Dead Cold Brew

by Cleo Coyle

  “Eduardo? Why?”

  “I’m a businesswoman, Mr. Rolf. De Santis is well-known in this city. I’ve always wanted to make him a client—supply his venues.”

  “There’s nothing there for you.”

  “Why not? What are you doing for him?”

  He threw up his hand. “It will be news in a few days, anyway, so you might as well know. I was commissioned to procure a large number of gemstones for Mr. De Santis and his investors.”

  “For?”

  “A luxury resort in Dubai called Ra’s Paradise. Their nightclub will have a gem-encrusted sun illuminated by laser lights.”

  “How did you get involved with this project? Was it through Mr. De Santis?”

  That chirp again. Hunter pulled out his phone, checked the screen, and frowned. “I really must be going—”

  “Have you been friends with Eduardo for long?”

  Hunter crossed his thick arms, then uncrossed them again—a nervous gesture that made me think I was going to hear less than the truth.

  “I met him six months ago, on safari in Africa. Eddy is not a very good shot. I gave him a few pointers. That’s the end of it.”

  I remembered Sophia remarks about her husband’s shady business practices—“What are you peddling now? Blood diamonds? Smuggled Russian amber? Pilfered European heirlooms? Contraband jade from Myanmar?”—and doubted that was the end of it.

  “So gem hunting is the only job you’re doing for De Santis?”

  “It’s what I do, Ms. Cosi.”

  “But you’re handy on safari, too. Have you hunted since that time in Africa?”

  His placid blue eyes suddenly turned to ice. When his phone chirped again, Hunter Rolf didn’t bother to check it.

  “I have had enough of these ridiculous questions,” he declared. “Now if you will excuse me, I am going to join my wife.”

  FORTY-SEVEN

  AS Hunter bolted for the secret door, Matt started to go after him.

  “Hey, pal, we’re not done here!”

  “Let him go!” I tugged Matt’s arm. “Sophia needs a shoulder to lean on—and Hunter’s looks substantial enough. It’s time he lent it to his wife.”

  “Fine.”

  Still agitated, Matt paced the long table of used plates, cups, and glasses from the final course of the group’s lavish dinner. Among the bottles on the table, he caught sight of one in particular. A single glance at the label turned his grimace into a smirk.

  After finding us two unused glasses, he gestured for me to join him at the old wooden booth, built into the wall of the wine bins at the far end of the room.

  So this was it, I realized. This was Mayor Jimmy Walker’s famous Prohibition-defying seat. As fitting a place as any to discuss crime and corruption, I thought, and slid onto a polished bench.

  Matt sat down across from me, poured from the bottle of Glenfiddich, and clinked my glass.

  Drinking the twenty-one-year-old single malt at 21 was heady, I have to admit. Aged in barrels once used to store premium Caribbean rum, the scotch was woody, warming, and supernaturally smooth with hints of vanilla, toffee, banana, and citrus—sweet aromas that appeared and disappeared on my palate like magic smoke.

  “Well, at least Sophia will be glad,” Matt said after a few quiet sips. “It actually was a business meeting and not another woman.”

  “Yes, but we still don’t know anything about this ‘man in Rome,’ who Hunter implied knows something about the Campanas’ family history with the ‘sinking ship.’ He must have been referring to the jewel Gus and your father hid for the last half century, don’t you think?”

  “You heard Rolf. He’s going to come clean with Sophia. If we need to know about the guy in Rome, she’ll tell us about it.”

  “What I want to know is whether we can trust Sophia’s husband? I sincerely doubt it, considering the other company he keeps. That man I asked him about—Eduardo De Santis—he used to have a nightclub in the Meatpacking District that—”

  “Stop, Clare. I know all about ‘Club Town Eddy.’”

  “You do?”

  Matt touched his nose and snorted.

  I froze in unhappy understanding. With one gesture, Matt confirmed De Santis had been one of his cocaine suppliers in those bad old days, which gave me yet another reason to despise the man. Club Town Eddy had effectively contributed to ruining my young marriage.

