Dead Cold Brew

by Cleo Coyle

  “Yes, and none of it’s true.”

  “I know that now. Clearly, Hunter is a victim of circumstance. But the police won’t know that for hours, and because of his association with Eduardo De Santis, they’ll be questioning him for the next twenty-four, pressing him for any information he can give them on Club Town Eddy and his business in the city.”

  “I should tell my lawyers all of this.”

  “Yes, you should . . .”

  As Sophia made the call to her attorneys, I sat back and now considered (ironically enough) how to prove Hunter’s innocence. By the time she was done, I had an answer.

  “Sophia, Detective Soles told me the police found Hunter’s fingerprints on Gus’s glass of poisoned coffee while his own drink was untouched—”

  “It was untouched because Hunter can’t drink coffee. It makes him ill.”

  “I know that. But the police didn’t, which is another reason they picked him up today.”

  “What about that person who knocked you down, the one in the black raincoat?”

  “My Phantom?”

  Sophia nodded. “Why aren’t the police tracking him down as a suspect?”

  “It’s possible they already did—and dismissed him. By now, a routine investigation would have included interviews with your father’s employees and close associates. But the forensics yielded Hunter’s fingerprints. He had opportunity, proximity, and motive since Gus’s death would mean you’d inherit the business and as your husband he would profit. So my next question is important. Did your father know that your husband is allergic to caffeine?”

  “No. There’s no reason he would. I’m sure Hunter accepted the glass of cold brew out of politeness. He was already on pins and needles facing Dad. I know how tough my father can be.”

  “So there’s a valid reason Hunter’s glass went untouched. And a good lawyer would say that just because Hunter’s fingerprints are on Gus’s glass doesn’t prove that he put the poison in it. Your husband could have held or moved Gus’s glass for any number of reasons. And maybe the poison wasn’t put in the glass at all. Maybe the poison originated from somewhere else.”

  “His forge?”

  “No. His cold brew jars. I saw them lined up in the refrigerator when I visited last week.”

  Sophia finished her second Irish coffee. “I don’t follow.”

  “Cold brew can take anywhere from twelve to twenty hours to make, depending on the type of coffee and the batch size. You add ground coffee to cold water and place it in the refrigerator to steep. After the flavor is extracted, the grounds must be filtered out. Your father made his cold brew in quart-sized Mason jars. He staggered the steeping and clearly labeled each jar. Some jars were just started, a few were in the middle of the steeping process, and others were already filtered and ready for drinking.”

  “And you think someone poisoned one of the jars?”

  “Yes. You can store cold brew coffee for up to a week, but Gus went through his much quicker than that. That’s why I think the person who poisoned Gus’s coffee could have been someone who visited him a day or two before we found him poisoned. It’s ingenious because whoever did this would be long gone by the time Gus drank it.”

  “So what can we do?”

  “Well, a logical investigation has to start somewhere. So let’s check your surveillance cameras again. Hopefully, they go back a few days—”

  “They go back seven days.”

  “Good. If we see any possible suspects who visited Gus in the hours—and days—leading up to his drinking the poison, then we show them to your lawyers.”

  Sophia thumbed her phone and cursed. “The battery died.”

  “The Village Blend has Wi-Fi. Can you hook up your surveillance system to any device?”

  “Sure. The passcodes are in my head.”

  Tuck returned, glanced at the empty cups and shot glasses. “Would you like more Irish coffee?”

  “Just bring the bottle,” Sophia replied. Suddenly embarrassed, she covered her mouth. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t have a liquor license.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry about that,” Tuck said with a wink. “We never make a liquor sale here—just complimentary service for family and friends.”

  While my assistant manager fetched Sophia’s bottle, I went to my office and grabbed my laptop.

  She was logging on when Tuck got back.

  “Here you go. For the ladies who liquid lunch.”

  Not only had Tuck delivered the Jameson, he’d dug tumblers out of our catering closet, and brought water and a bowl of ice, too. Sophia passed on the amenities and downed a quick shot.

  “You know, honey,” Tuck said, “my mother was quite the drinker. And her mother, Granny Chestnut, used to warn her: ‘People who drink to drown their sorrow should be told that sorrow knows how to swim.’”

  I arched an eyebrow at my assistant manager. “That wasn’t your grandmother, Tuck, that was Ann Landers.”

  “And Granny read that column every single day!”

  “It’s all right,” said Sophia, French-tipped fingers hovering over the computer keys. “I may have had a few, but I’m not about to drown—or let my family sink. Now, let’s get started.”

  SIXTY-FIVE

  “HOLD that picture!”

  Sophia froze the security camera image of my Phantom in the hooded raincoat—the one who’d slammed through Gus’s iron gate and knocked me on my assets.

  We were no longer squinting at a tiny phone. We were watching the surveillance footage on my laptop’s fifteen-inch screen, where I quickly discovered the devil is in the details, and there were several significant little devils I’d missed the first time.

  This Phantom figure wasn’t very tall when measured against the size of the gate, the figure’s shoulders were narrow, and the raincoat was not completely black. The sleeves had cuffs with a gray and black flower pattern. All of which suggested a woman, not a man.

