Espresso Shot

by Cleo Coyle

  “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 he’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.”

  “I woke you then? I’m so sorry, dear.”

  “It’s okay.” I yawned again and rubbed my eyes. “What do you need?”

  “I was worried about you, Clare. The morning news is reporting that a woman was shot on Hudson last night. It’s on Channel 1 right now, and I can see from the background that the violence was perpetrated a block away from the Blend. Did you know about this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you all right?

  “Yes?

  “What about Joy? She’s not in yet, is she?”

  “No. Her flight’s on Wednesday. She didn’t want to miss the luncheon you’re throwing Thursday for the coffee guys.”

  “What about this woman who was shot? Did you know her?”

  “In a way . . .”

  “She was a customer?”

  “No . . .” I slowly sat up and between yawns briefly explained what had happened. Needless to say, Matt’s mother was flabbergasted.

  “My goodness! What a tale! You’re going to investigate, aren’t you? You know you can count on me to assist!”

  “I’m sure I could,” I said carefully, “but there are two very capable female detectives already on the case.”

  “Oh,” Madame replied, her disappointment obvious. “Well . . . how do you know the shooter wasn’t gunning for Matt or you, my dear? How do you know the shooter didn’t simply miss?”

  I blinked, considering the possibility for an entire five seconds before letting it go. “There’s nothing to worry about,” I said, then quickly flailed around my sleep-addled brain for a change of subject. “So, listen, are you all set with your dress for the wedding?”

  “The wedding . . .” Madame sighed. “Hasn’t that son of mine changed his mind yet?”

  Oh, jeez, here we go . . . “No. Matt hasn’t changed his mind. So don’t you think it’s about time you considered changing yours?”

  “Not until my boy opens his mouth to say, ‘I do,’ which I fully expect will come out ‘I don’t.’ ”

  “The wedding is in four days!”

  “And the universe was created in six.” Madame paused just then, and her voice went quiet, as if we were conspiring together. “Now that he’s moved back in with you, I have high hopes.”

  For the hundredth time, I pointed out the list of reasons Madame needed to accept her son’s decision to marry whomever he wanted. Matt’s age for one—he was over forty now, probably old enough to make decisions without his mother’s approval. And the proposal hadn’t exactly been rash. Matt had been sleeping with Breanne Summour for quite some time. Finally, I reminded my former mother-in-law the myriad ways Matt had transformed in Breanne’s shadow: wardrobe, attitude, expectations of entitlement . . .

  But all of my arguments were to no avail.

  “He doesn’t love her,” Madame declared. “And I can’t accept that Matt’s father and I gave birth to a son who would pledge himself in marriage to a woman he doesn’t love.”

  I massaged my forehead, desperate for another change of subject, because in about two seconds the woman was going to start in again about how Matt still loved me.

  “Listen,” I said quickly, “do you know what Matt told me last night?”

  “That he still loves you?”

  Ack. “No! He said he thought maybe the young woman who was shot had been killed by mistake.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I explained Matt’s theory. “Given the remote possibility that Matt’s right, can you think of anyone who would want to harm Breanne?”

  Madame laughed, short and sharp. “That woman makes enemies on a daily basis.”

  “That’s not helpful.”

  “Well, I can’t very well narrow it down for you if you don’t let me assist.”

  “There’s nothing to assist!”

  I took a breath. Then I calmly reiterated the stuff about the two very competent detectives already on the case. The line fell silent after that, but I could feel Madame frowning from fifteen blocks away.

  “Well,” she finally said, “I am quite outraged that this poor girl was shot down in the street like some kind of game animal. Such a beautiful girl, too.”

  “Yes, you know—” I blinked. “Wait. How do you know she was a beautiful girl?”

  “New York 1 is showing a photo of her right now. Her employer provided it, I believe. And she had such a lovely, old-fashioned first name. I haven’t heard that one in years . . .”

  I sat up straighter. “They’re giving out her name?”

