Espresso Shot cm-7

by Клео Коул

  “Okay, Matt, okay. I hear you. Just please calm down.” I pulled a chair out from the table and shook it. “Now would you sit already.”

  For a long moment, my ex-husband stared at me (glared, really, since he could obviously tell I was skeptical of his sudden Breanne-in-peril theory). But then with a grunt he sank down beside me again, put his elbows on the table, and dropped his head in his hands.

  “I think you’re overwrought,” I told him carefully. “You’ve had a lot of alcohol, then a terrible shock, then enough caffeine to jump-start a Hummer. Forget about helping me and the guys downstairs tonight, okay? You need to go upstairs and get some rest—”

  “Don’t talk to me like a psych patient, Clare. I’m not crazy.”

  “I didn’t say you were.”

  “Just hear me out. This theory of mine didn’t come out of nowhere. Something happened last Friday morning that you don’t know about.”

  “Oh?”

  “An SUV hopped the sidewalk and nearly ran Breanne down. Then it fled the scene.”

  “What?!”

  “It happened just down the street from her apartment building.”

  “You were with her?”

  “No.” He massaged his eyes. “I’d finished my workout early, so I’d been walking toward her from the health club up the street. Bree was on her cell phone, totally distracted. But I saw the vehicle jump the curb behind her and come right for her. If I hadn’t lunged for her, slammed her into a doorway, she could have been flattened.”

  “Did you tell the police?”

  “Of course! But nothing came of it. There are thousands of black SUVs in Manhattan, and this one had mud splattered across its license plate, so I couldn’t give the cops anything more than a pathetically general description. The whole thing happened in seconds, the side windows were darkly tinted, and there was a sunscreen blocking most of the front windshield. I couldn’t even see whether it was a man or woman driving.”

  “Weren’t there any other witnesses?”

  Matt nodded. “An elderly couple saw the whole thing, but neither could ID the vehicle any better than I could.”

  “Mud on the license, huh? That does sound a bit suspicious, like someone planned it.”

  “Why do you think I’m bringing it up?! At the time, I thought it was a freak accident, easily forgotten, no actual harm done, you know? Just a scare. But after tonight’s shooting ...”

  I got up from the table and walked to the window, out of the shadows and into them again. Thinking it over, I had plenty of doubts. But for Matt’s sake, I was willing to take his theory for a test drive.

  “Do you know anyone who might want to hurt Breanne? What about this Randall Knox character you mentioned earlier? Didn’t you tell me he had a history with her?”

  “Yeah, but...” Matt shook his head, “it’s no big secret how Knox wants to hurt Breanne. He wants to publicly humiliate her, catch her or me in some kind of embarrassing scenario before the wedding to boost his own career. Knox’s assigned stalkers have cameras, not guns.”

  “Is there anyone else you can think of who might be angry with her? Someone who’s threatened her lately?”

  “Yes. I can...”

  Matt opened his laptop and struck a button to bring the computer out of hibernation.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I want you to see a Web site.” He logged on to the Internet via the Blend’s wireless connection and began typing into his browser. “Not long ago, Breanne’s magazine did an exposé on a restaurant, and the chef and owner of the place has been posting some pretty disturbing things about Breanne on his blog.”

  “What sort of things?”

  Matt slid his computer toward me and pointed at its screen. A maroon banner across the top of the Web page read, “The Prodigal Chef.” Standing next to the letters was the caricature of a man with a dark brown goatee on an exaggerated chin. A tall chef’s hat half covered his spiky platinum blond hair. He wore a white chef’s jacket and a ridiculously broad smile. In his left hand was an open bottle of wine, in his right a meat cleaver.

  Below the banner was the headline of the blog’s latest entry:

  10 WAYS TO SERVE BREANNE SUMMOUR

  “Serve Breanne,” I murmured. With a headline like that, I expected the article that followed would be about tastemaker Breanne’s favorite cocktails or finger food, something along the lines of how to make the powerful Trend editor-in-chief happy when she visited your nightclub or restaurant.

