Dead Cold Brew

by Cleo Coyle

  “They wouldn’t tell me a thing,” I informed Tucker. “Just asked me to stay off the street.”

  Far from reassuring, I thought, but then the entire city had been on edge for a week. Quinn and I hadn’t seen much of each other these past seven days, and when we did, our encounters were heartbreakingly brief, nothing more than tense updates on our busy lives.

  Every night, I lay alone in bed, aching for him—and wondering if he was consciously putting distance between us to “lessen” my worries. The longer it went on, the more I feared he had made his decision and was gradually breaking things off between us.

  The more fool him.

  Seeing less of him didn’t lessen my worries. But it was accomplishing one thing—it was shredding my heart to pieces.

  As I walked back to the coffee bar, Madame waved me over and patted the seat beside her.

  “Sit down, Clare. Take a break. That sound and fury could be anything, or nothing at all. This is New York, you know.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Tuck said, and as he distracted our customers with a few bars of “On Broadway” (in his Off-Broadway cabaret voice), Madame leaned close.

  “Please don’t worry, Clare. I hate to see you so troubled.” She reset a strand of hair that escaped my ponytail and squeezed my hand. “Now let’s get back to your presentation plan for next week’s Andrea Doria competition.”

  I prepared a sample cup for Madame and held my breath as she inhaled the aroma, preparing to sip.

  Earlier in the week, I’d created the Danish blend with a dark-roasted Sumatra and light-roasted Costa Rican, but this coffee needed something more. For days, I tested and retested ratios until one golden afternoon, I remembered something more from my talk with Gus.

  The gold of the autumn sun reminded me of another afternoon, one I’d spent in Florence, shopping among the goldsmiths on the Ponte Vecchio, and I suddenly remembered the yellow caturra—a coffee plant that produces yellow instead of red cherries.

  Matt had this unique varietal stored in his climate-controlled warehouse in Brooklyn. Grown in the volcanic loam of Puna, it was even honey-processed, like his outstanding Costa Rican.

  Unlike the more common “washed” processing method, which used water to strip the coffee bean of the fruit surrounding it, honey-processing removed only the skin of the cherry. With the sticky-sweet pulp remaining, the beans were spread on racks and raked gently under the golden sun several times a day to quicken the drying process. The coffee then rested for months, developing exotic flavor and striking character in its sugary cocoon before the dried parchment layer was finally removed by machine and the beans sold for roasting.

  Though the method was labor-intensive, it produced some of the best-tasting coffees in the world. The honey-processed Puna was one of them, with transcendent notes of floral and spice, apricot, caramel, and almond.

  Unfortunately, Hawaiian coffees were highly priced—demand was high, supply limited. But if I used only 10 percent in my blend, I could bring our “Night and Day” Andrea Doria entry to a premium level for a price far less than our Billionaire Blend—which was Matt’s directive.

  Madame tasted the results of my honey-yellow experiment, closed her eyes, and swooned.

  “Superb,” she said simply.

  She sipped again. “Beautifully balanced, Clare, with a plush mouthfeel. The flavors are dazzling, and they continue to unfold through the sip and swallow.” With a nod, she continued sampling as the coffee cooled. “Ah . . . perfect caramelization. Like the perfect man: smooth yet exciting, sweet yet exotic, and”—she winked—“a little nutty.”

  “I didn’t think I could produce a winner in the short time I had but—”

  “You know what I say, dear. No pressure, no diamonds. And this is a jewel. Un bijou! A coffee diamond!”

  I grinned with relief (and a little pride) explaining how I’d even done a little detective work, calling the ship’s contractor to discover what machines they’d installed in the galleys for making coffee (a brand of super-automatic now popular with many of New York’s top hotel kitchens).

  “Now I can adjust the roast for that particular machine’s optimum settings,” I noted. “And the addition of a Hawaiian coffee will be attractive for the marketing and menu descriptions—luxury taste without an astronomical price.”

  “In plain terms, it’ll make a nice profit—for them and us.”

