Murder by Mocha (5 page)

“Why would he claim that when he hasn’t even tried it?” I considered those empty martini glasses, sitting next to the vase of wilting flowers. “Has Alicia been using her aphrodisiac on him? Did she give him some last night?”

Madame frowned. “What difference would that make?”

“The man was stabbed. Through the heart. And appeared not to have moved. I think he was drugged.”

“What does that have to do with who murdered him?”

“When the police see that crime scene, they’ll
know
who murdered him!”

“
Shhhhh
. . . I told you. Alicia is not capable of murder. She did not do it.”

“Okay, but you’re not suggesting that I help you cover this up, are you? You know we have to call the police, right?”

“Yes, I understand.” Madame exhaled. “You don’t know Alicia like I do. The history we have.”

“What history is that? I’ve asked you. But you haven’t yet enlightened me.”

Madame shook her head, studied the bathroom floor. For almost a minute she seemed lost in thought—or memories.

“Madame?”

“She worked as my barista for about six months.”

“When?”

“A long time ago. Before you and Matt were married.”

“Why didn’t you ever mention her before? And why do you feel you owe her so much?”

“It’s not something that I ever intended to share. And I . . . well, I don’t wish to here and now.” She lifted her gaze. Her blue-violet eyes were actually damp. “The counselor is on his way. In the meantime, won’t you please help us, Clare? Tell the detectives that Alicia would never do a thing like this.”

Oh man.

I didn’t argue with her anymore. I just couldn’t. Reaching into my jeans pocket, I gripped my mobile phone.

FOUR

O
NCE I brought up my cell’s address book, I began toggling through names—

Joy Allegro
—my daughter. No. (Obviously.)

Mike Quinn
—No. Not only was the man exhausted, he was no longer a precinct detective. The only thing he could do was advise me on who to call at the One Seven, and I already knew that.

I moved past my ex-husband, Matt, who’d been touring coffee farms in Indonesia, which put him out of cell phone range for weeks (as usual). I swept by my baristas—Tucker, Esther, Gardner, Dante, Vickie, and Nancy—blew by more names (acquaintances and suppliers). Finally, I came to the entry I needed and pressed the auto-dial.

“Lori Soles.”

“Good morning, Detective.”

“Clare Cosi, what are you doing calling me? Aren’t you right upstairs?”

“You’re sitting in my coffeehouse now, correct?”

“First cup of the day.” She took a loud sip to make her point.

“I have a situation . . .”

Lori Soles and her partner, Sue Ellen Bass (together known around the NYPD as “the Fish Squad”), had worked out of the nearby Sixth Precinct for years. Both had become addicted to my Americanos, and both still stopped by for their fix every morning before heading north to work at the Seventeenth, their newly assigned precinct house in Midtown.

Soles listened to my brief description of the homicide and thanked me.

“We just had a court appearance rescheduled,” she said, “and this sounds like it’s worth an early start. Sue Ellen and I will call it in. You know the drill?”

(For a variety of reasons, Soles and Bass were under the impression I possessed a private investigator’s license. Not even Mike Quinn had set them straight on that, and considering the situation, I didn’t see it as a disadvantage.)

“I’ll be seeing uniforms here first to secure the scene, right?”

“Right,” said Lori. “Are you with the body now?”

“No, I’m in another room at the hotel.”

“Well, smarten up, Cosi. Go seal the room.”

“It’s locked. And I have a
Do Not Disturb
sign on the handle.”

“So what? Housekeeping has a pass key. You can’t take the chance they’ll honor a
Do Not Disturb
sign. Go babysit that DOA till we get there.”

“No problem, detective. Thank you.”

I hung up, reassured Madame, and hurried back to the crime scene before that poor maid with the dirty blond ponytail walked in to find more than used towels in the bathroom and no tip on the dresser. As I neared Alicia’s door, however, my steps slowed. Just ten minutes prior, I’d made absolutely sure that Alicia’s room door had locked behind me. Now it stood ajar.

Okay, this makes no sense.

A member of the hotel staff might have entered and left, but wouldn’t Madame and I have heard some kind of reaction? A scream? A shout? A frantic cry to call 911?

