A Brew to a Kill

by Cleo Coyle

  “Cooking and nutrition classes… and she also started working for the mayor’s office, a special projects initiative, helping the city’s kids eat healthier. She has one of her own, a son… his name is Paz…”

  “Ms. Tanga is a single mother then? There’s no husband? No boyfriend?”

  A lump formed in my throat and the floodlights blurred. The question made me think of that adorable little boy. Was he going to become an orphan now?

  “Ms. Cosi?” Buckman prompted.

  “Yes, Lilly is a single mother.” I swiped at my eyes. “She lost her husband when she was still pregnant with their son. He was a U.S. Coast Guard paramedic. Benny Tanga was his name. He died in a rescue attempt off the coast of New Jersey. Helicopter crash…”

  Buckman paused, taking that in. “Tough break.”

  “I know.”

  “Current or past boyfriends?”

  “She doesn’t have one now—none that she’s mentioned to me. As far as past relationships, I can’t help you there, either. You should speak with Terry Simone. She’s a customer of ours—and she’s known Lilly much longer than I have. The two met in nursing school.”

  Buckman scribbled the name. “Where does Ms. Simone work?”

  “Beth Israel. I also know Lilly and her son live with Lilly’s mother, Amina Salaysay. She owns and runs Amina’s Kitchenette in Woodside, Queens. She should be notified.”

  “It’s all right. We’ll do that.”

  “I can’t think of anything else to tell you. There must be something more I can help with…” I couldn’t stop myself from becoming emotional again, but I felt so powerless.

  “Take it easy, Clare. You’ve given us plenty.” Buckman paused a moment then suddenly asked—“What cops?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You said some of your best customers were cops.”

  “That’s right…” I couldn’t tell if he was genuinely interested or simply trying to derail my tears with a distraction. Whichever it was didn’t matter. I pulled myself together and focused on his question.

  “So who are they? Maybe I know these cops.”

  “Do you know Sergeant Emmanuel Franco?”

  “Franco!” Buckman guffawed. “What a goofball. I wouldn’t have thought a hump like that would be your type.”

  “Actually, that ‘hump’ is more my daughter’s type.”

  “My sympathies,” Buckman said, then shook his head as if I’d just told him I’d bought the Brooklyn Bridge on eBay.

  “I’m also friendly with Lori Soles and Sue Ellen Bass.”

  Buckman smirked. “Didn’t think you were their type, either.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. I’m kidding.” Then Buckman pointed to the Claddagh ring on my finger. “That’s not a wedding band.”

  “No, it’s from another cop—but he’s more than a friendly customer.”

  “Okay, now I’m getting something useful. Where is he on the job?”

  “He heads his own task force out of the Sixth. His name is Mike Quinn.”

  “Crazy Quinn?”

  Crazy Quinn? That doesn’t sound like my Mike. “You must mean some other Quinn.”

  “Michael Ryan Francis Quinn, right?”

  “Yes, but… he’s far from crazy.”

  “Believe me, honey, back in the day, the PD knew him as Crazy Quinn. A real rogue, that guy.”

  “Well, that’s not the Mike Quinn I know.”

  “Maybe he got tamer after he got clear of that underwear model wife of his. Nothing like a lying, cheating female to make a man want to take crazy chances—or spit bullets.” Buckman paused. “You and Quinn, huh? Well, I guess apples don’t fall far from the tree.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You said your daughter’s friendly with Franco, didn’t you?”

  “Listen, Detective, we’re way off topic here, and I’d like to know what’s going to happen with Lilly’s case. Do you at least have a theory?”

  “I’ll tell you what I have…” He took a final hit on his stogie. “Someone behind the wheel of a white express cargo van, model and license yet to be determined, turned the key and goosed the engine. The driver then came down on the gas pedal, hard enough to spin the wheels, right here…” He pointed to the blocked-off section of pavement. “No brakes were ever applied as the vehicle increased speed, proceeding up Hudson and striking your friend, Ms. Lilly Beth Tanga.”

  Buckman paused at that, tearing the stump from his mouth. With his thumb and forefinger, he squeezed it hard until the tip was cold and whipped the stub forcefully down a nearby sewer grate.

  “In other words, Clare, someone turned a simple service vehicle into a deadly weapon.”

  “You’re saying someone hit Lilly, on purpose? As in attempted murder?”

  “The facts are what I recited to you. A hit-and-run occurred, one of about three hundred in the city this year. Whether it was deliberate, a tragic accident, or the result of drugs or alcohol abuse, I can’t tell you, not yet. And no ‘theory’ is going to interest me, not until all the data accumulated from this crime scene has been fully evaluated.”

  “When will that happen?”

  “Brutally honest? Not until we find the van.”

  “But what if you don’t? It’s like hunting a needle in a haystack, you said so yourself.”