  “No profit, no business. Isn’t that what you also say?”

  “Exactement!”

  As we chatted, I pretended to ignore the fact that more NYPD cars were arriving by the minute, or that our sidewalk was now a municipal sea of uniforms. Then several officers began cordoning off the area around the front door.

  They’re setting up a perimeter, and the Village Blend is ground zero. Why? Are they trying to keep people out, or rope us all in?

  I was about to storm outside and demand answers when a parade of officers pushed through the door enough times to make our greeting bell peal like a country church on Christmas morning.

  Detectives Lori Soles and Sue Ellen Bass, partners who’d been nicknamed the “Fish Squad,” led the pack in starched slacks and navy blazers. I counted these women as friends, or at least friendly acquaintances—but you wouldn’t know it from their grave demeanors.

  Oh, God, I thought. Something terrible must have happened to Mike, and they’ve come to tell me!

  Despite my worst fears and weak knees, I faced the police squarely. “Detective Soles. Detective Bass. How can I help you tonight?”

  “We’re here to place you under arrest, Clare Cosi.”

  I blinked, certain I’d heard wrong. “Arrest me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  It was Sue Ellen Bass who spoke this time. The more volatile of the pair, she quickly reached for the handcuffs on her belt.

  With their ridiculous charge came a realization. There’s no “bad news.” Mike Quinn is fine, and the rest of this is just a stupid, silly misunderstanding!

  The rush of relief left me giddy. But my goofball happy grin infuriated Sue Ellen.

  “Did you think you could get away with it?” she demanded, rattling the cuffs like a dungeon mistress.

  “Get away with what?”

  “Grand theft.”

  I gawked at the pair. “Are you kidding?”

  Lori Soles shook her head. “This is serious, Clare. In New York State, stealing a police detective’s heart is a Class A felony.”

  With the practiced perfection of a Rockettes chorus line, the wall of uniforms parted, and there was Mike Quinn, down on one knee, wearing a crooked smile and his best blue suit.

  Time seemed to stop, the packed coffeehouse stilling with it, as his hand lifted a white ring box. My breath caught at the sight—of Mike, the box, and the tiny golden bell embossed on top.

  “Clare,” he began. “I love you, and I know you love me.”

  He opened the box to reveal a small but perfect diamond, its ice blue color shining as brilliantly as the good in Mike’s eyes.

  The uniquely Campana-cut stone had exceptional clarity—but it was no solitaire. Around the blue center, a circle of smaller coffee diamonds winked at me with shocking familiarity.

  I knew at once that Gus’s own hands had made this stunning piece, a perfect replica of the legendary lost Eye of the Cat, which I’d openly admired in his home just a week ago.

  But how could Mike have known?

  When I tried to ask him, he shushed me.

  “First, I have something to ask you. And you better think hard about your answer. With these law officers as witnesses, it’s going to be tough to change your story.”

  I nodded dumbly, waiting for the question to pop.

  “Clare Cosi, will you marry me?”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  MIKE’S voice was firm and steady, his expression
sweetly somber.

  I had to admire the man’s self-control. When I tried to speak, I couldn’t find my tongue. I couldn’t see straight, either. Yet even with my eyes blurred by tears, I sensed Mike’s anxiety, along with his unspoken questions—

  Did I do a good thing here or completely screw up? Are you thrilled or embarrassed? Are you going to make me the happiest man on earth or pierce my soul and say you’ve changed your mind?

  Clearing my throat, I gave the man his answer.

  “Of course I’ll marry you—” My voice broke, and I swallowed hard. “I know it won’t be easy. But I love you with all my heart. So . . .”

  I met his eyes and smiled. “Let’s give it a shot.”

  At the word shot, gasps hit my ears and every cop in the place froze.

  Mortified, I froze with them—until Mike burst out laughing, along with the entire coffeehouse. Grinning with joy, and more than a little relief, he rose, took my left hand, and guided the tiny golden circle onto my finger.

