Decaffeinated Corpse (8 page)

Read Decaffeinated Corpse Online

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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Matt approached me with a warm bowl of his
carne con café
, a coffee-infused beef stew. He’d adapted the recipe from a traditional Mayan dish, which he’d enjoyed on one of his trips to El Salvador.
“Mmmmm . . .” I murmured, “smells like sustenance.”
I dug in with gusto, appreciating the tang of the garlicky tomatoes and the brightness of the poblanos against the earthy combination of beef and coffee. Matt had placed a hunk of crusty French bread on top of the bowl. I dipped the bread in the thick, meaty gravy, and tore off a sloppy mouthful.
“How long have you been back?” I mumbled through my less-than-ladylike chomping.
“A little over an hour,” Matt said. “I saw your cop boyfriend through the Blend’s windows, so we came up through the alley entrance.”
“He’s not my boyfriend . . . and did you just say
we
?”
“Ric and I.”
“Ric’s here?”
“He’s upstairs, in my bedroom.”
“They didn’t admit him at the hospital?”
“His scan checked out okay. No hemorrhaging. They wanted to admit him for observation, but he refused, and I wouldn’t let him go back to his hotel.”
“So we can keep an eye on him? Or because of the stolen keycard?” I asked.
“Both.”
“Keeping an eye on him is easy. What about the keycard? Can the hotel change the locks?”
“They already have.”
Matt moved to one of the windows, pushed back the sheers. Peering past the flower boxes, he surveyed the shadowy street. “Ric notified the Marriott before we left for the ER—”
“So that’s why you lent him your cell phone?”
Matt nodded. “Tomorrow I’m going with him to his hotel. I’m checking him out of that midtown location and bringing him downtown, closer to us.”
“Where exactly?”
“There are a few hotels I used to use regularly before I moved in here. I’ll find out who has vacancies and check him in under my name.”
“Who’s after him, Matt?”
“I don’t know.”
Matt stalked to the fireplace, grabbed a poker, and adjusted the crackling log. The night was cold, the stairwell downright chilly. I was glad he’d warmed the living room with the modest blaze.
“Not a clue? Come on?”
“Ric’s still pretending this is nothing serious, but he admitted to me in the ER waiting room that he felt as if someone’s been following him.”
“Has he seen anyone? Man, woman, old, young, large, small—”
“Just footsteps behind him, sometimes he’ll catch a shadow. He’s actually been in the city about three weeks, but it wasn’t until this past week that he started receiving a number of strange calls at his hotel.”
I sat up straighter. “What kind of calls? Someone with a mechanical voice again?”
“No. Whoever was calling just hung up when Ric answered.”
“So someone’s been watching him? Waiting for a chance to strike?”
“That’s what I think. Even though he still claims tonight was a random mugging, he’s agreed to stay here, as a precaution. He’s had a pretty rough night. I think he’s already asleep.”
“In your bed?”
“Yes, of course.”
I tensed. “And where were you planning to sleep?”
A year ago, Matt had thought that because we were sharing the same apartment, we would also, when the whim struck us, be sharing the same bed.
“I’ll be sleeping here, Clare, on the couch.”
“Oh . . . okay.” My relief must have been more than a little obvious because Matt’s brow knitted.
“What did you think I was going to say?”
“Nothing.”
He studied me a moment. “I see . . . you thought I was going to suggest—”
“Forget it.”
I set down the nearly empty bowl of stew, rubbed the back of my neck. The stress of the last five hours—from those bottomless-cup law students to Mike Quinn’s downright torturous flirtation—had tightened my muscles into hard, angry knots. It was almost unbearable and I closed my eyes, dreaming of that jasmine bath I was too tired to draw.
Matt stepped closer. “You look tense.”
“I am.”
He moved behind me, settling his hands on my shoulders. “Are you sure you didn’t want me to suggest some other sleeping arrangements?”
His voice had gone low and soft, his mood switching from edgy to seductive with the smoothness of a veteran Formula One driver shifting gears on a high-performance sports car. The effect wasn’t aggressive or sleazy. With Matt, it never was. His seductions were always tender and sincere, which is why he always got to me.
He began a slow, expert kneading. I closed my eyes and my tight muscles seemed to sigh. They wanted more, even if I didn’t—not from Matt anyway. It was Detective Quinn I wanted. The flirting wasn’t enough anymore. Now that Mike was separated, I wanted him to cross that invisible fence we’d both been dancing on for over a year.
As my mind recalled Mike’s intense blue gaze, his caring touches, my body became more pliant beneath my ex-husband’s hands. I released a soft moan and shifted, leaning forward to give him more access. Matt
was
familiar and convenient, his warmth a tempting offering on this cold October night.
His hands moved lower, down my spine. Gently, he pulled up my shirt, reached beneath it to caress my lower back. But as my ex continued to make my tendons sing, it slowly occurred to me that I was doing exactly what Matt had done during our ten year marriage.
The one-night stands hadn’t meant anything, he’d claimed. They were just physical workouts, temporary warmth on lonely nights, substitutes—apparently—for me.
Wasn’t I contemplating the same thing now, substituting one man for another? Did I really want to cavalierly sleep with an ex-husband who was very publicly involved with another woman?
Wake up, Clare!
I opened my eyes. “No . . .” I said. “I mean . . .
yes
, Matt, I’m sure you should sleep on the couch.”
“But you thought of the other option, right?” Matt mellifluously pointed out, his hands continuing to rub. “It entered your mind.”
The definition for mental health also entered my mind. It did not include walking down the same road and falling into the same hole, over and over again.