  “We have some solid clues to go on. The graffiti on the side of the truck could be a gang marker. Gang markers are very specific to a place and even a time—”

  “So you might know where the van’s been, or where it came from. That’s good!” I couldn’t hide my hope. “That means you’ll find it, right?”

  “We’ll try.”

  “I want you to do more than try, Detective. And if there’s anything else I can do to support you and your team, let me know.”

  That’s when he handed me his card. “My mobile phone number’s on there. Call me whenever you like. I mean it. Anytime.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He studied me a moment. “You okay then?”

  “I will be… after you catch this bastard.”

  With those words, Buckman’s dour expression lessened enough to bestow a shining half smile of approval my way. Then he turned and strode off, his substantial silhouette vanishing in the floodlights.

  NINE

  I wanted Mike. That’s all I could think as I numbly moved through the next few hours. I ached for the reassurance in his voice, the strength in his spirit, the affection in his gaze. I wanted him to take me to bed, cover me with his body, and ease me into a deep, forgetful sleep.

  But Mike Quinn was scheduled to sleep on another mattress tonight, one with cold, stiff sheets and nightly turndown service. I wouldn’t be hearing his voice until I was ready to turn down my own covers.

  In the interim, I checked on Lilly.

  First I dialed the hospital. Lilly was “in surgery” I was told (and little else), so I phoned Lilly’s longtime friend, Terry Simone, who immediately volunteered to contact Lilly’s mother as well as Beth Israel. (As an RN on staff, she was likely to excavate more information than I could.)

  In the meantime, my own Village Blend still had paying customers—and nonpaying, too, because I’d asked Nancy to deliver coffee to Buckman and his team. Esther was willing to help, but she looked so tired and shaky that I put her in a taxi.

  About then, Matt came to my rescue.

  After escorting his mother back to her Fifth Avenue digs, he returned to the shop to lend his experienced hands and much-needed vigor. Then I sent Nancy home, and Matt sent me upstairs.

  A long shower revived me, and I considered hitting the sack. But the chilly duplex felt too lonely, and my nerves were too raw for sleep. So I stepped into clean jeans, pulled on a long-sleeved T-shirt, and went back downstairs.

  MATT had kindled a fire in our shop’s brick hearth, and I was glad to see it. The night breeze off the Hudson had grown colder, and the c
rackling flames warmed my skin and spirit.

  When it was time to close, we cleaned and restocked, secured the outdoor tables, and bid the last of our customers good night. Then I locked the entrance, dimmed the lights, and shut our wall of French doors tighter than a Gallic fortress.

  Now Matt and I were alone in the coffeehouse, just like the old days. He waved me over to the espresso bar, and I weaved through the tables and chairs of our darkened shop.

  Suddenly I couldn’t stop appreciating how sturdy the Blend’s wood planks felt beneath me, how vivid the flickering firelight appeared, how darkly sweet the shop’s beans smelled.

  When Death rattles your windows, jams a foot in your door, something cracks you open. Colors seem brighter, angles sharper, noises louder. Quinn attributed this sort of thing to adrenaline. But he was a street-hardened detective. With me it was something more.

  As I settled on a stool, Matt slid a cream-colored demitasse across the polished blue marble with an expression so agonized it made me choke up.

  Taking a long sip of the doppio, I closed my eyes. A heated tear slid down my cold cheek. At nearly the same moment, the caramel-chocolate notes of the espresso double flowed through me like molten lava down an arctic cliff.

  Fire and ice, I thought, summer and winter, day and night, life and death. The alliance of opposites was an elemental part of human existence. Even a simple cup of coffee was both calming and bracing—not unlike my relationship with Matt, I couldn’t help musing.

  The odd Detective Buckman was an equally apt comparison with his “Highway Houdini” voice, a purr so ironically pushy in its mission to pacify that I could still hear his words echoing through my stressed-out system.

  “Relax, Clare… relax…”

  “This thing with Lilly Beth…” Matt interrupted.

  My eyes shut tighter. “It’s horrible.”

  “I travel in countries where stop signs are treated like suggestions, but I’ve never seen a pedestrian run down in the street like Lilly was tonight. What a god-awful accident.”

  I opened my eyes. “Except it wasn’t.”

  “What?”

  “He said it wasn’t an accident.”

  “Who he? Not that clown with the DIY bandoliers?”

  “Buckman’s not a clown. The man’s so serious, he’s almost scary. And he and his Motor Head Mad Scientists think this van-wielding maniac may have meant to hit Lilly.”

  “How can they tell?”

  “When most drivers realize they’re hitting a human being, they brake. That’s why cops find skid marks somewhere near the point of impact. But the driver who hit Lilly didn’t brake. The only skid marks Buckman found were far away—the result of the van’s squealing fast start-up.”

  “So this bastard accelerated, hit Lilly, and kept going?”

  “Does that sound like an ‘accident’ to you?”

