"I don't know what you mean."

"For starters, you have no security gate blocking access to the courtyard from the street-"

"We had some construction going on a short time ago. That's why there's a Dumpster on the side of the building, as well as the-"

"You have bins positioned against the back of the building and crates piled up nearby. That's hardly secure. Your own building management has made reaching the fire escape child's play."

The lawyer tossed his perfectly styled mane. "Such a situation is easily rectifiable-"

"But most egregiously, Mr. Castle, the security hook on the fire escape was rusted completely through. All I had to do was pull down the ladder. Why, under those conditions, building management might as well hang out a sign that says Please Burglarize Our Tenants Please Burglarize Our Tenants. I'm sure those very tenants would be interested to know how little management cares for their safety and security. And if we go to trial . . ." I paused to shoot Mr. Billable Hours a sharklike smile of my own. "I guarantee they'll all find out."

Castle's superior smirk started to waver.

"Of course, to prepare for trial, I'd insist on official reports from the FDNY and Department of Buildings. I'd definitely want them to check out that fire escape. The way it was rocking in the wind, I have doubts about its structural integrity."

Poof! Just like that, Castle's smirk disappeared. He loosened his tie. Just like that, Castle's smirk disappeared. He loosened his tie.

"Now listen to me, counselor, because here's the real real story: I was on that fire escape for an innocent reason-to search for evidence the police might have missed in my friend's murder the night before. Your doorman didn't ask what I was doing there. He simply assaulted me and threw me into that Dumpster. The only reason my ex-husband here took a few swipes at the man was because he heard me screaming. He was trying to get me out of that Dumpster-to make sure I wasn't hurt or bleeding or raped or dying. Your employee locked me in there, by the way-with the garbage-but I'm sure your nose already told you that. So if you press charges against me and my ex-husband, I'm not only going to sue your doorman in civil court, I'm going to sue your client for five million dollars." story: I was on that fire escape for an innocent reason-to search for evidence the police might have missed in my friend's murder the night before. Your doorman didn't ask what I was doing there. He simply assaulted me and threw me into that Dumpster. The only reason my ex-husband here took a few swipes at the man was because he heard me screaming. He was trying to get me out of that Dumpster-to make sure I wasn't hurt or bleeding or raped or dying. Your employee locked me in there, by the way-with the garbage-but I'm sure your nose already told you that. So if you press charges against me and my ex-husband, I'm not only going to sue your doorman in civil court, I'm going to sue your client for five million dollars."

Everyone was looking fairly sheepish now. Everyone but Charlie Hong, who appeared to be suppressing a smile.

"Take a good look at me, Mr. Castle. I'm five two in stocking feet, a single mother of a grown daughter, and a well-known shop manager in the community with no criminal history. Your doorman is a six-two, two-hundred-eighty-pound former bar bouncer. Which version of this story do you think a jury will side with?"

Castle stood in silence for a moment. Then he motioned to Franco and Hong to follow him out the door. Lucky thing, too, because I'd just run out of options-and threats.

After conferring with the detectives, mostly Hong, and making a cell call (presumably to that departing ADA), the Franco bomb detonated again: "What do you mean you're not pressing charges?!"

Mr. Castle muttered something I couldn't hear. Then he turned his back on the sergeant and strode away. After that, Hong and Franco started talking. I overheard one telling phrase on Hong's end: "Lieutenant Mike Quinn." Inside a minute, Franco was striding away with obvious frustration, and Detective Hong returned to the holding room. He unlocked Matt's cuffs first.

"You're free to go, Mr. Allegro, and I suggest you leave right now."

Rubbing his wrists, Matt stood. "Not without Clare."

"Fine," Hong said. "Wait outside, then. I want a private word with Ms. Cosi."

Matt didn't budge, just looked at me.

"It's okay," I said.

Matt crossed the room and closed the door behind him. Hong released my cuffs, and I shook my arms to restore the feeling in my fingers.

"I checked you out," Hong began, sitting down next to me. "And I know you know something about police business. Lieutenant Quinn contacted me today, as well. He's a good man. I think a lot of him."

"So do I."

"Look, Ms. Cosi, I don't want you to think that Franco and I aren't working hard to find the man who murdered your friend. That's pretty much all we're thinking about right now. I wanted you to know that-and that I fully understand your interest in this case."

