Espresso Shot (26 page)
Authors: Cleo Coyle
Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Detective, #Mystery, #Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction - Mystery, #Coffeehouses, #Suspense, #Women Sleuths, #Cosi; Clare (Fictitious character), #Mystery fiction, #Divorced people, #Brides, #Weddings, #New York (N.Y.), #Brides - Crimes against, #Cookery (Coffee), #Attempted murder
“Why would this Winslow be interested in Breanne’s wedding rings? What’s he going to do? Break down their chemical composition? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Things always make sense, Clare, once all the facts are in.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a bright-orange color coming toward us, a cheerful hue, like freshly peeled carrots. A wiry man, attached to the conspicuous shade, entered the room. He was a head shorter than Quinn, his perfectly pitched tenor trumped by a heavy Queens accent.
“Is this the office of the deceased?”
Quinn turned to me. “Clare, meet one of the detectives I’m working with, Sergeant Sullivan. That’s
Finbar
Sullivan, so you can see why we call him Sully.”
Finbar
Sullivan, so you can see why we call him Sully.”
Sullivan’s face was open and friendly. I met his eyes and smiled. “I think Finbar is a perfectly fine name. Very Celtic.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not so hot when you’re growing up in Ozone Park. That’s John Gotti country, land of Tonys and Vinnies. But thanks,” he said, then leaned toward me and cupped a hand over his mouth. “I can see why the big guy here’s fallen for you. You say the sweetest things.”
“Don’t flirt with my girl, Sully.”
Sully threw me a wink anyway, then turned to Quinn. “I saw the victim, Mike. She was thin.
Real
thin. You think drunkorexia?”
Real
thin. You think drunkorexia?”
“Drunk-a-what-ia?” I asked.
Quinn glanced at me. “It’s not an official medical term, just shorthand for a relatively new condition: a combination of addiction like binge drinking, and eating disorders like anorexia. We usually see it in younger women, college age. The girls starve themselves to be thin, often abuse drugs, and consume alcohol as pretty much their only sustenance. Once they start, they have a life expectancy of about five years.”
“It’s crazy, all right.” Sully shook his head. “These girls won’t put an olive in their mouth, but they got no problem sucking down the martini it came with.” He turned to his partner. “You want me to secure the scene. Right, Mike?”
“Bag up Ms. Purcell’s personal effects and all the prescription bottles you can find. We’ll check them for residue. Prints. I’ll get back to you soon. I’m going to get Ms. Cosi out of here and swing by the Sixth for notification.”
“I hate that part.” Sully’s light mood suddenly vanished. “Okay, Mike, I’ll cover things here.”
As we left Monica’s office and walked down the hall, I touched Quinn’s arm. “What’s notification?”
Quinn stared straight ahead. “When I tell the next of kin what happened to their loved one, that’s notification.”
“Oh.”
The reception room was nearly empty now and eerily still. Two uniformed police officers stood at the front desk. The magazine’s art director was sitting behind it. The tall East Indian woman with long dark hair was sobbing into a handkerchief.
As we moved to exit through the glass doors, one of the uniforms called out, “Lieutenant? A word.”
Quinn looked at me. “I need a few minutes.”
“Go. I’ll wait.”
The glass doors opened a moment later, and Matt walked in. “Hey! Clare! What a morning I had! You won’t believe it!”
I blinked.
“Just look at me,” he said. “I’m dripping wet.”
Dark stains marred his white cotton button-down.
“It happened right outside, at Columbus Circle.” Matt threw up his hands. “Thea Van Harben walked up to me and assaulted me with her Starbucks—insult to injury, huh? I’m lucky I didn’t get second-degree burns.”
I closed my eyes. “What did you do
now
, Matt?”
now
, Matt?”
“Nothing! I swear! Thea just said, ‘You threw your wedding plans in my face, so I’m throwing this into yours.’ And she let me have it. But, Clare, I swear I never mentioned my wedding plans to her. I haven’t even seen the woman since . . .” he shrugged. “You know? I can’t even remember.”
“Matt, something’s happened here—”
Before I could finish, he’d already looked past me and seen the policemen. His face went from perplexed amusement to stricken in less than a second.
“What’s going on? Why is Petra crying? Is Breanne all right?”
He moved to get around me, but I caught his arm. “It’s Monica Purcell, Breanne’s former assistant. She overdosed on prescription medication, Matt. She’s dead.”