  But that’s not what the Prodigal Chef meant by serving Breanne.

  The first clue was the large picture below the headline. The chef had cut Breanne’s face out of another picture and plastered it to the body of a plucked chicken. Recipes were posted below it, which included methods of frying, broiling, and roasting “the Breanne” over red-hot coals, among other things. Finally, there were instructions for cutting her up so her parts could be used when other tasty recipes called for something especially bitter. “And, don’t forget,” the rambling blog entry finished, “Breanne Summour makes the perfect tart.”

  I turned to Matt. “Who is this guy? Sweeney Todd?”

  “His name’s Neville Perry. Look...”

  Matt clicked on a link that read, “About the Prodigal Chef.” A brief bio popped up. “Two years ago, this guy had some sort of short-lived reality show attached to his restaurant. The place was extremely popular. Then Trend did an exposé. The World Wide Web spread the word, and Perry’s business never recovered.”

  I knew—from my own daughter’s recent experience—how cutthroat the New York restaurant industry could be. Still, I doubted a chef who’d publicly expressed hatred for Breanne would hire a sharpshooter to off her. How dim a bulb would you have to be to do that?

  “Look, Matt, if the man was savvy enough to open a New York restaurant, I can’t see him stupid enough to advertise himself as a murder suspect—”

  Matt opened his mouth to argue, but I quickly added: “On the other hand, I do think we need to tell Soles and Bass about your suspicions. This is pretty disturbing, and we should definitely see what they think.”

  “Clare, I’m really freaked about this.”

  “I know you are, but listen, even if this killer was after Breanne, this person’s not going to know who was shot for a while. I mean, the shooter’s going to stay low for fear of being caught. And the authorities aren’t going to release Hazel Boggs’s name to the press until her family’s been notified. That gives you a few days to work with Soles and Bass. They can pursue leads, see what turns up. And before you know it, your wedding day will be here, and you’ll be getting Bree out of town. You’re flying off to Barcelona for the honeymoon, right?”

  “Yeah, but...” Matt sighed, hung his head. “I’m still freaked.”

  I nodded, tried to look supportive. Despite his strong feelings, however, I really doubted he was right. Matt was stressed—and paranoia was never a long trip from that state. After a good night’s sleep, he was bound to see things differently.

  By tomorrow, the detectives from the Sixth would probably have Hazel Boggs’s shooter in custody, a murder weapon impounded, and an assistant district attorney drooling over an open-and-shut felony case. Then maybe Matt could rest easy, realize he was wrong, and finally start enjoying his last few days of bachelorhood.

  In the hearth across the room, the feverish crackling had slowed. The flames that had been burning so strongly when I’d first come upstairs were now slowly dying. Rising, I gently suggested to Matt that we table this discussion and head downstairs. Then he could help Gardner behind the counter, and Dante and I could begin taking free coffees out to the New York police and fire personnel.

  The long night was about to get even longer and—like I’d told my overworked baristas—morning came too early around here.

  Seven

  Ninety minutes later my body had exhausted every last molecule of caffeine, and I was ready to drop. With the lights finally out downstairs and Matt tuc
ked into his old guest room down the hall, I pulled my chestnut hair free of its barista ponytail and changed into the softest garment I owned—no, not a pashmina nightie—an oversized Steelers football jersey.

  When I was a little girl, growing up in Western Pennsylvania, my father ran an illegal sports book in back of my grandmother’s grocery. Naturally, the Pittsburgh teams were his bread and butter. But that wasn’t the reason I wore the shirt. My grandmother believed in signs, and she’d become convinced that Franco Harris’s Immaculate Reception during the Steelers playoff with the Oakland Raiders was some kind of miracle. So she gave me the football jersey with Harris’s 32 on it and said if I slept in it, I would be protected.

  Yeah, I know. To the typical modern-thinking urbanite, this notion would be waved away as ridiculous, a joke, some kind of psychosis. But Nana grew up in a remote Italian village where curses were more common than slip-and-fall lawyers, and things not seen carried at least as much validity as earth and sky. To her, the malocchio wasn’t some quaint old-world notion. The evil eye was very real, something to be actively warded off.

