Decaffeinated Corpse (26 page)

Authors: Cleo Coyle

Tags: #Mystery And Suspense Fiction, #General, #Fiction, #Detective, #Mystery, #Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, #Fashion, #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction - Mystery, #Mystery & Detective - General, #Coffeehouses, #Suspense, #Women Sleuths, #Cosi; Clare (Fictitious character), #Mystery fiction, #Restaurants - Employees

BOOK: Decaffeinated Corpse

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Red was also the color of blood, and I remembered the blood on the sidewalk. I looked for it on the shadowy pavement. But the dark stain was gone, washed away, I presumed, by the storm. When I looked up again, a strange, dense mist was sweeping toward me. Like those earlier clouds that enveloped the Beekman Tower, it encircled my body, blotting out everything.

“Mommy?”

The voice came to me, sweet and young. It was Joy’s voice, from years ago. Had I imagined it?

“Mommy, I’m here.”

I felt the smallness of her hand as it gripped my shoulder. I turned quickly, but no one was there. “Joy?!” I called, rubbing my arms. Alone on the street, I shivered, aware the damp night had grown colder.

“I’m up here, Mom!”

Joy’s voice again, but she wasn’t close anymore. She sounded older, angrier, much farther away. “I’m falling!” She was high above me now. I could hear her voice, near the Top of the Tower, beyond the fog.

“I’m falling, Mom!”

Frantically, I searched the misty ceiling. But there was no sign of her. No movement, no colorful points of light to guide my way north to her.

“Mom!”

“I’ll catch you, Joy!” I promised, running up and down the block, my arms outstretched. “I’ll catch you!”

I slammed into something—a solid wall. As I reeled backward, a woman stepped out in front of me, right out of the mist. She stood and stared.

“It’s me, Clare.”

“Ellie?”

It was Ellie Lassiter, but not the Ellie I’d met at the Botanic Garden. It was the Ellie I’d known years ago, when we’d been friends, with her long strawberry blond hair lifting on a breeze, her freckled smile wide. It was Ellie when she’d been young and happy . . . and alive.

“Catch him, Clare,” she urged me. “Please, catch him.”

I heard a vehicle racing up the avenue. I turned to see a pair of headlights cutting through the mist. The pale, weak beams grew stronger, then came the vehicle itself, a black SUV. It passed through the fog like a phantom, coming into view, then vanishing again.

I turned back to the sidewalk. Ellie was gone.

I opened my eyes.

A toy piano was playing “Edelweiss.” Still fuzzy from the dream, it took me a few seconds to realize I wasn’t listening to a child tapping out my favorite tune from
The Sound of Music
, but the ringtone of my cell phone.

I pulled it from the pocket of my black slacks, flipped it open. “Hello?”

“Clare, it’s me.”

“Where are you?”

“Out front. Let me in.”

It was more of a command than a request, but I wasn’t going to stand on ceremony with Mike Quinn at two in the morning.

“Okay. Give me a minute.”

The lights were off downstairs because the Village Blend was closed. I’d been working in my second floor office when I grew chilly, lit a fire in the hearth, and dozed off on an overstuffed armchair. The dream I’d had was disturbing, but Mike was here and I focused on that.

Rising from the armchair, I groaned, my back stiff from the twisted way I’d been napping. Rubbing the tendons in my neck, I descended the customer staircase, a spiral of wrought iron that led right down to the first floor coffee bar.

Matt and Ric were still in police custody, and I’d had no idea what to do, other than wait for Quinn to get in touch. Breanne had run off to call one of her attorney friends, and I’d thanked her for any way she could help.

As for me, once the Midtown detectives finished questioning my staff, I returned with them to the Blend. Because of the launch party, we’d closed the coffeehouse for the night, but I still had to properly stow the French presses, cups, and the unused roasted beans. I was behind on paperwork, too, and the next day was Saturday, one of our busiest. I knew the morning would be here all too soon.

“Are you okay?”

