales were inside that illegal restaurant and figured they’d just take it all.”

“Of course!” Roman said.

“It doesn’t matter.” Mike rubbed his jaw. “Figuring that out gets us exactly nowhere. We need to know who provided the inside information to the robbers.”

“I’ve been thinking about that, and I have a theory.” I told Mike about Breanne’s ambitious underling, Monica Purcell. “I overheard her talking about the rings with someone on her cell phone. It sounded suspicious at the time, so I snooped around her office.”

I reached into the inside pocket of my little Fen jacket and pulled out the folded paper of Monica’s cell phone numbers.