Murder by Mocha (34 page)

Matt and I exchanged glances. Was this guy a devil or a saint? He couldn’t be both. Could he?

Matt stood. His voice was soft. “I’d like to know everything, Mother. I think you better start from the beginning.”

FORTY-ONE

T
EN minutes later, we had heard most of her story—a completely different version than the one on file with the NYPD. According to Matt’s mother, Detective Cormac O’Neil came into her life about the same time as Alicia Bower.

“You said Alicia worked for you as a barista,” Matt reminded her.

“That’s right. She’d been raised with quite a lot of money and status on Long Island, but her family lost everything when her father was caught running an investment scam. The fallout was terrible for her. She was finishing up her senior year at New York University—suddenly, she had no money to her name, and she badly needed work.

“Alicia loved our Blend. She was there all the time as a customer, with her books, between classes—so I hired her. I trained her as a barista, and she really took to it. She worked so much and so well, I even made her my assistant manager. I came to trust her like you two trust Tucker.”

“I get it,” Matt said. “But why don’t I remember her?”

“Because, by the time you came home from Costa Gravas, she was accepted into a graduate program at the school she mentioned tonight—Bay Creek Women’s College. She earned her doctorate and was offered a position as an assistant professor. But not before she helped me get through what became one of the best and worst summers of my life . . .”

“Because of O’Neil?”

“It didn’t start with him. It started with a couple of young punks who decided to run a criminal enterprise from a corner table of our second floor.”

Matt looked stricken. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Oh, it was over by the time you came home. Everything was. And back then Greenwich Village was a much different place than it is today.”

“I remember,” Matt said.

Even I knew that. New York had gone through a devastating fiscal crisis in the seventies. The early eighties weren’t much better. Crime exploded, graffiti covered everything, dealers sold drugs openly, and the Village . . . well, it was a much less polished and picturesque place.

Because rents were lower, artists, musicians, actors, and writers were still living here in great numbers amid the cobblestone streets and Federal-style walk-ups, but so were druggies and vagrants. Eclectic, offbeat shops were more prevalent, too, and so were empty storefronts and crumbing property facades.

“Cormac came in for coffee every so often,” Madame continued. “We’d never spoken beyond polite greetings, but suddenly, I needed help. I didn’t want the police to think I was profiting from the loan-sharking and drug dealing those men were engaged in, so I told Cormac about my problem. Within a week, he set up a sting and had them arrested.”

I glanced at Matt—so far, this guy didn’t sound dirty.

“Cormac became a regular after that. Since I refused to take his money, he insisted I go out to dinner with him. He was a proud, quiet man, but he knew about loss and pain, and... he was a good listener.”

She turned toward her son. “I was still grieving for your father, and Cormac could see that. But he helped me work through my sadness over those months when you were gone, and . . .we fell in love.”

I picked up my cup and took a long drink of warm chocolate. This was a sweet and poignant story, but I knew it was about to take a bad turn. Swallowing hard, I braced myself.

“Cormac and I were happy. We’d settled into a routine, began making plans for the future, and I didn’t think anything could hurt us, but . . . as the summer progressed, he became tense and even more quiet than usual.

“One night, he confided in me. There were dirty cops in his precinct. He wasn’t sure how to handle it because he didn’t know where in the chain of command the corruption stopped, and he needed hard evidence and solid witnesses for the charge.

“Soon after, I received a phone call. Cormac was frantic. He’d been on an apartment building rooftop, arresting a dealer when a young patrolman appeared out of nowhere and blew the perpetrator’s head off.”

“Oh my God.”

“I’m sorry, dear, but that’s what happened.”

Matt leaned forward. “What did O’Neil do?”

“He drew on the uniform, and there was a shootout. Cormac’s partner was killed, and Cormac jumped from the roof—he landed on a fire escape and got away.”

“Why did the patrolman do that? What was he trying to accomplish?”

“This young police officer was on the payroll of organized crime. His buddies discovered Cormac and his partner were working on a case against them, and they ordered them both killed. This patrolman had a superior officer ready to back his version of events. They made Cormac out to be the corrupt one, the dirty detective who killed his partner, murdered the dealer, and ran off with the drug money.”

Matt rubbed his goatee. “Sounds like your guy was an Irish Serpico...”