Quinn’s first words. I was glad they were personal.

“Yes,” I said. “Just a little stiff.”

“It’s freezing tonight, don’t let in the cold.”

He looked weary but still alert. His blue eyes were sharp, though the dark smudges under them told me he hadn’t slept in a long time. His sandy brown hair was tossed by the wind, and his jawline was rough with stubble.

We headed upstairs, back to the second floor, where my fire was still burning. Quinn declined coffee, said he needed to power nap and get up early. The investigation was in high gear, but before heading back to his East Village flat, he wanted to check in with me, see how I was, and ask me a few questions.

Of course
, I thought,
I’m part of your case now. Well, that’s okay, because I have a few questions for you, too.

“What’s going on with Matt?” I asked as he shed his trench coat and threw it over a chair. “Where is he? Why are you charging him with Ellie’s murder?”

“Slow down, Clare. Nobody’s charging Matt with murder.” He settled into the overstuffed sofa, across from the hearth. “We’re actually done questioning him at the Sixth, but Midtown wanted him for questioning in the Hernandez murder.”

“The man was murdered then? For sure?” I paced back and forth, in front of the fire.

“The autopsy results aren’t in yet, but there’s evidence the man’s clothes were torn before he went over the balcony. It looks like he struggled with someone before taking the plunge.”

“And your colleagues in Midtown think Matt did it?”

“They know he was angry at Hernandez and threatened him physically. It doesn’t look good, but they’re going to need more than that to get the DA to charge him. They also know Ric Gostwick had a motive, although no one at the party remembers seeing him go out on the balcony.”

“What about Ellie? What happened to her, Mike?”

He held my eyes a moment, then looked away, into the flames. “I shouldn’t discuss the details . . .”

“Please. You know I was her friend.”

“I know.”

“And you know you can trust me . . . don’t you?”

Mike rubbed his eyes for a long, silent minute. “She was found naked,” he said quietly, “although it looked like she’d had a bath towel around her and had just finished showering. No sexual assault. The physical evidence leads us to believe that she’d made love with someone in the room’s bed, showered, and then was attacked. She struggled—there are signs of it on her body. We’ve got blood and tissue under her fingernails. We’ve got a contusion at the base of her skull, and hairs and bits of blood on the edge of a heavy chest of drawers where it appears she struck her head.”

“Oh, god.”

“That’s enough—”

“No! Please, keep going, Mike . . . How did you find her body . . . you know, when you first came into the room? Was it near the chest of drawers where you found the bits of blood and hair?”

“No . . . we found her . . . I’m sorry, Clare, we found her hanging by an electrical cord from the shower curtain rod.”

“What?”

“The killer tried to make it look like she’d hung herself. He did a piss poor job of it, too. We didn’t need an autopsy to see that hanging wasn’t the cause of death, that the scene had been clumsily manipulated.”

“You said
he
. Are you sure it was a man?”

“The injuries, the way the body was hung. If it wasn’t a man, it was a pretty strong woman.”

I thought of Monika Van Doorn . . . the woman looked tall and strong, all right. And she’d arrived well after Ric. Could she have gone to Ric’s room, looking for him, found Ellie, and flown into a rage? I told Quinn as much. He pulled out his detective’s notebook and jotted down her name for follow up. I mentioned Norbert Usher, too, Ellie’s slightly creepy Eddie Haskell-esque assistant.

“Norbert was at the Beekman event, too. I remember seeing him there.”

He scribbled the name.

“And while that notebook’s out,” I continued. “I have something else to tell you.”

“Shoot,” he said. His eyes found mine. “Not literally.”

“Don’t even
try
to make this easier.”

“Tell me.”

I gave him the condensed tale of what I’d discovered earlier in the week—how I’d talked to Ellie at the Botanic Garden, followed her to the V Hotel, saw her meeting Rick, but also saw a man tailing her.

Mike sat up straighter. “Where did you follow him?”