  “Yes, do try to follow me, dear. The
newspeople have it right up there on the television screen: Hazel Boggs, twenty-two, of Wheeling, West Virginia.”

  Crap.

  “Clare? Are you still on the line?”

  “I’ve got to go,” I said, scrambling off the bed. “Talk to you later.”

  “But—”

  I hung up the phone and grabbed my robe. I needed coffee and lots of it. Then I’d have to shower and dress fast. Matt would be waking in an hour or two, and I was going to have to break some very bad news.

  I’d been wrong about the timing on Hazel’s name being released to the pubic. I thought we’d have a few days, but clearly the detailed report on the young woman’s murder was already being broadcast.

  The fact was: if the shooter had wanted to kill Hazel, the release of her name wouldn’t matter one whit. But what if Matt was right? What if the shooter actually meant to kill Breanne?

  I still had major doubts about Matt’s look-alike-stripper-shot-by-mistake theory, but the man nearly had a heart attack explaining it to me last night. As I stumbled toward the coffeepot, I knew I’d have to treat Matt with kid gloves this morning, because if he woke up still believing Breanne was in danger, then I was in for a heck of a lot more grief.

  EIGHT

  “YOU told me we had a few days! A few days, Clare, not hours!”

  “I know, Matt, I know. Please calm down . . .”

  We were walking north on Hudson. The air smelled springtime fresh with a hint of invigorating brine from the flowing river just a few blocks away. The morning sun was strong, and the swaying limbs of the newly budding elms were dappling the buttercup-yellow light with strokes of pearl-gray shade.

  Matt didn’t notice. He was too busy power striding toward the Sixth Precinct station house, a squat, concrete, narrow-windowed iteration of midcentury modern that was described by at least one architectural critic as a visual catastrophe—which from one point of view, it was.

  Just not from mine.

  You see, the Village’s previous precinct building was located a few blocks away on Charles Street. Now that structure was indisputably impressive. Dedicated by Teddy Roosevelt in 1897, the thing was solid granite with a neoclassical facade. But the actions inside that grand civic monument weren’t always so prized.

  Before the gay rights movement gained legitimacy, homosexuals and cross-dressers in the Village were routinely rounded up and dragged through the old precinct’s stately columns. During one of these attempted roundups, the legendary Stonewall Riots ensued. During another, an Argentine student became so distressed he threw himself out the second-floor window, impaling himself on the wrought-iron fence below. The young man lived, but the incident was an ugly moment in the Village’s otherwise flamboyant bohemian history.

  In 1970, the Charles Street station house was sold, and the men and women of the precinct moved to their West Tenth address. So, okay, the Sixth’s new building was a monstrosity of pseudomodernity. But the contemporary windows no longer looked down on a spiked fence; they looked out on Seagull Haircutters, one of the country’s very first unisex salons. The climate inside the building was a lot more tolerant, too.

  These days, the new Sixth had a female precinct commanding officer, employed a daring lady beat cop known as “the pit bull,” and championed the Gay & Lesbian Anti-Violence Project, the nation’s largest crime-victim service agency for the lesbian and gay communities.

  All in all, even given the abysmal architecture, I didn’t see a catastrophe here.

  As Matt jaywalked across Tenth between two parked vans, skirted a couple of police scooters, and pulled open the precinct’s heavy glass front door, I trotted along behind.

  The Sixth’s interior had the same characteristics as a lot of city buildings from the early seventies: an institutional floor of high-traffic cement and walls of concrete block finished with a coating of shiny enamel. I could almost see some city official choosing a “calming earth tone” off the builder’s color palette. But under the harsh light of fluorescent bulbs, the gray green walls looked more like giant bricks of molding Gouda.

  There was a booking area in the back of the ground floor. Closer to the lobby, a museum-type exhibit of police paraphernalia was displayed in glass cases. There was also a Wall of Honor with engraved plaques of the heroic officers from the Sixth who’d lost their lives on 9/11. (Sadly, far too many tributes like it could be found in precincts and firehouses throughout this city.)