To older New Yorkers, Detective Frank Serpico was more than just the subject of a Hollywood movie. Serpico’s near-death experience at the hands of fellow officers was legend, and his testimony about widespread police corruption led to the Knapp Commission, which cleaned up much of the NYPD.

Madame nodded. “Corruption was certainly rife in the early seventies. The Knapp Commission helped, but it wasn’t a cure-all. Cormac told me this particular patrolman was well connected. He had a few relatives high up on the force. Cormac intended to bring his story to the Justice Department—and that meant he had to disappear for a while.”

“Did he go to the Feds?” I asked, hopefully.

“I assume he did, but I don’t know what happened after that. I thought he would come back for me . . .” She shook her head. “I hoped he would, but he never did. And when that corrupt patrolman was never brought up on charges, but instead promoted as a hero, I came to believe they got to Cormac. I thought for sure he’d been killed.”

“What about the grand jury?”

“Before he disappeared, Cormac implored me not to say a word to anyone about what I knew, not even to a judge or jury. What could I say? I couldn’t prove anything—and the corrupt cops would have known I was a threat. The possibility of my being murdered for exposing it all—with no evidence, mind you—was just too great. I wouldn’t risk making Matt an orphan. I vowed to stay silent to protect my son. So I refused to answer their questions, and the judge sent me to jail.”

“Jesus,” Matt whispered.

“Alicia was the one who saved me. She was a tower of strength, so efficient and fearless, like a machine. She took over the Blend, ran it in my absence. She found a lawyer for me and the means to bail me out. She continued to prop me up and run the coffeehouse even after I was released from jail, until I was emotionally able again.

“Alicia was even the reason for my subsequent happiness. When she met Pierre Dubois at a Long Island charity dinner, she absolutely
ordered
him to drop by my coffeehouse for the very best cafés au lait and
sablés
in the city. I never would have met Pierre otherwise. I owe her so much . . .”

I looked at Matt. He exhaled hard. Finally, we understood.

“If not for Alicia,” Madame said, “I never would have held on to the Blend or gotten through losing her the way I did...”

Madame’s gaze was downcast. It was so late now, and I wasn’t sure I’d heard her right. “You mean, losing
him
? Cormac?”

“No . . .” She took a breath, let it out. “I lost my daughter. Our daughter. I had a miscarriage in jail. Cormac didn’t know I was expecting. I didn’t think I could anymore . . . I was going to name her Clare—after the younger sister he’d lost in his childhood . . .”

Matt appeared shocked. Neither of us knew what to say.

“Life may take from us, but God gives back, in His own time. A few years later, when Matt came home from Europe with a young woman named Clare, who was pregnant with a daughter . . . well, I knew it was meant to be.” She turned to me. “I knew you were a gift from God the moment I heard your name. The daughter I’d lost came back to me.”

I put my arms around her, blinked back tears. “I can’t believe you’ve been carrying that around all these years . . .”

Matt swallowed, his voice hoarse. “No wonder you never trusted the police.”

“My darling boy, it wasn’t that I didn’t trust them. I simply needed to get to know them before I could judge which cops were good and which weren’t.”

She paused, met my eyes.

“Mike’s a good cop,” I said quietly.

“I know he is, dear. Officer Quinn saved your life and Joy’s.” She squeezed my hand. “I don’t know why Cormac is back again, after all this time. But I have to trust that your blue knight will protect him from men like that deputy commissioner Hawke. If Cormac gets a fair hearing, I’m sure everything will turn out all right.”

I shifted on the sofa, suddenly queasy. “What did you say about Hawke? How do you know him?”

Madame blinked. “Didn’t I say? Larry Hawke was the name of the corrupt patrolman. The young officer who appeared on the roof, shot the dealer, Cormac’s partner, and tried to kill Cormac. Hawke was the cop who framed him.”

Shaken to the core, I sat frozen a moment. Finally, I rose and quietly excused myself.

In Madame’s bathroom, I sat on the edge of the tub, ran my fingers through my hair. In my bones I knew that Madame was telling the truth. But her facts ran completely counter to the police file.

Will Quinn believe me? Or will he claim Madame is just trying to protect her old boyfriend, like she did before?