  Growing up in an American suburb, I didn’t have nearly the same level of imagination as my grandmother, but I wore the jersey to humor her—until I grew out of it. When I was seventeen, preparing for my freshman year of fine arts studies, she bought me a brand-new one. It was the last one she gave me before leaving this life, and it’s the one I still wear. Its edges are frayed now, its logo massively faded, but I wouldn’t trade the threadbare talisman for a truckload of Himalayan cashmere.

  Yawning like a sleepwalker, I swung my legs beneath the covers of the mahogany four-poster, but I didn’t turn off the bedside lamp. Not yet. Despite the fact that my eyes were practically closed, I couldn’t shut them completely until I heard one last voice.

  I grabbed my cell phone off the nightstand and speed-dialed the second number on my list (the first was my daughter’s). Holding my breath, I listened as the electronic pulses made the connection I’d been aching for all evening: one ring, two—

  “Hi, Clare.”

  “Hi, Mike.”

  “Nice to hear from you, sweetheart...”

  I closed my eyes and smiled. Mike and I had been friends for well over a year before we’d become lovers. Now his deep voice felt as familiar and protective as my timeworn night-shirt.

  “Sorry I’m calling so late,” I said, “but I wanted to say good night...”

  I actually wanted to do more than that with Michael Ryan Francis Quinn, and I wanted it to start with kissing. Some men treated the act perfunctorily, as nothing more than a speedy prelude to other things. Not Mike. The man’s kisses were sweet and lazy and exploratory. When we were alone, he took his time.

  “You in bed?” he asked, his voice low.

  “Yes.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “So what are you wearing? Or not wearing?”

  Mike’s voice had slid down even further—to a provocative level of growl that seemed to touch parts of me right through the phone line. I swallowed, ready to reply, when I heard a strange man chuckling suggestively in the background.

  “Okay, Sullivan, just shut up and drive.” Mike’s voice was muffled, his hand obviously covering the phone. Then he was back. “Go ahead, sweetheart, I’m listening...”

  I rolled my eyes. “Mike, I’m not giving you phone sex if you’re still on duty.”

  “Not even a little dirty talk?”

  “No. And I can’t believe you’d suggest it with a colleague in the car.”

  “Sullivan’s not a colleague. He’s a pain in my neck, not to mention a lousy driver.”

  “Awwww...” Sullivan called, presumably from behind the wheel. “Love you, too, Lieutenant.”

  “Eyes on the road, Sully. One more fender bender, and I’m personally revoking your license. So...” His voice was now talking to me. “How was your night?”

  “Highly caffeinated.”

  Mike laughed. “I heard there was a shooting on Hudson. Did you know about that?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. I had a front-row seat for it.”

  “What?”

  “I was with the girl who was killed.”

  Mike swore. “Christ, Clare, why didn’t you call me sooner?!”

  “Things got too crazy around here. You have your own work, and Lori Soles and Sue Ellen Bass were assigned to the case. They were really helpful, too. But I’d still like to talk with you about it, if that’s all right?”

  “Of course,” Mike said. Then he fell silent a moment. “You okay? Do you want me to come over?”

  “I’m fine, and as far as you coming over... You do remember what we discussed last night, right?” I’d already warned him about Matt’s using the apartment’s guest room.

  “Yeah, I remember. Doesn’t mean I like it any better.”

  “Well, he’s only here until Saturday, and then he’s out of my living space for good. After the wedding ceremony, he’s officially handing me his key.”

  “Then I guess you and I better make sure that wedding takes place.”

  Mike’s tone had turned hard, but I couldn’t blame him. He had never trusted Matteo Allegro, and the feeling was mutual on Matt’s part. Since their first meeting involved guns, handcuffs, and an interrogation (in this very apartment, come to think of it), I couldn’t blame my ex-husband, either.

  The thing Mike Quinn really disliked, however, was my living situation. As the owner of this multimillion-dollar West Village town house, Madame had given both me and her son the legal right to use the duplex (rent free, thank you very much).