  “It doesn’t make sense, Clare. Who’d want to run over an adorable little Filipina dietician? Unless…” Matt fell silent, scratched his furry face. “Maybe she’s too adorable.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m thinking jilted boyfriend, angry ex. Didn’t your favorite flatfoot say crimes of passion were at the top of his charts?”

  “Buckman wondered about that, too, but Lilly has no boyfriend or husband. And last I checked, Quinn’s feet have arches. High ones.”

  “Do I look like a podiatrist?”

  “No, but you called him a flatfoot, and his shoes are bigger than yours, so if I were you, I wouldn’t bring up Quinn’s feet. You know what they say about a man’s shoe size.”

  Matt smirked. “You really want to compare what’s in his Oxfords to what’s in my boxers?”

  “We were talking about Lilly Beth.”

  “Who you claim has no love life whatsoever?” Matt folded his muscular arms. “The way she was flirting with me, I find that hard to believe.”

  “She was just trying to be persuasive. I asked her to help me sway you to get behind our truck. And as far as Lilly’s love life, I spoke to a good friend of hers on the phone earlier. Terry said Lilly’s had a couple of boyfriends over the past few years but nothing serious and nothing lately.”

  “How lately is lately?”

  “I don’t know. We didn’t talk very long. She was anxious to get to the hospital. But, like I said, Lilly never mentioned any relationship troubles to me, or any threats. From what I’ve seen, she’s warm and generous, a loving mother and a beautiful human being—inside and out. I can’t imagine who’d think the planet would be a better place with Lilly off it.”

  Matt exhaled. “The National Pork Producers Council, maybe?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing… it’s just the way she talked about Kaylie Crimini’s Maple-Bacon and Three Little Piggies cupcakes, it had a very Mothers Against Drunk Driving tone to it.”

  “Well, you’re not wrong about her zealousness. She’s dedicated herself to reversing the increase of type two diabetes in children, especially among low-income and minority communities.”

  “Okay, so she’s a good mother, a great person—but also a health professional on a mission. And didn’t she tell us that she caused a big scene at Paz’s grade school earlier today? She publicly argued with that awful Kaylie person, didn’t she?”

  “Yes, but one argument is hardly a motive for attempted murder. And you saw Kaylie drive away in that showboat truck of hers. That’s why I didn’t bring her up as a suspect when speaking with Buckman. Why waste his time? She couldn’t have done it…” I considered my own assertion and put down my cup. “Unless…”

  “Unless?”

  “Unless she had the van parked somewhere nearby so she could jump into it. Or she put someone else up to it.”

  “What? Like a hit man?”

  “Like a hit-and-run man.”

  I shifted on the stool, getting that prickly feeling of being onto something. “Do you remember the scene Kaylie made in front of our Blend?”

  “Of course,” Matt replied.

  “What if that whole thing was a setup? What if she provoked me on purpose because she wanted a crowd to witness her driving away?”

  “That would be pretty shrewd, I guess. But did Kaylie even know that Lilly was inside our shop?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Given the Kupcake Kween’s ongoing feud with us, the goal may have been to run down any customer outside the Blend.”

  “Why?”

  “To send a message.”

  “What do you mean? Like a mobster? Or a terrorist?”

  “Yes!”

  Matt stared. “Over cupcakes and coffee?”

  “Over money and status—as that bouffant brain sees it.”

  He scratched the back of his head. “Sounds like a stretch.”

  “Whack-jobs have killed over far less in this town. Talk to Mike sometime, he’ll tell you. Anyway, whether it’s a good lead or not, I should share it with Detective Buckman…” With confident determination, I pulled out my cell—and froze. “What do I say?”

  “I don’t know. The war against mobile buttercream has had its first casualty?”

  TEN

  MY theory made perfect sense (to me, anyway), but saying it out loud—to someone not familiar with the dark side of Kaylie—well, it did sound ridiculous.

  Would Buckman laugh in my face? Or silently humor me?

  Oh, who cares, I thought, and dug out his business card. For the first time in hours, I felt a sense of direction, of control. If Highway Houdini wanted to call me an idiot, so be it, as long as he checked out my tip.

  Opening my cell, I stopped again. A new message had dropped, direct from Paris.

  “Matt, Joy just texted me.”

  “Joy?”

  A message from our daughter carried the same inherent contradictions as a shot of espresso—a rush of warmth followed by the inescapable jolt. (Is she okay? Why is she writing? Is anything wrong?!)

  Matt immediately pulled out his own PD
A—the Lafite of multifunctional devices with every bell and whistle known to Silicon Valley.

  The thing had been a gift from his fashionista wife, Breanne Summour, although “gift” was a euphemism, implying shopping and purchase. As editor-in-chief of trendy Trend magazine, the woman got freebies and samples galore. My last birthday gift from her was a gorgeous Fen scarf—with a card that read, Wear it with style, Bree! Love, Adele.