by Cleo Coyle
He laughed. “I was missing you, sweetheart, that’s all. Can I come over tonight? I’ll just slip into bed.”
“That would be nice.” Now my voice was going all low and throaty. “Yes, I’d like that. Very much.”
“Good. I’ll see you soon . . .”
Mike signed off, and I climbed into the antique four-poster. The night had gotten colder, and the bedroom felt chilly, but I was too tired to light a fire—and, honestly, though Mike’s call was short, it succeeded in getting me sufficiently hot and bothered. As I drew the bedcovers over my legs, my furry feline roommates cuddled up.
“You can stay,” I told the pair, scratching their purring heads. “But when the big guy gets here, you better make room for him . . .”
Yet another royal fanfare sounded on my phone. I muted the Cinder alert, but kept the device on. Joy should be ringing any minute.
I couldn’t help recalling what Sergeant Jones said about the worries he had for his single daughters, out there on uncertain waters, trying to navigate their way through the “hit-it-and-quit-it” dating app culture.
More than ever now, I was glad my Joy was in a loving, committed relationship with a good man. With a yawn, I put my head on the pillow, staring at the phone on my nightstand, waiting for that special ringtone, “Always Be My Baby.”
But my daughter’s call never came.
Instead, a text alert sounded. I scanned the phone screen to find another cryptic message from her.
2 tired 2 get into this by phone.
Let’s talk tomorrow.
I collapsed against the pillows. Get into what exactly? What on earth could be wrong?
My ex-husband would say I was being ridiculous, overthinking two simple messages—but I knew my daughter.
Though I would always think of her as my baby, Joy was a tough young woman with remarkable resilience and strength. I knew because I’d suffered with her through every heartbreak, every costly mistake, including the shame of being expelled from culinary school. Thank goodness, Joy refused to let it break her. Instead, she dug deep and applied herself to a demanding apprenticeship in a Paris kitchen. First, she learned. Then she soared. Her culinary ideas even helped earn the restaurant its first Michelin star.
Now, Joy had the best kind of confidence, born of experience, and it made her bold and frank when it came to discussing any issues with me or her grandmother about our business. She was a great manager, a superb cook, and got along wonderfully with everyone in DC—which is why I doubted this “talk” was going to be about her work.
Whatever was wrong, I’d have to be patient, just like I was when Joy was a teenager, all quiet and sullen, reluctant to open up about some problem at school or fight with a friend, until I pulled it out of her.
With my mind working overtime—not just about my daughter but about my flagging business downstairs and my assistant manager going AWOL—I turned to face the wall.
Beautiful artwork hung there, part of Madame’s large collection, but it gave me no comfort tonight. The room was too dark. All I could make out were grim shadows of swaying tree limbs, crawling across the frames like the crooked arms of a looming monster . . .
Monster.
The word brought a chill that had nothing to do with the cold state of the room. It was a monster who ended Haley’s days, emptied her pockets while she lay dying, and threw her body away like trash.
I wanted to see Heart Girl again, smiling at our counter. But I never would. Not even in my memories. The only image I could dredge up was the one still on my smartphone. A corpse in the water, hair floating around her, bloodred tattoo on a cheek pale as death.
Tears rose in my eyes, and I took a breath, let it out. Mike would be here soon and I was glad. I needed to see him.
Fearing nightmares, I fought against sleep. But the day had been long and my worries weighty. Instead of keeping me awake, they pulled me down, making my eyelids heavier and heavier, until I slipped beneath a wave of black.
Fifty-one
AM I dreaming?
The room felt warmer. Soft sounds of crackling ascended from the hearth as a deep voice tickled my ear.
“Mmm, your skin smells nice . . .”
I opened my eyes. A golden glow now bathed the beautiful wall of artwork I faced. Strong hands sweetly caressed my body. Soft lips tasted my bare shoulder. I moaned and turned over to find the top buttons of my nightshirt undone—and I didn’t mind one bit.
“You’re here . . .” I touched his bristly cheek. “It’s not a dream.”
“I’m here,” Mike said. “And you smell different.”
“It’s the soap. A pretty little rose petal soap from Paris.”
“That’s funny . . .” He propped himself on an elbow. “I didn’t see anything like that in the bathroom.”
Forever the detective, I thought. Even in the shadowy light, Mike’s blue gaze was sharp, searching my face for answers. I didn’t blame him. After years living with a wife who frequently cheated, he’d learned to look for clues and signs, like a different soap when she cleaned up at some posh hotel.
Well, I had nothing to hide, not where my faithfulness was concerned. “I took a shower at Matt’s warehouse,” I told him straight. “And before you ask, there was a perfectly good reason.”
“I’m sure there was.”
I explained how a red SUV nearly ran me over and left me freezing in a muddy puddle. “Matt took care of me, let me clean up in his bathroom and warm up in his warehouse.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine—bruised ego, that’s all.”
“So how’s Allegro’s loft coming along?”
I paused. “I didn’t know you knew about that.”
“Why?” he said. “Because it’s a building code violation?”