Taking a deep breath, I used the sleeve-covered elbow of my arm to push the door open a wee bit more.

I peered inside the dead man’s room. I didn’t see anyone or sense any movement. The place was quieter than a tomb, and if someone were inside, they certainly would have been making noise at the sight of a bloody corpse.

Despite the bright morning sun outside, the room was still gloomy, the heavy curtains drawn. A noise in the hallway—probably someone grabbing their complimentary newspaper—sent me hurrying all the way inside. I shut the door and stepped forward to check on my dead Candy Man.

Only there was no Candy Man. That’s right. No corpse. No knife. No blood. The bed had been stripped down to the quilted mattress. The bloody sheets, the bunched-up blanket, and the rest of the covers were gone.

Four down pillows lay on the sea-green carpet like puffy white mushrooms. Their cases were gone, and so were the empty martini glasses sitting next to the vase of wilting flowers. Even that strange, cloyingly sweet scent had vanished. It was as if the whole scene had been erased—or hadn’t happened in the first place.

I blinked, feeling slightly numb.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

The staccato raps gave me a start. They were so forceful I assumed the uniformed officers had arrived. No such luck. When I opened the door, I found a young woman towering over me. Her hazel-green eyes were slightly almond in shape. They widened at the sight of me, then narrowed down to slits.

“Who are you?” she said. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Who am I?” I so cleverly shot back. “Who are you?”

She was young, about my daughter’s age (early twenties), her slender form coltish, her patrician face long and partially obscured by a fall of glossy, honey-colored hair spilling over one shoulder. Its golden color appeared even more striking against the dark backdrop of her charcoal pantsuit and shiny black raincoat.

We stared at each other a moment.

“Do you have the wrong room?” I asked.

She checked the number on the door and returned her sharp gaze to me. “Who
are
you?”

“My name is Clare Cosi. Your turn.”

Instead of replying, Blondie brushed by me, entered the room, and stopped. For a few long seconds, she gawked at the vacant bed, her manicured hand moving to cover her gaping jaw.

“Where is he?” she whispered. “What happened?”

“Just what did you expect to find here? Did you know—”

“You!” She turned on me with one pointy French tip. “You’re not supposed to be here!”

“You said that already.”

In the hall another door opened and closed.

Blondie froze, listened.

“This is a crime scene,” I said calmly. “The police are on their way. So if you don’t want to talk to me, you can talk to them, all right?”

I thought that might encourage her to answer my questions—or at least prompt her to have an actual conversation. Instead, she grimaced and fled, elbowing past me so violently I nearly kissed the floor.

“Hey!” I shouted, regaining my balance. “Come back here!”

Of course she didn’t. Nobody ever does.

FIVE

I
rushed out of the room, certain I could catch her at the elevator. But the coltish blonde was galloping in the opposite direction, the end of her patent leather raincoat fluttering like Black Beauty’s tail.

“Stop!” I shouted.

“Clare? What’s happening?”

I turned to find Madame standing in the corridor.

“Guard Alicia’s room!” I shouted over my shoulder. “Tell the police where I’m going! Tell them she might be dangerous!”

“Where
are
you going?”

“I’m chasing that blonde in black!”

“Blonde in black!” Madame called. “What blonde in black?”

Looking ahead, I realized the woman had already turned a corner. I picked up speed. She was wearing stilettos. I was in low-heeled boots. It seemed inevitable I’d catch her. What I would do
after
I caught her, I’d have to improvise. (Tripping came to mind. Also holding on and yelling.)

One thing I was certain of: My simple mention of the police had rattled that woman. She knew something about the butchered Candy Man, most likely something incriminating, and I wasn’t letting a source like that get away.

As soon as I rounded the bend in the hall, I spotted the lighted
Exit
sign thirty feet ahead. After Blondie dove through it, I picked up speed, dodged that housekeeping cart, and caught the steel fire door just before it clicked shut.

On the stairwell landing, I stopped, held my laboring breaths.

Footsteps echoed below me.