  Stopping frame by frame, we zoomed in close on the Phantom’s hand gripping the gate. It appeared my menacing Phantom was wearing pink nail polish.

  “Thanks,” I told Sophia. “Now let’s go back in time.”

  She jumped the recording back to six AM the day before we found Gus poisoned. In fast motion we watched deliverymen come and go along with the mail carrier. Neighbors moved up and down the sidewalk.

  Then, in the early evening, Gus had a visitor.

  “It’s Perla,” Sophia said, slowing the recording to normal speed. “You can’t miss that hair.”

  Or lack thereof. Perla’s pixie cut was extreme but attractive with her high cheekbones. Strands of gray-white hair heavily salted the raven black color.

  For a woman in her sixties, she was in superb shape with a strong, athletic build. She wore chunky-heeled boots and loose, outdoorsy clothing—khaki pants with an open Windbreaker over a Henley. From the quality of the cut and the material, they looked more like J.Crew or Patagonia than Old Navy.

  Perla used her own key to let herself through the gate. She wasn’t in the habit of wearing makeup, let alone nail polish, and I could see, measuring her height against the gate, that she was much taller than the Phantom figure in the raincoat.

  Perla’s visit with her father lasted nearly two hours.

  “Longer than her hospital stop today,” Sophia said. “Perla had to rush off to explore a just-discovered fallout shelter inside the Brooklyn Bridge . . .”

  I nodded. Perla was a doctor of urban archaeology, so I wasn’t surprised. Her work took her to some of the oddest places in the five boroughs.

  The recording of the next day’s activities revealed more deliveries, mail, and the neighbors again. At around two o’clock Gus had another visitor. This one was about the same height as our Phantom.

  Sophia didn’t have a clue who the tony, middle-aged woman with the cat gl
asses was. I didn’t know her name, but I’d seen her before—in front of Gus’s gate a week ago, demanding entry.

  As we watched the footage, Gus buzzed the woman in, but she didn’t stay long. After fifteen minutes she stormed out the gate and angrily hailed a taxi.

  “From her body language, it doesn’t look like her conversation with your father went well.”

  “I don’t recognize her,” Sophia replied. “What I can tell you is that those glasses are Bulgari, and that particular jeweled frame is only sold in Italy, so she’s either Italian or visited Italy recently.”

  “You’re getting good at this detective thing.”

  Sophia downed another shot and patted my shoulder. “I have a good teacher.”

  On the morning of the day Gus drank the poison, we discovered the last visitor Gus had before Hunter showed up in the late afternoon.

  “Matt’s mother!” Sophia and I cried out together.

  SIXTY-SIX

  THE recording that followed told a disturbing tale in silent-movie fashion, but maddeningly lacking those all-important dialogue cards that give viewers the rest of the story.

  Madame arrived at nine in the morning—about the same time she’d called me to say she had a change of heart about attending the box opening. During the call, she also mentioned being upset about her late husband keeping this mysterious legacy a secret from her.

  Clearly, she’d gone to Gus for answers.

  When she arrived, Gus greeted her sweetly at the gate with a kiss on each cheek, and they went inside the property, where the visit lasted for over two hours.

  Did Gus tell Madame the truth about the Eye of the Cat? And why he involved Matt’s father in a scheme to hide it? Or was the conversation even more revealing? Did he confess why he was being blackmailed? And what really happened all those years ago on the sinking Andrea Doria?

  Whatever they discussed, the real mystery began when Madame and Gus parted ways.

  Gus took the trouble to escort Madame across the hidden courtyard and through the exterior gate. On the sidewalk, they hugged, and Gus waved as Madame strolled down the block.

  Before she got very far, a familiar black Jaguar rolled quickly up to the sidewalk in front of Gus. He must have recognized the car, because instead of walking back inside the courtyard, he waited until it stopped.

  The camera angle was bad, and there was glare, so I couldn’t tell if the driver was the man with the U-shaped scar. Still, I expected the woman with cat glasses to climb out of the backseat.

  This time I was wrong.

  When the door behind the driver opened, an old man in a spotless white suit climbed out with the help of his walking stick. That man used that stick to close the car door. Then, smirking, he faced Gus.

  Sophia froze the picture so we could study more detail.

  “The suit is very good quality, but it’s an old-fashioned cut,” Sophia said. “It was likely purchased in the last century. And that hair is too thick, too dark, and too long to be real. It certainly doesn’t match his age. The skeevy mustache is dyed too dark, too. This man is trying to disguise his appearance. He must be—”

  “—the blackmailer from Rome!” we cried in unison.

  Sophia restarted the footage.

  The visitor took two steps toward the gate, and Gus exploded in absolute rage. The wild gestures were threatening enough to stop the man in his tracks.

  Meanwhile, just inside camera range, Madame turned to watch the entire exchange with wide eyes.

  The argument was cut short when Gus made a final universally obscene gesture and retreated back through his iron gate, slamming it shut behind him, which left the man in the white suit locked out.

  It should have ended there, but it didn’t. In fact, the worst was yet to come.