  I gazed at the dazzling blue center of what was now my engagement ring—the coffee diamonds flawlessly set around it—and realized this band not only fit perfectly, it felt perfect, too.

  Then I wrapped my arms around my new fiancé and stiffened. The ring may have felt right, but Quinn’s torso felt wrong, oddly rigid, his chest harder than Superman’s. The fleeting perception was quickly banished when his lips met mine, and the cops, customers, Madame, and my staff began to applaud.

  Amid all the congratulations, Mike and I were quickly separated.

  While he endured a round of backslapping and good-humored “give it a shot” jabs from his buddies, I found myself cornered. Esther Best and Nancy Kelly were circling me like curious birds while Tucker loomed over my shoulder.

  “So . . .” he said. “Let’s meet your new BFF, because everyone knows a diamond is a girl’s best friend.”

  As we ogled the ring, Madame moved closer, and I lifted it for her inspection.

  “See the coffee diamonds?” I pointed out excitedly. “They’re just like the ones on that brooch Matt’s father gave you.”

  “Not like the ones on my brooch, dear. Those are the very diamonds.”

  “What?”

  “When Antonio died, I promised myself I’d never sell them. But I knew how much you admired them, so I happily gifted them to you and your future husband.”

  “But how?” I gaped at her. “How could you know that Mike would—”

  “Your young officer paid me a visit,” Madame confessed. “He wanted my advice on choosing your engagement ring. He said you were always behind him and his work, and he wanted a ring that would show you that he felt the same about you. He insisted on a token of his love that would convince you that he respected your life and wanted to join it, not take you away from it. I suggested we use the coffee diamonds, as a symbol of your ties to the Village Blend, and he happily agreed.”

  “What a beautiful gesture.”

  She opened her arms, and we hugged each other tight.

  “Thank you,” I croaked, tears welling again.

  “Thank that man of yours. He is something special. And, frankly, I’d consider losing you a much greater loss than those diamonds.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  WITH eyes as wet as mine, Madame excused herself, announcing she wanted to get the ball rolling on this surprise party and see to serving all the guests who’d come—which looked to me like the whole Sixth Precinct and one entire floor of One Police Plaza.

  That’s when Nancy and Esther jumped in.

  “Let’s take a closer look at those rocks,” Nancy said, seizing my hand.

  My eyebrows rose when she produced a jeweler’s loupe. With professional aplomb, Nancy flipped the compact magnifying glass open and placed it against her eye.

  “This blue diamond is some piece of ice!” She whistled. “I’ll bet that cost a pretty penny—”

  “Nancy!” I whispered. “A public jewelry appraisal is hardly appropriate right now.”

  I tugged my hand, but she held firm.

  “One minute, boss!” She activated the loupe’s tiny LED light and squinted into the glass. “Hey, some of those little brown diamonds have tiny stars inside. It’s hard to see, but—”

  “Okay, enough!” I pried my hand loose at last.

  “Wow, Nancy. I didn’t know you were training to be a pawnbroker,” Esther cracked. “All things considered, it’s a good career move. With a little more training, you’ll be cheating junkies, drunks, and degenerate gamblers out of their heirloom watches and wedding bands in no time.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Nancy waved the device. “I’m using this to make coffee-themed charm bracelets to sell online—and whimsical wall decorations.”

  “Wall decorations?”

  “Like that paper-clip sculpture I hung above our bathroom mirror. I call it Galloping Unicorn.”

  Esther’s eyes went wide. “Galloping Unicorn? And here I thought it was a three-legged mule in desperate need of rhinoplasty.”

  Nancy frowned. “That’s harsh.”

  “It’s the arts. Expect criticism.”

  Tuck groaned. “If you ladies want to talk art, join the Salmagundi Club! Right now we have cups to fill and goodies to serve, so stop your tuts and move your butts!”

  As Tuck herded Esther and Nancy toward the kitchen, Esther couldn’t resist making one last comment—

  “Are you sure pastries are a good idea? Don’t you think these cops have enough padding already?”