  The arrangement hadn’t mattered when Quinn and I were just friends, hanging out at the espresso bar, talking about his cases. Matt had used the guest room infrequently, no more than one week a month when he wasn’t traveling. But after Quinn’s wife left him and we started dating, things got complicated.

  Quinn refused to put up with my ex-husband barging in any time he liked, so I made the sane and logical decision to move out. Thankfully, Matt proposed marriage to Breanne and moved out first. Problem solved (apart from this week, anyway).

  “Matteo’s really not that bad of a guy,” I said. “Once you get to know him better, you’ll see.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “No, really. He turned down a chance to go to Scores with his pals tonight. And for once he didn’t attempt a pass at me. I wouldn’t say he’s a changed man, but I do think he’s willing to make some adjustments in his lifestyle to see that his second marriage succeeds. I know it’s important to him.”

  “Enough about your ex-husband. When can I see you again?”

  “After Matt’s wedding on Saturday.”

  “That’s too long, Cosi. Come over to my place tomorrow night.”

  “I wish I could, but I have way too much to do this week. And by the way, Lieutenant, didn’t you tell me the next six weeks are going to be pretty hairy for you?”

  Ten days ago, Mike had been assigned to step in for a detective lieutenant on medical leave. The man had been overseeing a special experimental task force. As Mike explained it to me, prescription drug abuse along with an increased availability of heroin and opiates were resulting in a rash of overdose fatalities in the city. CompStat identified the pattern, and Mike’s captain at the Sixth had proposed a special task force.

  The small unit of detectives Mike was now overseeing combined his past expertise in homicide as a precinct detective and narcotics as an anticrime street cop. Nicknamed the OD Squad, these detectives were tasked with investigating any drug overdose within New York’s five boroughs, lethal or not, and documenting the victim’s sources, whether legit or not. It was a complicated tour of duty that involved liaising with medical professionals, DEA agents, and New York’s Office of Alcohol and Substance Abuse Services.

  Tonight’s case had put Mike on the Upper East Side. He and another detective were just driving away from the hospital, where a wealthy young banker was taken after h
e’d overdosed on a mix of prescription drugs and cocaine.

  “The guy was still alive when the maid found him,” Mike said. “But just barely. We thought we might get a statement out of him, but he’s down for the count. We’ll try again in the morning.”

  “Oh, God. I hope he makes it.”

  “Yeah, so do I. He’s twenty-six and already divorced. The ex-wife showed right away at the hospital, even before the mother. None of them knew anything about his habit.”

  I closed my eyes, the details bringing back way too many bad memories. Suddenly, I was feeling more tired than ever—and wanting to see Mike more than ever, too. “Promise me you’ll stop by the Blend when you get a chance, okay?”

  “Sure, but I still don’t believe you can’t get away for one night this week.” Mike’s deep voice went low again, back to sexy growl mode. “Come on, Cosi, one night. Believe me, sweetheart, I’ll make it worth your while.”

  I didn’t doubt he could. “Let’s see how the week goes.”

  When my bedside phone rang the next morning, I rolled over and picked it up with eyes closed and a dreamy smile on my face.

  Mike and I had been making love in a secluded Hawaiian cove on white sugar sand. The sweet weight of his solid body was stretched out on top of me, his caramel-brown hair lifting on the Pacific evening breeze. A banner of glittering stars flickered above us, the rhythmic crashing of the night surf the only sound.

  “Hello?” I whispered, expecting to hear Mike Quinn’s delicious growl again.

  “Clare, dear, are you awake?”

  “Madame?” My eyelids instantly lifted.

  “You’re opening in less than an hour. My goodness, aren’t you out of bed yet?”

  Except for the cotton candy pinkish crack of sunrise between the drawn drapes, the room was still dark. I reached over and clicked on the lamp. The clock radio read 6:40.

  “I ended up closing last night,” I told Matt’s mother through a half-stifled yawn, “so Tucker agreed to open for me today.”