  “You’re right, Clare. He’s a creep, and a nasty one.”

  “Is he nasty enough to take revenge on the detectives who had him prosecuted?”

  I told Matt about Quinn’s involvement with De Santis a few years ago when his OD Squad had secured his arrest and indictment. I’d spent months stumbling over NYPD surveillance photos of the man, which was the only reason I was able to recognize him.

  “Quinn and his team got the nightclub closed, and put a few low-rent dealers behind bars—”

  “But Eddy De Santis walked. I remember.” Matt leaned across the table. “I heard stories about Eddy’s bad side. And there’s one I know is true. He had a cocaine-fueled falling-out with his partner. It happened right in front of me and a few other party animals I used to know.”

  Matt swirled the liquid gold in his glass. “A week later, that partner was shot dead outside his Hamptons summer home by a man waiting for him. The cops said it was a botched robbery, but I doubt that’s what went down. So if you’re asking me if De Santis is capable of violence, I’d have to say yes.”

  My stomach churned at this news. Still, I needed facts, as ugly as they might be.

  “What do you think about Hunter? Is he capable of violence?”

  “It might be the scotch, but I’m not following your logic.”

  “What if Eddy De Santis hired Hunter to play Panther Man?”

  Matt just about fell out of Jimmy’s booth laughing.

  “Hear me out, because it’s not so crazy. I saw Panther Man. He was a tall, muscular guy like Sophia’s husband—a man who knows how to shoot so well that he gave pointers to De Santis in Africa.” I met my partner’s skeptical gaze. “They met on safari, Matt. Big-game hunting. And there is no bigger game than hunting humans.”

  As he considered my words, Matt poured another scotch. I covered my glass. The Glenfiddich was amber bliss, but on top of my Southside cocktail, half a bottle of Pinot Noir, and a dessert shooter, I’d consumed more alcohol tonight than my last New Year’s Eve party.

  After another savored swallow, Matt sank back in the booth.

  “Well, either it’s this second scotch, or your theory is starting to make sense. Enough sense to be possible, anyway.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “The deal Hunter made with Eddy is worth millions. He might be willing to go along with attempted murder for that kind of money.”

  Just then, a pair of busmen entered the wine cellar, gave us a polite nod, and began to clear the long table. Our privacy ended, Matt drained his glass, set it down, and helped me to my feet.

  “It’s time for you to go home to Sergeant Friday, and me to get some sleep in Brooklyn. Mother’s been ignoring my calls all evening, and it’s too late to upset her, so I’ll deliver the news of the day tomorrow.”

  “I guess that’s best. She’s better off hearing about Gus after a good night’s sleep, and you know how she felt about opening that box. She dreaded it.”

  “Well, with Gus in the hospital and that cursed diamond on our plate, now she has something real to dread.”

  FORTY-EIGHT

  THE autumn night was chilly, but not nearly cold enough to dispel the alcohol vapors from my brain. My knees felt wobbly—although strong drink was not to blame.

  It was these darned cruel shoes.

  Traffic was fairly light on 52nd Street, with not a cab in sight and a line of well-dressed patrons waiting for one in front
of 21.

  Matt took my arm. “Let’s walk to Fifth and grab a cab there.”

  Unfortunately, the far end of the block might as well have been the summit of Everest. The cruel shoes had finally done me in.

  As hobbled as a geisha, I halted in front of Halftime, the sports bar frequented by off-duty policemen, where I once joined Quinn.

  “I can’t go any farther, Matt. Hail a cab and swing around to pick me up.”

  “Clare, just take off those heels and keep moving.”

  “Sorry, these feet may be made for walking, but they do not walk bare on New York City pavement. I’d have to get them sterilized before I opened the coffeehouse tomorrow.”

  “Hyperbole, anyone?”

  “Just get the cab.”

  With the noise of revelers and throb of music from inside the busy bar, we had been speaking loudly. Now he leaned into my ear and lowered his voice.