I still vividly remembered the last time I’d fallen into the Matt hole. Yes, I’d climbed out quickly enough the next morning, but this time was going to be different. This time, I could actually avoid the hole altogether.
“Matt, don’t.” I turned to meet his eyes, make it clear. “We’re partners in business now, but that’s all we are. I’m sure we shouldn’t be sharing the same bed, okay?”
With a shrug, Matt removed his magic hands from my body. My still-aching muscles immediately cursed me as he turned back to the fireplace, which would definitely be providing him with more warmth than me tonight.
“Let’s get back to Ric, okay?” I said.
“What do you want to know?”
Matt’s tone was even.
Good.
I quietly exhaled, infinitely relieved there wouldn’t be any residual hostility from my rejection. “I know you’ve known the man a long time, but . . .”
“But what?”
“Are you certain you can trust him?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well . . .”
How do I put this?
“Mike said a man who doesn’t want to report a crime is usually a criminal himself.”
“Mike said.”
I grimaced.
One stupid back massage and my guard’s completely down.
“You broke our deal!”
“Calm down, Matt—”
“You told him about the mugging!”
Yep. He’s definitely over the romantic thing now.
“Matt, listen. Mike Quinn already knew.”
“Like hell.”
“Tucker told him.”
“Tucker!”
“Don’t you remember? When Quinn came in and sat down at the coffee bar? We never warned Tucker not to say anything. He mentioned the mugging. So . . . since Quinn already knew all about it, I figured—”
“You figured you’d discuss everything with him! What can I expect tomorrow morning, a forensics unit at our back door?”
“Don’t get crazy. Quinn’s not saying a word. He couldn’t anyway. There’s no mugging if the victim refuses to go on the record that there was one. And I don’t know why Ric is so reluctant to ask the police for help. Obviously, someone means him harm—”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Clare.”
“Enlighten me then. You’re obviously keeping me in the dark about something, what is it? Tell me, Matt.”
“Why? So you can call up the flatfoot to discuss it?”
I might have come up with a decent retort at that moment, but the phone rang. Matt and I had become so used to getting calls on our cells that the land line’s ringing on the end table startled us both into dead silence.
A beat later, we both reached for it, but I was closer.
“Hello?” I said.
“Hello?”
Female.
“Yes?” I said.
“I’m looking for Matt.”
The superior attitude (and not bothering to waste any time greeting me) would have told me who she was, even if I hadn’t recognized her slightly nasal voice—no doubt the result of looking down her long, thin nose at nearly everything for decades.
I held out the receiver. “It’s Breanne.”
Matt could have stepped away with the wireless handset, but he didn’t bother. He just stood in front of me, close enough for me to hear every word of hers as well as his.
“What’s up?” Matt checked his wristwatch. “It’s after midnight.”
Laughter followed on the other end of the line. “Matteo, you’re getting old.”
“We’re the same age, Bree, and it’s Tuesday night.”
“
Bishoujo
is launching a new fragrance. Those Japanese designers really know how to party. The event’s still going strong at Nobu—”
“Sorry, I’m done in.”
“Oh, darling, so am I! You know I’m just teasing. How did that little tasting of yours go with Federico?”
“It . . .” Matt hesitated. “Fine . . . it went fine.”
“Good. He’s such a charmer, just like you. . . . So you’re obviously free now. That’s why I had my driver swing by to pick you up.”
“Pick me up?”
“We’re parked right downstairs, next to the Blend.”
“I’m not dressed—”
“Good.” Throaty laughter followed. “That’s the way I like you—”
Matt glanced at me, his face actually registering a flash of embarrassment. He turned away then, taking the wireless handset across the room. As he continued the conversation (which sounded to my ears more like an argument), I moved to the window, pulled back the sheers, and looked down into the street.
A black Town Car was parked beside the curb. A tall, blond woman was pacing back and forth, a cigarette in one hand, a cell phone in the other. The editor-in-chief of
Trend
magazine looked every inch the chic-meister. A stunning claret and black gown hugged her model-slender figure, a sleek sable wrap caressed one creamy shoulder, rubies dripped from her ears, and her upswept hair boasted an elaborate salon-designed tower that shouted labor-intensive do.
“Bree insists I come back with her,” Matt told me upon hanging up.
“Well . . .” I shrugged, folded my arms. “You have to admit, a king-size penthouse bed with five-hundred-dollar sheets is a lot more comfortable than a narrow antique sofa.”
“Yeah.”
There wasn’t much enthusiasm in my ex-husband’s tone. It sounded more like obligation, and I wondered what was going on in his head. For almost a year Matt had been squiring the woman to launch parties, political fundraisers, and charitable events. Their photos had been splashed in
Gotham
,
Town and Country
, and the
Post
’s “Page Six.” The publicity was a great boost to Matt’s profile as he expanded our business. Yet, over the summer, he’d told me that he and Breanne were just “casual,” and he had no intention of becoming enmeshed in her life.
As summer turned into fall, however, it seemed to me that Breanne was becoming increasingly manipulative and demanding. My ex-husband may have been using Bree for her connections, but she appeared to be exacting a price.
After hanging up, Matt went upstairs and returned with a small gym bag. He hadn’t bothered to pack a change of clothes, just underwear and toiletries. Obviously, he had no intention of staying very long at Breanne Summour’s penthouse.
“See you tomorrow, hon—” he began, then corrected himself as he pulled open the door. “Sorry. I meant Clare.”

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