"I'm glad one one of you does." of you does."

Hong sighed. "I know Franco seems like a hard case." The detective's stony face cracked. "Hell, he's got a chip the size of Battery Park on his shoulder. But he's a good cop and a good detective."

"I find little evidence of that."

"Believe me, it's true. If anything, my partner can be extreme in the pursuit of justice."

"What do you mean by extreme extreme?"

"Let's say he has a rep for getting the job done and leave it at that."

I didn't want to, but I could see Hong did.

"Just curious," I asked as he stood up. "Why did that 'Generalissimo' thing set him off so badly?"

Hong paused a moment, as if he were deciding how to answer me. Finally, he sighed. When he spoke again, his voice was much quieter. "Franco likes to let people assume his nickname comes from the street-you know, 'General' as slang for 'leader.' "

"Where did it come from, then?"

Hong shook his head. "Franco and I got hammered one night and he admitted what your ex-husband just guessed."

"What's that?"

"I'm really not old enough to remember, but apparently back in the seventies, the network news anchors kept announcing Spain's dictator was near death. When he finally kicked, Saturday Night Live Saturday Night Live put a joke in their weekly fake news routine: 'This breaking news just in . . . Generalissimo Francisco Franco is put a joke in their weekly fake news routine: 'This breaking news just in . . . Generalissimo Francisco Franco is still still dead.' " dead.' "

"Okay. Not actually funny. And what does it have to do with your partner?"

"On his first day at the police academy, Franco had an instructor who was into that vintage SNL SNL stuff. He's the one who gave him the nickname stuff. He's the one who gave him the nickname Generalissimo Generalissimo. Franco hated it. Took him years and a few transfers before he finally got General General to stick. That's it." to stick. That's it."

I shook my head. "What is it with you men? Why do you let your egos dictate-"

"If it's all the same to you, Ms. Cosi, I'd rather you not lump us all in the same category."

I was about to reply when the door flew open, banging explosively against the back wall. With that preamble, I expected to see Sergeant Franco standing there again, but it was Matt-with Mike Quinn in tow, an unreadable expression on his still-as-stone face.

"There she is," Matt declared, pointing his finger at me. "You try talking some sense into her."

THIRTEEN.

"SWEETHEART, it's almost midnight."

"I don't care what time it is. I missed dinner."

My hair was still damp from the long, hot shower. My Dumpster clothes, down to the socks and underwear, were currently spinning in a double-strength detergent wash. With a sigh, I knotted the belt of my short terrycloth robe.

"You could eat, too, right?" I asked.

Quinn didn't reply. One sandy eyebrow simply arched in a way that said he had the enjoyment of something else in mind.

I turned and headed for the bedroom door. "I need to cook. I'll be downstairs."

I really couldn't blame the man for his spicy train of thought. After all, he'd just finished showering, too-with me. I'd been under the pulse setting of the Water Pik so long he'd stripped down and joined me. Under the warm spray, the man's shoulder massage felt wonderful, but I was too wired about the events of the evening to just let go and "get with him," as my current crop of collegiate customers liked to put it.

Quinn saw I needed time and let me pull away. Now he was pulling a white T-shirt over his torso and a pair of gray sweats over his long legs. Barefoot, he padded after me down to my duplex's kitchen. His dark blond hair looked even darker in its dampness; his rugged expression was turning a lot less readable than I'd been used to lately.

I uncorked a chilled bottle of Riesling and poured us half glasses. He sat back in silence at the kitchen table, sipping the crisp, sweet nectar, his glacial blue eyes on me as I began following my grandmother's recipe by heart-putting the water on to boil, mincing the scallions and garlic, chopping the parsley.

It was so quiet in the little room. Every so often I'd glance over, just to make sure the man was still there. He was-his eyes remaining fixed on my movements, his mouth taking slow sips of wine.

Unhappy with his silence, I flipped on the radio.

Christmas 24/7 was still going strong-and, presumably, still driving Gardner Evans sugarplum crazy.

Not me.

Frankly, I'd endured enough upheavals in my life to consider the seasonal loop of old chestnuts reassuring instead of boring, like an old family recipe you've made a thousand times and will happily make a thousand more, just because it reminds you of a time or a place or a person that you loved with all your heart.