  “Are you going to be safe wearing all that bling?”

  “This place is full of off-duty cops. Believe me, no one is going to mug me here.”

  As if to prove me right, two red-faced, middle-aged men in rumpled suits stepped outside and lit up cigars. A third joined them to argue local football. When he opened his coat to tug up his pants, Matt and I both noticed the gun in his belt and the badge hanging from his neck.

  “See,” I mouthed. “Armed guards.”

  With a nod, Matt sauntered off, and I texted Quinn to make sure he opened my first text and the attachment.

  Will I see you tonight? I have more info.

  Quinn’s reply came immediately.

  U R amazing. Luv the pictures. DEA surprised. Almost done here. Cannot wait to C U.

  Despite the long and stressful day, I suddenly felt awake again. Quinn’s text was a lot warmer than the last one, like a sweet gust of oxygen amid the choking cigar smoke. I felt so happy some of my alcohol fog began to dissipate.

  Yes, all was right with the world—

  Until a sudden string of explosions shattered the night.

  FORTY-NINE

  BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

  For several seconds that’s all I heard—one boom after another, blast echoes overlapping as the noise bounced between buildings.

  Sheer instinct had me crouched behind a steel lamppost.

  The detectives behind me had different instincts. They were hugging the sidewalk, too, but they’d also drawn their weapons and were searching for a shooter.

  “There!”

  The man who yelled fired off a shot, then another. His two colleagues followed suit. Suddenly, the deafening din was in front of and behind me.

  Scrunched into a ball with my hands over my ears, I peeked around the steel pole and spied bright white flashes on top of a latticework of construction scaffolding across the street.

  I saw something else, too. Smoke. And I remembered what Quinn said in passing about those SWAT team assaults on the wrong buildings the day Sully was shot. After the fact, everyone was embarrassed by the miscalculation. Modern firearms don’t release smoke. Or as Quinn put it—

  “We should have known: where there’s smoke, there’s fireworks.”

  A metallic ping shattered my thoughts. One of the cops had clipped the No Standing sign high above me. Then the pole itself vibrated like a metronome, raining silver paint chips on my head.

  I heard a grunt, turned, and saw a detective had been hit—no doubt by fragments ricocheting off the pole. He was on his back, clutching his shoulder.

  More men rushed headlong out of the sports bar, some waving guns. They saw a man down, two cops shooting, and reacted instantly.

  “Stop! Stop! Don’t shoot!” I cried. But in the heat of the moment, mine was the only cool head. “It’s fireworks. Just fireworks!”

  Nobody listened, and the battlefield clamor went on until another ricochet cracked the sports bar’s plate glass window. Inside, customers still on their feet hit the floor.

  The explosions across the street finally stopped around the same time as a wiry plainclothes detective flew out of the bar like an angry bird, frantically flapping his arms and squawking—

  “Cease fire! Cease fire!”

  The racket died, and in the sudden stillness I heard the urgent wail of approaching sirens—and then a long string of colorful curses. The diminutive man was now walking in a circle, ranting at the others. One man timidly interrupted him.

  “Ah . . . Lieutenant McNulty . . .” He sheepishly pointed to the ranking officer’s gaping pants.

  With a grunt, the lieutenant zipped his fly and continued berating his men.

  “I can’t take a leak without you Keystone Kops screwing up? Who the hell ordered you to fire? Did you even see who you were shooting at—”

  “Excuse me, sir. I saw the whole thing,” I firmly declared. “The explosions came from fireworks. I’m sure of it. On top of the scaffolding on that building across the street.”

  One man helped me to my feet. The rest stared in shock and awe.

  Apparently, one does not interrupt the great and powerful Lieutenant McNulty—unless one has news about his fly being down.

  The lieutenant walked right up to me and glared. “You are mistaken. You hear me, little lady?”

  Little lady? What was he talking about? In these red stilettos, I was eye to eye with him. And my eyes glared right back!

  “I know what I saw, Lieutenant.”

  “You don’t know a thing. My men don’t pop off at phantoms.”