  Madame had a curiosity like mine, and when it was piqued, she couldn’t let it go. Now I watched in helpless dread as she approached this blackmailer in the white suit.

  The man’s demeanor instantly changed when he faced Madame. The smirk vanished, replaced by a snake charmer’s smile. He bowed graciously, and even kissed her hand.

  After Madame and he spoke for a few minutes, the man pointed to the black Jag, offering Madame a ride.

  To my horror, she accepted, allowing him to help her into the backseat. He climbed in on the other side, and the Jag sped away.

  I gritted my teeth as Matt’s one-word warning popped into my head.

  Vendetta.

  The tension was so thick in the coffee lounge that the rattle of my smartphone startled both Sophia and me.

  “Yes!” I answered.

  “Clare, it’s Matt.” His voice was tense, and I knew why. “It’s Mother. I can’t find her. When her housekeeper arrived this morning, the apartment was empty. I’ve tried texting and voice mail, but she hasn’t responded. I don’t know what’s happened to her.”

  God help me, I did know—and the truth scared me to death.

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  “MATT! What took you so long?”

  “So long? I got here from my Red Hook warehouse in one hour, in heavy traffic, in the pouring rain!”

  Matt didn’t have to tell me it was pouring outside. As he stepped into my apartment, he shook off his yellow slicker and water sprayed everywhere.

  “It’s been over an hour, and you should have been here sooner.” I jumped clear of the Matt monsoon. “Did you stop along the way?”

  “Only once.” He held up a speeding ticket.

  “Great,” I called from the kitchen. “I hope Emmanuel Franco didn’t write that.”

  “No, it was some other poliziotto fascista.”

  “So you weren’t actually speeding?”

  “Yes, of course, I was speeding! I was trying to get here! And I’d appreciate your leaving the Mook’s name out of our conversations from this day forward . . .” Shaking his shaggy dark hair, Matt continued shedding water like a wet dog. “So when can I see this security camera recording?”

  I handed him a fistful of paper towels. “As soon as we mop up Lake Allegro.”

  While we dried the flood, I told Matt about Gus being poisoned, Hunter’s arrest for the crime, and Sophia’s more than understandable freak-out.

  By now, the poor woman was passed out in my bedroom.

  In the hour and twenty minutes it took Matt to drive here, I’d even convinced her to have actual food—a smart idea on top of all that whiskey and a single Pretty in Pink cookie. And since I wanted to provide something delicious and nutritious for her, I whipped up a big batch of my Pumpkin Alfredo, which also made good use of the leftover pumpkin puree from my morning baking. The beautiful pastel orange fettuccine had all the buttery fall flavor of pumpkin ravioli and the rich and decadent creaminess of regular Alfredo, but with more fiber and vitamins from the winter squash.

  After swooning over the bowl and inhaling the mound of pasta, Sophia showered in my upstairs bath and borrowed a change of clothes: a pair of my jeans with a belt notched tightly enough to hold the roomier size on her slender frame. And because chic styling was second nature to her, she automatically knotted my oversize T-shirt, adjusting it cleverly enough for a casual-girl-at-home magazine spread.

  By the time I finished cleaning the dishes, she was sleeping soundly on my bed, Java and Frothy curled up, almost protectively, on either side of her.

  Fortunately, she left my laptop linked to the jewelry store’s security system, and the software was user-friendly. I jumped around a bit to confirm my suspicions, then I sent several screen grabs to my printer.

  I’d just finished up when I heard my waterlogged ex at the front door . . .

  After mopping up the rainwater, we moved to the kitchen, where I ran the footage of Madame and the mystery man in the white suit.

  “That’s got to be the guy from Rome,” Matt said, pacing the length of the c
ounter. “The blackmailer Hunter talked to you about, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, and so does Sophia. But we don’t have his name, or the name of the others I saw in that same car—the thuggish guy with the U-shaped cheek scar or that fashionista with the cat glasses, a woman who is suspiciously close to the same height as the Phantom.”

  “The Phantom? Another comic book character?”

  “The Phantom is how I think of that figure in the black raincoat, the one who ran me down on the day Gus was poisoned.”

  “Do you think this woman poisoned him?”

  “It’s possible, but we need more answers. And real evidence.”

  Matt bent over the screen, squinted, and shook his head. “I can’t make out the license plate on the car. The angle is wrong.”

  “The question is: Do you believe your mother is in danger?”

  “I don’t know, Clare, we could be overreacting . . .”

  I had to admit, I was leaning in that direction. While waiting for Matt, I had calmed down from my initial emotional response and tried to think things through logically.

  “It’s possible the man in the white suit only wanted information from your mother and simply took her for a drive and maybe to dinner. Whatever Gus and this blackmailer told her may have been deeply upsetting to her, especially if it involved your late father. Maybe she decided to get out of town for a while to think things through. She could have hopped a plane to visit a friend—she has them all over the world. And if she did, she’ll be in touch soon, right?”

  “I guess so. My mother does act on impulse.”

  “Not unlike her son.”

  “And she’s often taken trips at a moment’s notice—or no notice.”