I took off again, heading down. This was a service staircase, and I assumed it would lead to a kitchen, a store room, or some kind of back alley door at street level. As fast as I could, I continued descending. When I hit the fourth-floor landing, I heard a stumbling sound below, followed by a hissed curse.

Got you!

At street level, I tried the exterior door, but it was firmly locked. That’s when I heard a new noise below me—a door opening and closing!

I hurried down two more flights, found an interior door marked
Staff Only.
Pushing through, I saw nothing but a green cinderblock wall, but the hot, dry air washing over me told me where I was—the hotel’s laundry.

I turned sharply and raced down a long concrete ramp. The stinging stench of bleach and soap grew stronger; the whir of machinery louder. When I finally hit the bare concrete floor, I faced a wall of giant washers and spinning dryers.

Despite the glaring fluorescent lights, much of the room was shrouded by mobile ceiling racks. Acres of dry-cleaned clothes hung like the vines and fruit of a plastic-covered rain forest.

A half-dozen workers were busy at the far end of this huge basement. Much closer, a slender woman stood beside a massive laundry bin on wheels. Her back was to me, but I could see the blue housekeeping uniform and dirty blond ponytail. This was the same maid I’d seen on the tenth floor!

Encouraged that she might have seen the woman in black or noticed what had happened with the corpse in Alicia’s room, I approached her. I doubted she could hear me coming with the noise of the washers and dryers. I didn’t want to startle her. So I reached out and gently touched her shoulder.

She whirled to face me
,
and that’s when I realized this wasn’t a
she
at all, but a scrawny skeleton of a man with watery blue eyes, a yellow-toothed snarl, and enough chin stubble to cover a saguaro cactus. Around his neck was a long nylon rope with a key card attached.

Boy, does this guy look wrong.
“You work here?” I yelled over the noise.

Immediately, he swung his fist, but I was already moving back from surprise, and his roundhouse just missed connecting with my left temple.

Before I could bolt, he brought his left into action—and there was more than a fist this time. A large, white object sailed toward my head. I dodged enough for the thing to wrap around one of the support poles for the dry-cleaning racks. The pole wavered, the rack trembled, and the dry cleaning swayed as the white thing burst open, scattering enough watches, rings, cash, iPhones, and gold jewelry to fill a Saudi prince’s birthday piñata.

That’s when I realized: the white thing was a pillow case; the booty inside was stolen; and the man in a maid’s uniform was a hotel burglar. Somewhere in my chase, I had lost the Blonde in Black and ended up following this creep!

The burglar cursed. I turned to run, but after three steps the man body-slammed me into that gigantic canvas laundry bin. The brakes must have been on because the bin’s wheels didn’t budge. Before I could turn and fight, he grabbed my legs and pitched me into it. I tumbled down, hitting the wooden base with a solid clunk.

For a second, I saw little stars dance. As my vision cleared, I rolled over and found myself staring up at two aluminum doors in the ceiling—just as they swung open.

Oh crap.

Soiled laundry tumbled out of the chute, and an avalanche of damp towels, rumpled blankets, and wrinkled sheets came down on me.
That jerk pressed the release button!

Furious, I tried to stand, but the crushing mass pushed me back to my knees. My arms windmilled, batting blankets aside, but the torrent of wool, silk, and cotton was too much. I was wrestling a textile octopus with a hundred tangling tentacles!

The whirring washers and dryers became muted, and my world grew decidedly smelly. Still, bad air was better than none. As the dark, suffocating pile grew heavier, I imagined an ignominious epitaph:
Beloved mother and coffeehouse manager smothered under a shroud of soiled bedclothes.

Oh, hell no!

Forcing my muscles into locomotion, I dug and dug, struggling against the mass like a swimmer pushing through black quicksand. I didn’t even know if I was making progress until I smashed my finger against the bin’s canvas wall.

“Son of a—!”

Hand stinging, I managed to trace the rough cloth to the top of the bin and grasp the edge. Using one, fast-weakening arm, I pulled myself up. I knew I was close to breaking out when the noise from the machines grew louder. Finally, my head emerged, and I was out of the underworld, although my face was still covered with a used hand towel. (
Ugh.
I could still smell the shaving cream.)