Murder by Mocha (8 page)

Mike told me he preferred the seat because with one quick half turn, his back was protected by the wall, and he had a view of the entire coffeehouse, including the spiral staircase to the second floor, and the front door. (Such was the fiction of a coffee “break” for an officer of the NYPD.)

I got the same hypervigilant vibe from this older man.

“What’s up, Tuck?”

“This is Mr. . . . Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

“Bob,” the man said.

Even sitting down, he impressed me as tall with a highly sketchable profile: prominent nose, jutting jaw, and the sort of interesting crevices that begged further exploration. He seemed solidly built for his age (late sixties, seventies maybe?). His eyes were bluish gray, an autumn sky before a storm, with unruly white brows suggesting the wisdom of Socrates.

I would have warmed to him immediately apart from two things: his scrutiny for one. That stormy gaze was boring into me like a TSA agent with an itchy Taser finger.

The bone-colored scar was my other concern—the jagged line mapped a path from his left ear, across part of his cheek, disappearing somewhere under his chin. While some kind of accident might have caused the faded wound, I couldn’t help flashing on my childhood in western Pennsylvania, where I’d worked in my
nonna
’s little grocery.

Behind a thick curtain in back of the store, my pop ran a quiet bookie operation. Clients were mostly neighborhood people, factory workers, and little old men. But every so often, a thuglike character moved through our aisles, sporting a scar similar to this man’s—the cause, invariably, was not from a factory mishap or motorcycle accident but the business end of a switchblade in some barroom scuffle.

“Your Americano is excellent,” Bob declared.

The man’s lined face shed decades when he smiled. He looked far less intimidating, too.

“Thanks,” I replied, happy he’d noticed. (Few people realized how tricky the drink was to get right.)

“It’s the best I’ve tasted in over twenty-five years.”

Now I was smiling. “We try to put love into every cup.”

“I’m glad to hear that’s still the case.”

Still the case?
I glanced at Tuck.

“Bob has a few questions about the Blend. I thought you should answer.”

I extended my hand. “It’s nice to meet you. My name is Clare.”

“Clare,” he said in a gruff tenor. “I’ve always loved that name. I had a sister named Clare . . .”

His accent was stronger now, Brooklyn—but not Yuppie Brooklyn where Manhattanites flocked to buy artisan pickles and microbrewed beers. Working-stiff Brooklyn, areas like Coney Island and Bensonhurst. On the other hand, his camel hair jacket, finely woven shirt, and high-end watch implied an address other than those immigrant-packed ’hoods.

“I haven’t been here for twenty years or more,” he said, “but I remember this place well. I was wondering if it’s still a family-owned business.”

“The Allegro family still owns the Blend, and if I can help it, someone from the family always will.”

His eyes sparkled. “I take it you’re a member of the family?”

Was. Past tense. By marriage.
I could have said as much, but the man’s continued scrutiny was making me uncomfortable.

“Did you know Antonio?” I asked. “Or Madame?”

“Madame?”

“Madame Blanche Dreyfus Allegro Dubois,” I said.

The sparkle faded, the lines returned. “So, she’s married again.”

“Widowed, for a second time, I’m sorry to say.” I leaned closer. “Listen, I’m sure Mrs. Dubois would love to speak with you. Why don’t you tell me your last name. Bob—”

“Clare!” Tuck was calling me again. I hadn’t noticed he’d stepped away. “Sorry, but our Chocolate Nun is on the phone. She has a delivery issue.”

“Excuse me,” I told Bob.

“Chocolate Nun” was the nickname for Gudrun Voss, the young proprietress of Voss Chocolate.
New York
magazine gave her the moniker in a piece it had done a few months back. While “chef’s whites” were traditional, Gudrun’s daily uniform consisted of a black chef’s jacket and chocolate-colored Kabuki pants. The black garb combined with her austere personality and zealous focus on bean-to-bar quality had inspired the reporter to come up with the Homeric epithet.

I’d never met the “Chocolate Nun” face-to-face and still didn’t know much about her. Even the magazine piece included little about Gudrun Voss’s background, focusing instead on her Williamsburg factory as part of Brooklyn’s artisanal food movement.