“My God, what about Bree? Is she okay? Where is she?”
“She’s not here. She’s working at home this morning. Didn’t she tell you?”
“No. She told me she had a dermatology appointment.”
Dermatology?
That sounded odd to me until the light went on. Breanne had said something to Roman in Fen’s fitting room about having “work done” before the wedding.
That sounded odd to me until the light went on. Breanne had said something to Roman in Fen’s fitting room about having “work done” before the wedding.
“I’ve got to find Breanne,” Matt said.
I noticed Quinn walking toward us. He nodded stiffly. “Allegro.”
Matt’s greeting was about as warm. “Quinn.”
“Matt,” I said, “before you bolt to find your bride, we all need to talk.”
“About what?”
I gestured to the uniformed police and the sobbing Petra. “Not out here.”
Matt nodded. “There’s a conference room we can use. I know where it is. Come on . . .”
As Matt led Quinn and me past a line of cubicles to a glass door, he pulled out his cell phone and rang Breanne to make sure she was okay. It was a short call, and he quickly signed off. I noticed he hadn’t informed her about Monica. Before I could ask, he volunteered, “I’m not telling Bree over the phone. After we’re done here, I’ll head straight for her place.”
I nodded, pleased to hear Matteo Allegro was going to take care of the woman he was about to marry—but then my ex always had been a very loving man. (That was his problem, really, he loved women a little too much.)
“She’s bound to be pretty upset,” I said.
“I know.”
The meeting room was large, with buff leather executive chairs, a huge conference table, and a panoramic view of the city skyline. Quinn put his back to the view. I sat down across from him, and Matt shut the door.
“Okay. What’s going on?” Matt demanded.
He crossed to take the chair at the head of the conference table, and I brought him up to speed, telling him about the attempted theft of Nunzio’s rings and the suspicious-looking man who’d popped up two times in two days, looking out of place, the second time shortly before Monica Purcell’s body was found. I told him about Winslow and the possible connections between Monica’s drug habit, her interest in the wedding rings, and the questionable timing of her death.
Matt rubbed the back of his neck. He looked confused. “What do you mean, ‘questionable’ timing? I thought you said she died from an overdose of prescription medication.”
“She could have. But the prescriptions are bogus and appear to be illegal. And given the kind of people she’s gotten herself involved with, I’m betting the drugs she took this morning were purposely tainted.”
“Hmmm.” Quinn’s eyebrows lifted. “That actually makes sense, Clare.”
“Then don’t look so surprised.”
Quinn folded his arms. “You’re on a roll. Go on.”
“Okay. So the key to this whole mess really comes down to this chemist, this Stuart Winslow.”
Matt closed his eyes. “Wait a minute! What chemist?”
“I’ll lay it out again, Matt, slower this time. But you have to pay attention and try to keep up.”
Quinn cleared his throat—or stifled a laugh—or both. I couldn’t tell which. I cleared my own throat and turned to Matt again.
“We know that Monica phoned a chemist named Stuart Winslow. I overheard the call. So we know that Winslow cared very much about when Nunzio’s rings were arriving and what was going to happen to them. We know Monica witnessed Breanne giving the rings to Roman, who vowed to keep them with him at all times until the wedding. Then robbers targeted Roman that very night, and they knew he was holding valuable rings. But the robbery went bad, they didn’t get the rings, and Monica conveniently died right before we were going to interrogate her about what she knew.”
Matt leaned back in his chair. “Jeez.”
“I don’t know who this Stuart Winslow is, or how he’s connected to Monica—or even Breanne for that matter—but I’m almost positive he had something to do with the robbery attempt and maybe even Monica’s death.” I glanced at Quinn, relieved to see him nodding in agreement.
Matt scratched the back of his head. “But if this Winslow guy is the one who tried to run Breanne over, and he also tried to gun her down on Monday night, then what was the point? Why does he want my fiancée dead?”
I drummed my fingers on the table then stilled when it hit me. “Maybe it was
Monica
who wanted Breanne dead. Maybe she and Winslow were working together, even sleeping together—”
Monica
who wanted Breanne dead. Maybe she and Winslow were working together, even sleeping together—”
“
Maybe
isn’t going to solve this, Clare,” Quinn interrupted.
Maybe
isn’t going to solve this, Clare,” Quinn interrupted.
“No,” I said. “It’s up to us to get to the bottom of it.”
“How?” Matt asked.