  The observation reminded me of my engagement hug with Mike. His torso did feel thicker and his pecs seemed harder than steel—or was it Kevlar?

  I looked closer at this conspicuous police presence. Oh, for heaven’s sake. I’d been too bowled over by Mike’s proposal to realize. These officers were wearing bulletproof armor under their uniforms.

  Were they really that paranoid about the shooter? Or was this little show more than an engagement prank?

  I searched for Quinn, but he was still surrounded by backslapping policemen—though I noted that the boisterous congratulations were starting to recede. Now the cops were speaking in low tones, through poker faces.

  Something’s up. But what? I wondered, scanning the crowd for several minutes. There must be someone here I can wheedle the truth out of . . .

  Sully Sullivan would have been perfect. His strict Irish Catholic rearing left him with one brother a priest, another a missionary, and himself uncomfortable at being anything but completely truthful.

  Quinn once told me that when he and Sully ran “good cop, bad cop” on some suspect, Sully had to play good because he couldn’t lie—not convincingly, anyway.

  Unfortunately, Sully was still recovering in the hospital, or he surely would have been here tonight.

  Sergeant Emmanuel Franco, another member of Quinn’s OD Squad, might be counted on for the straight story. After all, I was the young detective’s ally in his battle to win my daughter’s heart—and overcome my ex-husband’s objections.

  For that alone, Franco owed me.

  I scanned the room for a pair of really broad shoulders (an embarrassment of riches with all these cops around) topped by a streetwise shaved head.

  I spotted Manny Franco the same time he spotted me. Waving his smartphone, he beckoned me over.

  TWENTY-SIX

  “HEY, Coffee Lady, check this out.” Franco displayed his phone. “I got your entire engagement on digital. I’m sending it to Joy tonight.”

  We watched the recording together.

  “Do you think my daughter will be surprised?” I asked.

  “More like surprised it took so long. She’s been waiting for this. And I think we can guess why.” He grinned. “Should I be getting the name of Lieutenant Quinn’s jeweler?”

  Oh, no, I thought. Slow down!

&nbs
p; In less than an hour, I’d gone from single woman to pledged in marriage. My daughter was still happily adjusting to her new responsibilities managing our Washington, DC, coffeehouse. And I was far from ready to fight a war with Matt on accepting Franco as his new, shaved-headed, handcuff-wielding son-in-law.

  So instead of encouraging Franco, I patted the young detective’s giant shoulder and assured him—“There’s plenty of time . . .”

  Then I dropped my hand and felt his back.

  “My, that’s an awful lot of armor you’re wearing.”

  “I . . . ah . . .” The boy choked on his own gravelly voice. “I just came off duty.”

  “And all these other policemen?” I eyed him sharply. “It’s pretty obvious that everyone wearing a badge in this place is also wearing body armor, so you must have expected something to go down. Come on, Franco, spill it.”

  Blinking blankly, Franco groped for an answer—until he was saved by the belle.

  “Hey, hey, it’s the hero of the day!” Sue Ellen Bass slapped Franco’s broad back. “Good to know there’s a cop we can count on under that Vin Diesel–Telly Savalas thing you’ve got goin’ on.”

  “Ah, it was nothing,” Franco replied through gritted teeth, eyes pleading for her to shut up already.

  “Did you say Franco is a hero?” I pressed, sensing a crack in the blue wall of silence. “He was far too modest to mention it to me.”

  “Last week, Kojak Junior here pulled a policewoman out of harm’s way after she took a bullet.”

  My mind raced back to the discussion Quinn and I had about those initial newspaper headlines: 4 Cops Shot in 3 Days.

  “Are you talking about the shooting in Queens?” I asked. “The female traffic cop? The one the papers and NYPD ‘believed’ was due to random gang activity?”

  “That’s the one,” Sue Ellen confirmed. “Franco was talking with this policewoman in the street. After she was hit, two more shots were fired, but despite the danger to that shiny head of his, Franco pulled the woman to safety and rendered aid and comfort until backup arrived.”