“I think he used a licensed architect—the one designing our roastery. And I have to admit, it’s the perfect living space for a ‘don’t fence me in’ guy like Matt. None of his rooms have a fourth wall; he can sleep with his beloved coffee; and when he misses the bush, he’s got a tent on the roof with two charcoal grills.”
“So there’s a fire code violation?”
Oh, brother. “Forget I said anything. Please? The way things are going with our shop downstairs, he can’t afford citations.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not out to stick the guy . . .” Mike leaned back, put his hands behind his head. “But I do like having something on him—just in case he gets out of line.”
“Can’t we all just get along? Strive for family harmony?”
“Harmony’s okay by me, as long as Allegro understands that you and I are an exclusive duet.”
“He does.” I leaned closer. “And when he doesn’t, he gets a swift mental kick of a reminder.”
Mike smiled at that. “I’ll give Allegro credit for one thing. He has good taste in soap.”
“He does, but it’s not his taste I care about at the moment . . .”
I didn’t care about petty arguments, either. With everything going on in our lives, discussions about my ex-husband were a waste of precious time.
“We’re together now,” I told my fiancé, “and I can think of much pleasanter preoccupations . . .” Then I finished unbuttoning my nightshirt and Mike’s smile grew wider.
Fifty-two
“WHAT’S in the bag?”
Mike was nuzzling my neck again, only this time he was the one who smelled of soap. All freshly showered and shaved, he curled an arm around me as I stood at the kitchen counter, unpacking morning treats from downstairs—
“I’ve got hot cups of Breakfast blend and Blueberry Cream Cheese Scones with Vanilla-Lemon Glaze.”
“I was hungry for something else,” he growled in my ear. “But now I’m thinking—”
“Let’s eat,” we agreed together.
The day was
humming along nicely. I’d opened the coffeehouse to a slow but steady stream of our neighborhood regulars. Then Dante and one of our part-timers arrived, and I left the front to check inventory for our big event this evening.
I also checked my phone for contact from Joy, but there was nothing. So I set aside my mother-hen worrying. (It wasn’t easy.)
“Ahhh . . .” Mike’s sounds of bliss as he chewed and sipped brought my attention back to our little breakfast, and I dug into my own.
The warm scones were tender and flaky with bits of lemon zest in the vanilla glaze perfectly balancing the sweetness of the glazing sugar and bursting blueberries.
I licked my fingers, enjoying the pastry as much as the rare sight of Mike out of suit and tie. His long legs, which always seemed to go on forever in my cozy Village kitchen, were clad in comfy NYPD sweatpants while his still-damp hair rained tiny droplets on his worn gray T-shirt. He looked homey and relaxed—and sexy, too, with his broad shoulders squaring off the tee’s thin material and his biceps straining the short sleeves.
“Thanks for letting me sleep in,” he said.
“I could see you needed it.”
“Yeah, yesterday was a long one. But for good reason . . .”
As Mike paused to drain his cup, I was about to tell him that I’d had a long day, too, and was anticipating another. But before I could bring him up to speed with our Barista APB or our big event tonight, he dropped his own news . . .
“I’m going to London.”
“London, England?!”
He nodded. “For a week.”
“Why, for heaven’s sake? You had a mad impulse to watch the Changing of the Guard and eat fish and chips?”
“Not quite, although I’d never say no to fish and chips . . .”
According to Mike, a senior officer in the Joint Operations group was scheduled to give a presentation at an NCA conference. But the officer’s wife went into early labor.
“Most of yesterday, I was briefing the man for his presentation,” he said. “Now I’ve been ordered to deliver it.”
“Wait, back up,” I said. “What is NCA?”
“The National Crime Agency. It’s a UK law enforcement entity that focuses on organized crime, including drug trafficking. They’ve got more data on Styx than we do—it’s been in the UK much longer. We still have no leads on how it’s being trafficked into this country. So we’re going to share information. The DEA is sending an agent, as well.”
“When are you leaving?” I asked.
“Soon . . .” He checked his watch. “I’ve got to pack and get to JFK by three. The conference begins early Monday, and I’ll need to get settled in at the hotel.”
“Call me when you can, okay?”
His blue eyes smiled. “At night, when I’m all alone in that big hotel bed, you bet I’ll be calling.”
“Don’t forget, you’ll be five hours ahead.”
“Yeah, you’re right . . .” He rubbed his jaw in thought. “How do you feel about planning a few late afternoon breaks this week? You know, for a sexy bubble bath or change of clothes in your bedroom?”
I raised an eyebrow. “With the phone camera pointed in my direction, I suppose?”
“Of course.”
“We’ll see . . .”
Fifty-three
SINCE we only had time for one more cup of coffee together, I decided to make it count and use the East Timor beans Matt sent home with me last night.
“Tell me something,” I called as I searched the next room for my handbag. “Is our mugger from the park going to be part of your presentation?”
Mike laughed at the “our mugger” phrasing, but confirmed he was indeed part of the presentation. “The information he gave us cracked the online codes that the Styx dealers are using to sell their product in the New York area . . .”
