Free A Brew to a Kill by Cleo Coyle

She should be notified.”
     
    “It’s all right. We’ll do that.”
     
    “I can’t think of anything else to tell you. There must be something more I can help with…” I couldn’t stop myself from becoming emotional again, but I felt so powerless.
     
    “Take it easy, Clare. You’ve given us plenty.” Buckman paused a moment then suddenly asked—“What cops?”
     
    “Excuse me?”
     
    “You said some of your best customers were cops.”
     
    “That’s right…” I couldn’t tell if he was genuinely interested or simply trying to derail my tears with a distraction. Whichever it was didn’t matter. I pulled myself together and focused on his question.
     
    “So who are they? Maybe I know these cops.”
     
    “Do you know Sergeant Emmanuel Franco?”
     
    “Franco!” Buckman guffawed. “What a goofball. I wouldn’t have thought a hump like that would be your type.”
     
    “Actually, that ‘hump’ is more my daughter’s type.”
     
    “My sympathies,” Buckman said, then shook his head as if I’d just told him I’d bought the Brooklyn Bridge on eBay.
     
    “I’m also friendly with Lori Soles and Sue Ellen Bass.”
     
    Buckman smirked. “Didn’t think you were their type, either.”
     
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
     
    “Nothing. I’m kidding.” Then Buckman pointed to the Claddagh ring on my finger. “That’s not a wedding band.”
     
    “No, it’s from another cop—but he’s more than a friendly customer.”
     
    “Okay, now I’m getting something useful. Where is he on the job?”
     
    “He heads his own task force out of the Sixth. His name is Mike Quinn.”
     
    “Crazy Quinn?”
     
    Crazy Quinn? That doesn’t sound like my Mike.
“You must mean some other Quinn.”
     
    “Michael Ryan Francis Quinn, right?”
     
    “Yes, but… he’s far from crazy.”
     
    “Believe me, honey, back in the day, the PD knew him as
Crazy Quinn
. A real rogue, that guy.”
     
    “Well, that’s not the Mike Quinn I know.”
     
    “Maybe he got tamer after he got clear of that underwear model wife of his. Nothing like a lying, cheating female to make a man want to take crazy chances—or spit bullets.” Buckman paused. “You and Quinn, huh? Well, I guess apples don’t fall far from the tree.”
     
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
     
    “You said your daughter’s friendly with Franco, didn’t you?”
     
    “Listen, Detective, we’re
way
off topic here, and I’d like to know what’s going to happen with Lilly’s case. Do you at least have a theory?”
     
    “I’ll tell you what I have…” He took a final hit on his stogie. “Someone behind the wheel of a white express cargo van, model and license yet to be determined, turned the key and goosed the engine. The driver then came down on the gas pedal, hard enough to spin the wheels, right here…” He pointed to the blocked-off section of pavement. “No brakes were ever applied as the vehicle increased speed, proceeding up Hudson and striking your friend, Ms. Lilly Beth Tanga.”
     
    Buckman paused at that, tearing the stump from his mouth. With his thumb and forefinger, he squeezed it hard until the tip was cold and whipped the stub forcefully down a nearby sewer grate.
     
    “In other words, Clare, someone turned a simple service vehicle into a deadly weapon.”
     
    “You’re saying someone hit Lilly,
on purpose
? As in attempted murder?”
     
    “The facts are what I recited to you. A hit-and-run occurred, one of about three hundred in the city this year. Whether it was deliberate, a tragic accident, or the result ofdrugs or alcohol abuse, I can’t tell you, not yet. And no ‘theory’ is going to interest me, not until all the data accumulated from this crime scene has been fully evaluated.”
     
    “When will that happen?”
     
    “Brutally honest? Not until we find the van.”
     
    “But what if you don’t? It’s like hunting a needle in a haystack, you said so