I met Quinn’s eyes. “I have an idea . . .”
TWENTY-TWO
STUART Allerton Winslow lived in The Residential, a massive, prewar apartment building along Seventy-second Street. It was the kind of place that featured all the amenities: solid construction, firewalls and soundproofing, working fireplaces, a twenty-four-hour doorman, a laundry room, and a health club in the basement.
The Residential sat between Broadway and Central Park West, just a few blocks away from the steepled facade of The Dakota, the Gothic-Victorian landmark building where John Lennon was shot to death, and a pebble’s throw from Strawberry Fields, a quiet area of Central Park dedicated to the memory of the murdered recording artist.
We couldn’t see Strawberry Fields from our current location. We couldn’t even see outside. In the stairwell of The Residential, between the ninth and tenth floors, the window-panes were glazed to admit only light. The thick walls and steel-frame construction muted the city sounds, too, so the stairwell was eerily quiet, except for the insistent voice of Detective Mike Quinn.
“This is a bad idea, Clare. I can have a female detective here inside of twenty minutes. Let her do the heavy lifting. That’s what she’s trained for.”
I shook my head so vigorously I got a warning from Sergeant Sullivan.
“Don’t move or you’ll mess me up here,” Sully said. “And lift your blouse a little higher, please.”
He was kneeling beside me, taping a long wire to my bare midriff. Sullivan’s hands were warm, but the tape was cold, and there was a draft, too. I shivered.
“Listen, Mike,” I said. “No stranger can walk in there and pull this off. This Winslow has to believe that I’m a friend of Monica’s for the plan to work. He saw me in Fen’s during Breanne’s fitting and again today, at
Trend
’s office. He’ll believe my story, because he’s seen me around Monica, and
Trend
.”
Trend
’s office. He’ll believe my story, because he’s seen me around Monica, and
Trend
.”
“You’ve told me this already. The only trouble is, we don’t know if this big guy you’ve seen is actually Winslow—”
“Excuse me, there, Ms. Cosi, but this microphone part has to go a little, er, higher.” Sully looked up at his partner. “Maybe you should do it, Mike.”
Sully stood up and turned around while Mike ran the thin wire through my bra and tucked the tiny microphone between my breasts. I shivered again, only this time it wasn’t the cold. I tried to catch Mike’s eye, but he avoided my gaze.
“Cover up, Cosi,” he murmured.
I dropped my blouse, and Sully faced us again. The sergeant was wearing headphones, and he handed another headset to Quinn. Then he touched a button on the digital recorder. “Say something, Ms. Cosi.”
I locked eyes with Quinn. “This will work. I know it.”
“Loud and clear.” Sully grinned.
Quinn crossed his arms. “What if you’re wrong, Clare? What if Winslow’s
not
the man you saw outside of Fen’s and again this morning? You couldn’t ID the guy from the driver’s license photo I pulled up from the state’s database.”
not
the man you saw outside of Fen’s and again this morning? You couldn’t ID the guy from the driver’s license photo I pulled up from the state’s database.”
“It was an eighteen-year-old photo and blurry.” The man in the picture was a lot thinner than the one I’d seen, and his hair was a lot longer, but he was the right age, had the same color hair and eyes. His nose was wrong, too, but he could have broken it sometime after the photo was taken.
Quinn exhaled. He still wasn’t happy.
“Listen to me, Mike, even if Winslow isn’t the man I saw, he might be one of the men who robbed the underground restaurant last night. If that’s the case, then he saw me with Roman, and he knows I’m not a cop.”
“And what if he’s not one of the robbers, either?”
I shrugged. “I’ll just have to work a little harder to be convincing.”
“Can’t fault her spirit,” Sergeant Sullivan said.
“Shut up, Sully.”
“Hey, Mike,” Sully replied, “I’m just saying that if this guy is selling deadly drugs without a prescription, then it’s our job to stop him. Ms. Cosi is just doing her civic duty to help keep the streets of our fair city safe from predators.”
Other books
At the Edge of the Sun by Anne Stuart
Rednecks 'N' Roses by Mays, Judy
The Life and Crimes of Bernetta Wallflower by Lisa Graff
Wallflower by William Bayer
Young Zorro by Diego Vega
Desolate, Book I of the Immortal Rose Trilogy by Amy Miles
Horseman of the Shadows by Bradford Scott
Dark Places by Kate Grenville
Fire Point by Sean Black