So "The Little Drummer Boy" accompanied my sauteing of onions and garlic. "O Holy Night" orchestrated the addition of flour and milk, and "Winter Wonderland" provided the beat to whisk my white sauce lump free. Next came the clams, reserved juice, and "Merry Christmas, Darling."

On a refill of Riesling and the umpteenth replaying of "Jingle Bell Rock," I tossed in salt, pepper, and parsley, then stirred and sipped; sipped and stirred . . . and when the white clam sauce finally thickened enough, I turned off the burner, covered the pan, and allowed the flavors to blend while I boiled the linguine-just the way my Nonna had taught me (in a big ol' pasta pot with a splash of olive oil to keep the noodles from sticking and enough sea salt to mimic the Mediterranean).

At last, with my wineglass nearly empty and my patience with Quinn's Quiet Man Quiet Man act worn through, I turned off the Christmas music and turned on the cop. act worn through, I turned off the Christmas music and turned on the cop.

"Aren't you ever going to say anything about my arrest?! You haven't asked me one question all night!"

Quinn slowly stood up. Without a word, he casually poured more wine into my glass then his own.

"Well?"

"I told you already," he softly replied. "Allegro filled me in plenty."

"He also ordered you to talk some 'sense' into me!"

Quinn cracked a smile at that.

"What?" I prodded. "You find that funny?"

"Yeah . . ." Quinn's fingers brushed some damp hair off my cheek, curled it around an ear. "As a matter of fact, I do."

"And what exactly is so funny?"

"Allegro. The guy was married to you for a decade and he still doesn't realize that no one can talk sense into you. That's what's so funny. It's a complete waste of vocal cords." The guy was married to you for a decade and he still doesn't realize that no one can talk sense into you. That's what's so funny. It's a complete waste of vocal cords."

"Ha. Ha."

"Listen, Cosi . . ." Quinn reached around me and began using the tips of his fingers to work the stiff tendons in my neck. "The day I met you-" He stopped, smiled. "The minute minute I met you I knew you had a mind of your own. I accept it. I like it. I'm not about to lecture you on the fact that you put yourself in a precarious, even unduly dangerous position tonight. You know that already, right? No one needs to tell you that." I met you I knew you had a mind of your own. I accept it. I like it. I'm not about to lecture you on the fact that you put yourself in a precarious, even unduly dangerous position tonight. You know that already, right? No one needs to tell you that."

"But you know why I did it."

"Yes . . . I just wish you had waited for daylight, asked permission of the doorman. You know, done it legally."

I might have been annoyed at the subversive way Quinn was putting across his censure, but his magic fingers felt too good.

"The trouble with doing it safely is hearing the word no no," I pointed out. "Then what? Another freak evening storm, this time with rain instead of snow, and that button I found would have been washed away."

Quinn's eyebrow arched. "True."

"And don't forget, Lieutenant, it was you who taught me to bend the rules. Remember how you lied to that super up in Washington Heights so he'd let us illegally search an apartment?"

"I can see I've been a bad influence."

Before I could argue, Quinn's fingers encircled my wrist and he tugged me toward the kitchen table. Sitting back down, he coaxed me onto his lap.

"Now what? Am I supposed to tell you what I want for Christmas?"

Quinn grinned. "That'd be a good start."

"I want to discuss Alf's case with you."

"That's what you want for Christmas?"

"Now that you mention it, yes-Alf's killer brought to justice with a jingle bell bow on top."

"I see . . . and do you have a theory?"

"Not yet. But I'll tell you one thing: I do not trust Sergeant Emmanuel 'Do-Rag' Franco. Do you know Detective Hong practically implied the man was a vigilante? What do you think of that?"

"I've heard rumors."

"Do you think it's possible . . ." I hesitated, then felt Quinn's fingertips return to working my neck muscles. I sighed. That spine slam I'd endured against that Dumpster wall was finally melting away.

"I know this may seem out there," I continued, "believe me, I do. But do you think that Franco might have been involved somehow in killing Alf?"

Quinn went quiet for a long moment. "Why? Why would Franco want to kill Santa Claus?"

"What if Franco caught Alf doing something bad or illegal-or thought he caught him doing something like that. Maybe Franco decided to exact street justice."

"You want me to ask around about him? I know some guys in the borough precincts where he worked street crime task forces."

"Could you?"

Quinn nodded. "I can make a few calls."