I remembered Matt’s warning not to say anything about liking “candy” in my Cinder profile. According to Mike, Styx had its own peculiar hashtag codes, which included liking #rainbows or listing #RainbowParty or #Like2BChill among other codes.
“Now we’re following the money,” Mike went on. “Using those codes to connect with dealers, we’re building a case against a big fish for distribution—though we still have a long way to go on stopping the manufacturing and international trafficking.”
“I guess following the money is never a bad strategy.”
“It worked in this case. The payments we’re tracking are all being processed the same way—and providing the very best bread crumbs to the big cheese . . .”
“Big cheese? Is that the official term?”
Mike laughed. “I thought you’d appreciate the foodie reference.”
The money reference, as it turned out, was the one I appreciated more as I opened the bag my ex-husband had handed me last evening.
Inside, I found a sealed package of East Timor beans, which I expected. But there was something else in there, something Matt forgot to mention: a small, sealed envelope with “Clare” scrawled on it and a yellow Post-it note in his handwriting—
My day crew guys found something U wanted from the laundry? DK??
DK likely meant that Matt didn’t know what was inside the envelope. I quickly opened it to find out—and shouted with glee!
“Clare? What is it?”
“A bank withdrawal receipt!” I waved it in the air. “I left it in my apron pocket and thought it was gone for good.”
“Is it yours?”
I shook my head.
“Then who does it belong to?”
“That’s what I’d like you to find out . . .”
Over cups of the excellent East Timor, I told Mike about Soles and Bass, Richard Crest’s fake identification, and our Barista APB. (And, yes, I left out the part about posing as Kara to bait Crest—because no sane person would be happy about his romantic partner swiping a dating app for any reason.)
While Mike had no time to follow up on investigating the bank slip himself, he had a plan: “Since Soles and Bass aren’t sold on your theory, I’m bypassing them for now. Monday, I’ll put Franco on this. He’s the one who took Crest’s original statement, so he should request the warrant.”
“Wait,” I said. “You’re putting Franco on it Monday?”
“He’s off this weekend. And last I spoke with him—at our morning briefing yesterday—Franco was heading to Washington to see Joy.”
My jaw went slack as I wondered why Joy needed to “talk” with her mother when her boyfriend was visiting, a boyfriend she was mad for—at least, the last time I’d checked.
Mike finished his coffee and rose. “So, first thing Monday, I’ll send him these account numbers from London . . .” Noticing the stricken look on my face, he misjudged the reason.
“We have to go through proper channels, Clare. We can’t do it any faster, and I should also warn you that the bank may not even have this man’s real identity. Creating a bank account under a false name is not that difficult for someone who’s motivated. Locating him may take a lot more steps and a lot more time.”
Mike checked his watch again, and I kissed him good-bye. Though I wanted to keep talking about Franco and the bank withdrawal slip, this was not the time.
One thing I’d learned from loving cops: when duty called, you let them go. And this one was already heading for the door.
“Sorry, sweetheart, I’ve got to run. I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you, too. Stay safe—and call me!”
Fifty-four
“FOLLOWING the money is never a bad strategy . . .”
I thought about that as I descended the back service stairs, entered the coffeehouse pantry, and found myself face-to-face with Dante’s sketches.
The two likenesses of Richard Crest stared silently at me. And I stared back. I could see why all those young women were eage
r to believe Dick’s “good guy” act. His features were chiseled, classically masculine, with a squared-off chin and perfect nose.
Maybe too perfect? Plastic surgery?
Folding my arms, I asked the man why he wanted to abuse women. For a thrill? A sense of superiority? You obviously think well of yourself. And you appear to have money. Few people can afford to casually withdraw ten thousand in cash.
Ten thousand in cash . . .
It was a neat sum and a familiar one. Too familiar.
Just yesterday, I heard AJ mention it: “Tristan Ferrell doubled Haley’s salary and gave her a ten-thousand-dollar signing bonus—in cash.”
She said that happened three weeks ago.
Richard Crest’s bank withdrawal slip on the day of Haley’s murder was for the exact same amount.
A coincidence? Or a connection?
Detectives Soles and Bass said they interviewed Haley’s new boss, “Mr. Ferrell,” even checked out his alibi the night she was murdered. But they also admitted not knowing what Richard Crest looked like.
Could Ferrell and Crest possibly be the same man?
I went back upstairs, found my laptop, and called up the Equator website. The top of the site was a video loop of tanned and toned bodies smacking a giant globe around like an Atlas volleyball team. Suddenly, a young woman appeared with a tennis racket, batting words at me—
Equator
World of
Luxury
Fitness &
Innovative Workouts!
Names of the “Innovative” classes followed as I scrolled. Slick photos showed fit bodies intensely engaged in each of them.
Cyclone Cycling
Extreme Kickboxing
Global Volleyball
Cardio Badminton
Ping-Pong Flow
Non-Confrontational Dodgeball
The Critter Crawl® by Ferrell Fitness