  “Well, there’s no shooting now, is there? And I saw smoke. So naturally, I thought: where there’s smoke, there’s fireworks—”

  “Are you drunk?” He leaned in and sniffed my breath.

  “I am not drunk. And I know what I saw.”

  “I got a man down, here,” he pointed. “And over there a bullet punched a hole through that window. Fireworks didn’t do that!”

  “Clare! Clare!”

  Matt pushed through a gathering crowd to reach me.

  “Are you okay? I heard the fireworks and came running.”

  “Did you hear this guy?” McNulty threw up his hands. “Fireworks again!”

  I had hoped the pyrotechnics were over, but, as it turned out, the evening’s explosions were just getting started.

  First, my smartphone buzzed—a text from Quinn.

  SRY Will B late. Crime Scn on 52 ST

  At that same moment the police cars arrived.

  One by one the sirens faded. Then an unmarked car rolled to the curb right in front of me and Matt. Two men stepped out. One was the young Sergeant Franco.

  The other was his boss—and my brand-new fiancé.

  FIFTY

  “CLARE?” Quinn’s jaw dropped when he spotted me, but he was quick to regain his composure. “You want to tell me how you ended up in the middle of another crime scene?”

  “In two words—cruel shoes.”

  Quinn’s eyebrows rose as he took in my obscenely expensive stilettos. Then his gaze traveled up my legs, to my embarrassment of jewelry, and back down again to those fetish shoes.

  “Hmm . . .” was his only response, until he haltingly added, “You look . . . very nice.”

  For some reason this remark cracked up Franco—but his chuckling stopped when he noticed my ex-husband hovering over my shoulder.

  Matt glared at the young officer with the shaved head who’d been dating our daughter over his strong objections. The animosity was completely one-sided. Franco continually tried to pass the peace pipe. Matt preferred war.

  “Well, if it isn’t Dwayne Johnson’s mini-me. What are you doing here? Hoping to score another false arrest?”

  Franco greeted the verbal slap with a good-natured grin. “Hey, Mr. Allegro, long time, no see.”

  “Not long enough.”

  Now Lieutenant McNulty
joined the party—and his bad mood just got worse.

  “Crazy Quinn. What got you out from behind a desk? I don’t see any dead junkies here.” He jerked his thumb in my direction. “Or was it these two troublemakers?”

  “Troublemakers?!” Matt and I cried in unison.

  Quinn’s attention reluctantly left my legs to refocus on his prickly peer in the NYPD. “What happened here, McNulty?”

  “I’ll tell you what happened. We had an active shooter in an elevated position across the street. Sound familiar?”

  He pointed to the scaffolding, where several determined cops had already climbed, without benefit of ladders, and were now hunting clues.

  “—And we got a man down with a shoulder shot. We’re waiting for the bus on that. Meanwhile, these two inebriated civilians are trying to claim it was a Macy’s Fourth of July spectacular!”

  Quinn gave me a sidelong glance, which probably meant I should keep quiet. I didn’t.

  “It was fireworks, Mike. I’m sure of it. And I am not inebriated!” (I would have offered to walk a straight line, too, if I’d been steadier on those ridiculous heels.)

  Ignoring me completely, McNulty turned to Mike. “Listen, Quinn. I’m not so sure I want you around.”

  Quinn’s eyes narrowed. “And why would that be?”

  “I’ve heard the rumors. After that last shooting, they say IAB might be looking at your squad. I don’t want my team tainted by your presence.”

  “Is that so?” Quinn stepped forward. McNulty moved to meet him.

  Oh, brother. Not another rooster fight!

  Thankfully, an excited shout from across the street broke the standoff.

  “Hey, Lieutenant! There’s a whole rack of blown M-80s up here. It looks like the fireworks were set off by throwaway phones.”

  Quinn cracked a justified smile. McNulty cursed. Then he turned to me—the “little lady” who was right all along! I folded my arms, waiting for an apology followed by a polite request for my detailed impressions of the incident.