A Brew to a Kill (45 page)

I covered the urge to cough by slamming the glass down on the table.

“Okay, let’s talk,” I said, tossing my hair. “And FYI, sister. You’re negotiating with me.”

Dragon Lady’s eyes went wide. “Wow, pretty tough. And this one?” she gestured at Matt.

“He’s just an amusement, as long as it suits me.”

“I heard there’s another one at home. Things are pretty hot in the hot coffee business, eh?”

Dragon Lady downed her own glass and flipped her shoulder-length hair. “Oh, I like you. What’s that crazy name of yours again?”

“
Cosi
. And if you like me, you’ll like my connections even better. I have lots of little mice doing my dirty work, some on the inside at One Police Plaza. The police commissioner himself even likes my muffins!”

Matt choked on his lambanog.

I took a break, channeled more Franco. This time I was the one leaning across the table. “You listen up, honey. I don’t appreciate your lowlife cousin using my shipping connections. Not without adequate compensation.”

“You’ll be compensated,” Dragon Lady said. “And if we
make a long-term shipment deal, you’ll get rich, too. But we need to complete our test charge first.”

“What?” I said, a little slow on the uptake. (Matt was right, lambanog really did pack a wallop.)

“I want that
oxi
, girl!”

“Oh. Right. No problem. The crack is at the warehouse in Brooklyn. We’ll set up a time and—”

“Right
now
. Tonight,” she demanded. “I’m going to send your little boy toy to fetch our drugs, while you and I negotiate some more. When I have my
oxi
, you get a nice, big bag of cash and a ride back to Chinatown.”

“Can’t do that,” Matt said.

“Talking out of turn, you naughty boy,” Dragon Lady said, playfully slapping his wrist.

“No, I mean she’s in charge,” Matt said. “I can’t let you in because Boss Cosi is the only one who has the security codes for the warehouse.”

Matt was lying, but I understood his motive. He knew whoever remained here with Dragon Lady would face the most danger, and he didn’t want it to be me. I suspected Matt also knew (or at least hoped) that cops were watching the warehouse and would swoop in as soon as I arrived.

Dragon Lady ran a long, ebony fingernail along Matt’s forearm. “Oh, such a problem! What to do? What to do?” she cooed.

“Look. I’ll get your drugs,” I said, rising. “You stay and have fun with Matt. But don’t play rough. I may need him later.”

I
hated to leave the father of my daughter alone with that man-eater, but as Sully said, Matt was a big boy. And what choice did I have? Anyway, I had problems of my own.

Once again, I was shoved into the back of a stuffy van, blindfolded and handcuffed, though this time Dragon Lady’s boys handled me with a gentle touch. And with each passing minute, my anxiety mounted.

What would happen when we arrived at the warehouse? Would Mike’s men be there? Or would I be alone with Moustache Man and his pal, Balikbayan Boy?

I remembered my little old Chinatown cab driver, Mr. Jun Hon.
Size does not matter,
he’d said. Okay, so I didn’t have his black belt. What I had was a black blindfold! But I also had a half-decent brain, and Mr. Hon basically said it all came down to strategy. I had to find a way to turn my enemy’s strength against him.

That’s it. I’m not waiting to be rescued
.
I’m rescuing myself!

Somewhere along the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, I figured out what my enemy’s strength was. Like so many people who wield power, they maintained control over me by keeping me in the dark—and that was how I’d beat them.

I ran the scheme in my mind a dozen times, counting the steps, measuring the distance. By the time the van rolled into Matt’s warehouse parking lot, I was ready.

The engine died and the back door opened. My captor removed the handcuffs, then the blindfold. I rubbed my eyes to clear them. When I looked up, I realized I’d caught my first break of this very long day. Moustache Man had decided not to take this ride. I was alone with Balikbayan Boy, who was short, stocky, and muscular, but not nearly as formidable as Moustache Man.

“Let’s go,” Box Boy said, waving a handgun.

Okay
,
he’s armed. That’s a setback, but not unexpected. I have to try anyway, for Matt’s sake as much as my own
.

I hopped out of the van. Pretending to smooth the skirt of my dress, I scanned the area for any sign of a police presence, but saw nothing beyond the dark façades of silent buildings and the oily black water of the bay

Box Boy seemed nervous, too, and I hoped he didn’t have an itchy trigger finger. Before we crossed the shadowy parking lot, I extended my hand.

“I need the keys.”

Box Boy had Matt’s set in his possession. He’d used them to open the fence’s padlocked gate. Now he fumbled in the
pocket of his tight denims with one hand, while the other still gripped the wavering weapon.

Finally, he thrust the keys into my hand. Now came the hard part. I had to time things just right, judge the distance perfectly. My life depended on it.

Box Boy remained behind me as we approached the steel security door. That was fine. My plan relied on where he was looking, not where he was standing. I took a few more measured steps, my shoes clacking on the dew-damp pavement.

Almost time… Just another second… Another step…

“Up there!” I cried, pointing. “Someone’s on the roof!”

Box Boy looked up, directly into the sleeping halogen bulbs. I closed my own eyes to preserve night vision and took that final step. The motion detector did the rest. Box Boy cried out and threw his arm over his face to block the sudden brilliance.

How do you like that, Box Boy?! Your blindfold is darkness. Well, mine is light!