Picking up the phone, I was relieved to hear Gudrun had no problem getting the pastries and chocolates to the party tonight. All she needed from me was the direct phone number of the catering kitchen at the Rock Center event space.

By the time I finished the conversation, I was even more curious about Bob’s questions. But when I moved back to the counter, Mike’s favorite barstool was empty, the elderly stranger gone.

I checked my watch. It was time for me to go, too. I needed to shower and change. Even more pressing was that important meeting Mike had mentioned at the break of dawn. I’d promised to caffeinate him up for it.

Moving to my espresso machine, I went to work.

EIGHT

G
IVEN the events of my morning, I couldn’t wait to see a male body lying on sheets that were
not
covered in fake blood. When I walked into my bedroom, however, I found the four-poster empty.

Like silver-haired Bob downstairs, Mike Quinn had gone missing. His clothes and shoes were still here. So was his weapon. I could see it peeking out of his shoulder holster, which was still hanging from the back of Madame’s Duncan Phyfe chair.

“Mike?” I called, stepping into the hallway.

Before I could tap on the bathroom door, it swung open. The man himself filled the frame. His hair was damp and slicked back, his skin shimmering with shower dew. Around his hips, he’d tucked one of my fluffy white bath towels.

Forcing my attention away from the glistening slab of naked cop, I focused instead on King Kong (what my staff called the largest cup we stocked).

“Here you go,” I said, lifting the twenty-ounce behemoth. “The Blend’s Depth Charge for your eye-opening pleasure.”

The King Kong DC was a triple espresso poured into a giant Breakfast Blend—essentially a java boilermaker. It was also the highest-caffeinated drink we served. A café in Brooklyn actually slung a ten-shot espresso they called the
dieci
(“ten” in Italian). The café’s customers dubbed it “porn in a cup,” but I refused to carry a similar monstrosity.

Back in art school, one of my professors had impressed me with his love of ancient Greece, whose citizens had inscribed
Nothing in Excess
on their great shrine of Delphi. Certainly Athenians would have
poo-pooed
the
dieci
. But my objection had less to do with a philosophy of moderation than a baseline of quality: by the time the fifth double was pulled for the beverage, the espresso’s
crema
and texture were completely destroyed.

So, okay, our super-large speedball wasn’t the sort of drink coffee connoisseurs ordered, either. Consumers of it veered toward the bleary-eyed NYU law student, night-shift beat cop, and overworked RN—but we had our standards.

Mike set down the razor he was holding and knocked back almost half of the twenty-ouncer (a feat in itself).

“Your hazelnut bars are on the kitchen counter,” I said, thinking how sexy his hair looked wet. Probably because it appeared darker, which seemed more dangerous. (Stupid? Yes. But who can argue with libido?)

“Thanks,” he said, and raised the giant cup. “This is outstanding.”

I smiled. “I thought I’d find you in bed.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Disappointed?”

“Yes. I am.”

“Well, no cause for that. You found me didn’t you?”

He leaned down. I backed up. “Sorry,” I said, stiff-arming him. “As much as I’d like to, the morning I had was . . .” I shuddered, thinking of that laundry bin. “I need to clean up.”

He laughed and tugged back the wet shower curtain. “Tub’s free.”

“Oh no. Not with you in here shaving.”

“You don’t trust me to control myself?”

I looked him over, sighed. “It’s not you I’m worried about.”

“Well, okay. Now we’re talking.”

“And that’s
all
we’re doing. You have an important meeting, and I have an endless day ahead.”

I turned to leave. He caught my arm. “Stay. Keep me company.” He threw me a sweet leer. “You can keep your clothes on.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You’re welcome . . .” He flipped on the hot water. I leaned against the doorjamb, watched him lather up.

The shaving kit was Mike’s, of course. He kept personals here just as I kept things at his place.

“So . . .” Mike said, as he rinsed his razor. “What was that urgent call about?”

“Call?” The last thing I wanted to discuss. “Oh, nothing,” I said, making
nothing
sound lighter than pink cotton candy. “No big deal. Not important.”

Mike turned, met my eyes. “You’re actually trying that with me?”

So much for playing a man who interviews perps for a living.
I cleared my throat. “Madame and Alicia—they had a . . . problem.”
There, that was true.