I recalled the words we’d had at the dock about Franco. What would Quinn do? Side with me and Madame? Or with the towering command structure he’d trusted for his entire career?

I checked my watch. It was past midnight, but I had to call him, try to explain. I fumbled in my pocket, found my cell. A voice mail was waiting for me. Mike hadn’t rung through. He’d sent a silent message.

“Clare, listen to me carefully. This cold case has gotten complicated... and a little dangerous. I’m going to be out of touch. I’m not sure how long. You won’t be able to reach me through my cell or the police radio. Sully and I need to follow a few leads. For our own safety, we can’t be traceable. I can’t say more to you now, except . . . well, I think you’ll understand this. I’m about to pull a Franco . . .”

Oh my God.

“Try not to worry . . . and, please, do not tell anyone what I’ve just told you. It could put our lives in danger. Just . . . I don’t know, say a prayer for me today. I’m going to need it...”

Praying was the first thing I did, asking God to keep Mike and Sully and Franco safe. Then I squeezed my eyes shut, realizing in a whole new way what Madame must have felt all those years ago.

How do I make sense of this?

Did Mike hear the same story from Cormac and believe him? Were they trying to gather evidence and go to the Feds together? Or had Mike confronted Hawke, just like Franco? Did Hawke try to take Mike’s badge and gun? Or was it even worse? Did he try to take his life?

What in heaven’s name is happening?

I closed my eyes, bowed my head, and lost track of time. When a soft knock sounded on the door, I rubbed the back of my neck.

“Clare?”

I’d spent so long in the bathroom that Matt had grown concerned. I opened the door, moved into the hall.

“Are you okay?” Matt asked.

“I’m staying here with your mother tonight . . .”

“You look like hell,” he whispered, opening his arms.

I stepped into them.

Matteo’s body felt as strong as ever, as strong as his spirit, and I let him lend me that strength. Holding on tight, I let myself break, felt the hot tears dampen his shirt.

“Did Mother’s story upset you that much?” he whispered.

I wanted so badly to spill more than tears, tell Matt about the call, about Franco, Hawke, everything. But I felt bound by Quinn’s request. Just like Madame, I had no evidence of Hawke’s guilt, none. The only thing I
could
do for Mike Quinn was what he’d asked—not tell a soul what was happening. Not even my family.

“Please don’t cry,” Matt whispered, stroking my hair. “It’ll be okay . . .”

“You don’t know that.”

“No. But I find if you say it enough times—and click your heels—sometimes it is . . .”

“What are you? Glenda the Good Witch?”

“Naw. The good witch auditions aren’t till next week.”

I pulled away, swiping at my eyes. “Better tell Punch then. He’s willing to do drag to get into that show . . .”

Matt touched my wet cheek. I squeezed his hand. “Check on our daughter, okay? Let her know I won’t be back to the coffeehouse until late tomorrow.”

“Where are you going?”

“Your mother and I may not be able to help Cormac O’Neil or Mike Quinn, but we can do something to help Alicia Bower—and that’s what we’re going to do . . .”

FORTY-TWO

I
rented a car and drove us east, toward the brightly rising sun. Bypassing the city’s gritty borough of Queens, we headed for the north shore of Long Island, land of quaint waterfront villages, pedigreed horses, and exclusive yacht clubs.

Over a dozen institutes of higher learning were located on the Island east of New York City. Bay Creek Women’s College was not among them—and for good reason. A decade ago, the school had gone coed, changing its name to Bay Village College.

According to its Web site, the campus’s Essen Library held the archives for student theses, and that was our destination. But we had a problem: neither Madame nor I knew Aphrodite’s real name.

I’d searched the Web, read her Wiki bio, her Facebook page (three million likes!), but Aphrodite had reinvented herself so aggressively, I had no clue where she was born or who she really was.

Fortunately, scholarly papers are generally cross-referenced by subject, so I was hopeful that any thesis referencing Laeta, Severa, or Rufina would be listed in the card catalog.

I didn’t think the paper itself would clue us to the killer’s identity. The real lead would be found on a lending card of some sort, the kind that listed all the people who’d accessed the thesis, hopefully stretching back years. If I found a familiar name—one who had motive and opportunity to frame Alicia and Sherri—that person would zoom to the top of my suspect list.