He howled again when I kicked him where I knew it would hurt the most. I heard the gun clatter to the pavement and I bolted for the gate.

I didn’t make it five feet before I blundered into a wall of muscle. I lashed out, swinging madly, until I saw dark silk, a spotless white shirt, a bow tie.

“Chill, Coffee Lady!” Franco said, taking hold of my arms. “It’s okay! You’re safe now.”

A group of uniformed police officers dashed by us. Under the halogen’s bright spot, two cops hauled Balikbayan Boy to his feet, while a third read him his rights.

“We have to hurry. She still has Matt,” I told Franco.

“Who’s she?”

“The Dragon Lady! She’s holding Matt hostage!”

Franco frowned. The police were dragging Box Boy across the parking lot to a waiting police cruiser. Franco stopped them.

“Where’s this lady’s partner?” His voice rumbled with menace.

The youth sneered. “I’m not saying nothing, and you’ll never pind him.”

“I already know where Matt is,” I shot back. “He’s in the basement of a happy house on Roosevelt Avenue, in Little Manila.”

Franco seized the back of Box Boy’s neck and pulled him close.

“Listen, kid. If I were you, I’d get in front of this. Judges like punks who cooperate, and the mandatory sentence for kidnapping, hostage taking, and drug running?” Franco shook his head. “You don’t want to know.”

“No way, dude,” Box Boy insisted. “I’m no rat pink.”

“How about we forget the accessory stuff and book this guy as the mastermind,” Franco called to the other cops.

“I’ll testify that the whole drug scheme was your idea,” I told him.

“Then it’s bye-bye for life.” Still gripping the youth by his neck, Franco pointed to the sky with his other hand. “Take your last look at the moon, ’cause you can’t see the sky from a maximum security cell.”

“Okay, okay,” Box Boy whined. “We’ll do a deal. I’ll talk.”

“Smart man,” Franco said, releasing him at last. “Start with an address.”

T
HE
drive from Brooklyn to Queens was like one of those nightmares where you’re trying to get somewhere but you can’t make any progress.

Before we boarded his SUV, Franco was on the phone to the precinct in Jackson Heights. The conversation continued on the BQE, all the way past the Brooklyn Bridge.

That’s where we hit our first snag—a multicar accident!

“I need to borrow your phone,” I told Franco.

Dante answered on the first ring. “Boss! I’ve been trying to reach you for the last half hour!”

“I got separated from my phone. What did you find out?”

“You were right about the Cloud. Nadine ran the remote download—”

“And—”

“We found everything,” Dante replied. “Josh made a mask of Gwen Fischer. And we found something else.”

“What?”

“Josh created a file called ‘Changing Lanes.’ Inside we found a comic written and drawn by Josh. It’s called
The Revenger
and the hero is a guy who wears masks to trick the
police and get even with wrongdoers. But these aren’t really stories, boss, they’re blueprints for the murders.

“Josh shows how he stole the truck, then ran over the plastic surgeon and Lilly Beth, too. He even storyboarded Helen’s murder, with
The Revenger
disguised as a doctor. This is the proof we needed to nail Josh and clear Gwen.”

“Call Detective Buckman. He needs to know,” I told Dante.

I knew Mad Max had two reasons to be pleased. Not only did we find the person who ran down Lilly Beth, that person also happened to be wealthy—rich enough, if civilly sued, to pay for the pain he’d inflicted on Lilly and her family.

As I ended the call, I realized we hadn’t moved an inch since I first dialed up Dante—and we were still miles from Little Manila!

Franco sensed my mad panic, but instead of trying to talk me down, he slapped a magnetic bubble light on the roof. Then he revved up his siren. Inside of a minute, the tide of traffic magically parted.

We hit a second snag on Roosevelt, less than a block from Amina’s Kitchenette. Roosevelt Avenue was blocked by a wall of flashing emergency lights. A half-dozen police cars were scattered about, and I saw a pair of fire trucks, too.

My heart nearly stopped when a wailing ambulance flew by in the opposite direction. Still a block from the maelstrom, I released my seat belt and popped open the door.

“Hold up, Coffee Lady!” Franco shouted.

But I was already racing toward the commotion. I reached a police line and tore right through the tape. A young cop yelled for me to stop, but I kept going. A moment later, I was surrounded by police and firemen.

Smoke poured out of the front door of a karaoke parlor. A slight whiff started my nose burning.
Tear gas.
A garage door beside the club was open, and cops emerged, pushing handcuffed men and a scantily-clad young women ahead of them.

“Matt! Matt, where are you?” I called.

Tears blurred my vision and I rubbed my eyes to clear
them—and that’s when I spied my partner. He was wrapped in a blanket, sitting alone on the curb beside a fire truck.

“Matt! Over here!”

This time he heard me and rose to his feet. We met in the middle of the street and fell into each other’s arms.

“You’re okay!” I cried. “Oh, thank you, God!”

He dabbed at his raw, red eyes. “I was crazy scared for you, Clare. Are you all right?”

“Absolutely,” I said, still clinging to him. “Just another fun Friday night in NYC.”

Suddenly we both sagged under the weight of heavy arms. The last time I’d been in a group hug, Franco had initiated it. But when I looked up, it was Mike Quinn pulling us into a three-way.