“What problem? Clare, what exactly did you deal with this morning?”

“Deal with? Well, let’s see . . .”
A disappearing dead body, a skeevy hotel burglar, two agitated detectives, and a wildly duplicitous business associate.

“It really just boils down to advice. The women needed to speak with someone who had friends in the NYPD.”

He stared. “Am I going to owe someone a major favor?”

“No. Actually, it’s the other way around. Two gold badges now owe me one.”

Soles and Bass had received so many handshakes and back pats at the Seventeenth you would have thought they’d brought in all ten of the FBI’s most wanted instead of some two-bit hotel bagman.

“Okay.” Mike appeared relieved—and intrigued. “You’re going to fill me in on the details later, right?”

“Yes, of course, when you don’t have a meeting with the first deputy commissioner to make.” I tapped my watch and he went back to shaving. Then his gaze found mine in the mirror.

“I can’t wait to hear who owes you this favor.” His eyes were smiling.

“You seem in good spirits, considering what you told me this morning.”

“That’s because I was conflicted earlier this morning. Now I’m resigned.”

“To what?”

“Resigning.”

“Excuse me?”

“The way I figure it,” he said, “the Fourteenth Floor already knows how this story is shaping up in the press—”

Mike was referring to the police commissioner’s office, which was located on the fourteenth floor of One Police Plaza—a location he also called the “Puzzle Palace.” (I always thought “Puzzle Palace” was what soldiers called the Pentagon. “They do,” Mike once explained to me, “but when New York cops use it, they mean police headquarters, especially when NYPD administrators issue politically motivated directives that are a complete puzzle to the rank and file.”)

“Just to be clear,” I interrupted. “This news story you’re talking about—it’s that young artist, right? The one who killed himself yesterday by jumping into his own painted bull’s-eye on a Brooklyn sidewalk?”

“Yes. My guess is . . . the commissioner’s people have been monitoring incoming questions from the press. The angle could be bad.”

“In what way?”

“The press could be gearing up to spin the NYPD as the big villain of the story.”

“I don’t understand. How can you be the villain?”

“My guys were the ones who handled the kid after his fiancée died of a drug overdose. Sully and Franco were the ones who nailed him down as a key witness against a Jersey drug dealer doing business in our jurisdiction, and they’ll be the ones accused of mishandling the boy.”

“Mishandling?”

“Pressuring, harassing, coercing—driving him to suicide.”

As Mike dragged the razor across his cheek, I took a breath.

“They didn’t, did they?” (I hated asking, but I had to know.)

Mike’s body went rigid. “I went over everything, Clare, all night long. Every report, every statement, every phone call and follow-up. Franco and Sully did everything right. They called in Social Services for the kid, offered him witness protection—which he declined. They took his statement, left him their phone numbers, and moved along.”

“But this morning you said there was something that concerned you about their interview.”

“The kid’s timeline, that’s all. I needed firmer statements from him on the fiancée who OD’d—exactly when she’d taken the drugs he’d bought for her, how long he’d been making purchases, and more specifics as to how and where the purchases were made. He’d answered all of that on the initial interview, but his statements were too vague. I needed more to launch official surveillance and an undercover sting. At the time, right after the girlfriend’s death, Franco and Sully simply didn’t want to push the kid too hard.”

“They did everything right,” I quietly echoed.

“They did. So if the first deputy commish wants a head, he can have mine.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m volunteering to step down as head of the squad.”

“Mike, no! You love your job.”

“I’m not passing the buck, Clare. I can’t live with that.”

“Can you live with a demotion? A public censure?”

“It won’t be public. We did everything right, and the Fourteenth Floor isn’t stupid enough to open us up for a raft of civil suits, although that usually happens anyway. This is internal stuff I’m talking about. I’ll still be on the force. I’ll just be reassigned to precinct work, probably Siberia. Some outer borough desk—”

“I can’t believe your captain would let that happen!”

Mike’s laugh was sharp. “My captain was the one who told me to take this meeting solo. He expects me to offer up one of my crew to the political gods. That’s why I came in here so wrecked. But then I slept on it, and when I woke up, I had my answer. I don’t have to sacrifice anybody’s career but my own.”