“An agency near the United Nations. They’re called Worldwide Private Investigations, and I spoke to a Mr. Anil Kapoor.”

“Spell it all for me . . .”

Mike wrote everything down. “This is a solid lead, Clare. I’ll phone my partner. We’ll go there first thing in the morning.”

“I want to go with you. Mr. Kapoor will remember me. He’ll probably be more willing to talk once he sees I’m your witness.”

“Okay.”

“And one more thing. Have you looked at Ellie’s husband as a suspect?”

“We always do in cases like this, as a matter of course, but Jerry Lassiter has an alibi.”

“Well, look hard at that alibi—and any associates Lassiter might have hired to hurt his wife—because Worldwide Private Investigations lists TerraGreen International as a client.”

“TerraGreen?” Mike flipped through his notebook.

“That’s the company where Lassiter’s a VP.”

“That’s right . . . so how
could you
pick up Matt?” I heard myself snapping. I couldn’t help it. I was extremely tired, it was very late, and my feelings toward Quinn had been a mixed bag for a long time. “Do you really believe he had anything to do with something so awful?”

“Let’s leave my assessment of your ex’s character out of this, okay?” His tone was strained now, too, and a little defensive. “I had enough circumstantial evidence to grill him, and you know it. The hotel room was registered in his name, and his clothes were there. We even found his monogrammed handkerchief.”

“Ric borrowed those clothes!”

“We know. We know the whole story now, Matt gave us every detail. It was Ric’s room, and Ric was having an affair with Ellie.”

“So Matt’s off your ‘persons of interest’ list?”

“We won’t get DNA results for a while, but we already have a blood type on the tissue under her fingernails. It’s not Matt’s type.”

“What about Ric?”

“It’s not Ric’s, either. He’s the same type as Matt. Neither man appeared to have been the person Ellie Lassiter struggled with before she died.”

“So Ric and Matt are both off the hook?” I pressed.

“For Ellie,” Mike said. “But not for Hernandez. Midtown’s making the call on charging someone for that . . . it could be Matt or Ric . . . or neither.”

“Oh, god . . .”

“You’ll know soon, Clare. They won’t hold those guys long. They can’t. Habeas corpus, you know? And they won’t dare make a charge until they know the DA can make it stick in court. Just hang in there.”

I sighed, rubbed my neck, which was still sore.

“Come here,” Mike said quietly. “Sit down, try to relax.”

I sat next to him. He put one strong hand on my neck, used his fingers to gently loosen the muscles.

“Oh, Mike . . . that feels good . . .”

The warmth of the fire felt good, too, and the warmth of Mike’s strong leg against mine. I closed my eyes. My hand lightly settled on top of his thigh. The moment I touched him, I heard his sharp breath. I opened my eyes. This wasn’t a dream. Mike was really here. He was bending toward me, his mouth covering mine. The kiss was sweet and hungry and a little desperate for both of us.

I wasn’t the one to break off first.

Mike stared into the glowing hearth, put his arm around me, tucked me close against him. “Let’s take it slow,” he said.

“I like the sound of
let’s
. . . you know, you and me . . . plural.”

Mike laughed. “I like the sound of it, too, Clare. But I want it to be right between us . . . long and slow and beautiful, not here . . . not like this.”

“You mean not with two unsolved murders on the table and my ex-husband in custody?”

“Yeah . . .” He exhaled. “You know my personal life’s been in flux. God . . .” He cursed softly. “Why mince words? It’s been a hell of a mess for a long time. I never wanted to bring you into my mess. I didn’t think it was fair. And now I’m living like a college kid again, out of my old home, into this spare apartment . . .”

I smiled. “How spare?”

“Nothing I want you to see.”

“Come on, how bad could it be? A mattress on the floor? A bare lightbulb.”

“Close, Cosi. Very close.”

“Well, you could always ask me to help you decorate the place. I’m not bad at it, you know?”

“I don’t want you to be my interior decorator, Clare. I want you . . .” His voice trailed off. “I just want you.”