  Unlike me, Matt didn’t waste any time observing the scenery. He approached the desk sergeant, a brawny African American cop with a shaved head, a mustache, and a terminal stare.

  “We’re here to see Detective Lori Soles.”

  “And you are?” his basso voice asked.

  “Matt and Clare Allegro.”

  “Cosi!” I corrected.

  Matt turned and glanced down at me. “What?”

  “You introduced us as Matt and Clare Allegro—”

  “I did?”

  The desk sergeant was no longer paying attention. He was already calling upstairs to the detectives’ squad room. A smiling Lori Soles appeared a few minutes later. She led us up the same staircase she’d just descended, then down the hall, through the detective squad room, and into an interview room—a small space with a metal table and chairs. On the wall was a mirror that I assumed was one-way glass with closed blinds dropped most of the way down over it.

  We weren’t suspects being interrogated, and Lori didn’t close the door after we entered. Thank goodness, I thought, because with no windows, the bare, airless room felt positively claustrophobic. If two detectives started questioning me in here, I’d probably confess just to get out again.

  As we sat down, I was about to exchange a few pleasantries with Lori, soften her up a little, maybe find out how their investigation was going. But Matt opened his big mouth first.

  “I have some information about last night’s shooting. Important information.”

  Lori nodded with great interest and stood. “Let me get my partner.”

  “Oh, crap,” Matt whispered.

  “Too late,” I said. “You’re in it now.”

  “This Soles person is okay. But that other one . . .”

  “Listen, Sue Ellen’s obviously crushin’ on you. Just use it to your advantage. You usually do.”

  “Are you mental? That woman’s six feet tall and packing. I don’t flirt with armed females.”

  “Too bad, Matt, because she’s certainly flirting with you. Do you know what she called you after you left the crime scene last night?”

  “I don’t want to know.”

  “Mr. Tight End.”

  Matt groaned. “Do me a favor. Don’t encourage her again.”

  Again? “When the heck did I encourage her?”

  Before Matt could answer, we heard the quick, determined footsteps of Lori Soles and her partner approaching. More brief pleasantries were exchanged, then the two Amazons sat down across from us at the metal table.

  Both women looked pretty much the same as they had the night before. Sue Ellen had her slicked-back ponytail and Lori her tight, blond cherub curls. Both were dressed similarly again, too. They each wore dark slacks and had exchanged their identical blue turtlenecks for white blouses, their nylon jackets for pressed blazers. At least their blazers were different colors, I thought. (Well, sort of . . . ) Lori’s was Kelly green; Sue Ellen’s was hunter.

  “So, Mr. Allegro,” Sue Ellen Bass began, the flirtation clearly dialed way down now that we were inside the precinct. “My partner tells me you have something important to share?”

  Matt immediately conveyed his suspicion that Hazel Boggs had been killed by mistake, and the single shot that ended her days had been meant for his fiancée Breanne Summour.

  Sue Ellen exchanged an unhappy glance with Lori. This was obviously not the kind of “important information” they’d been expecting to hear.

  Lori spoke up. “What exactly makes you think that your fiancée’s life is in danger?”
<
br />   Matt proceeded to lay everything out, just like he had for me the night before. He told them about the near miss with the SUV, the Prodigal Chef Web site, and even Randall Knox’s possible vendetta.

  In the light of day (or at least the harsh fluorescence of Interview Room B), Matt’s Breanne-in-peril theory sounded even weaker to me than it had in the shadows of last night’s firelight.

  “This Prodigal Chef person,” Sue Ellen said. “What’s his name?”

  “Neville Perry.” Matt leaned forward.

  “I see. Well, has this Neville Perry made any specific threats to your fiancée?”

  “What do you mean specific?” Matt asked.

  “I mean the Web site you describe sounds like a joke,” Sue Ellen replied. “Your fiancée is a public figure. If this chef sent her a threatening letter or e-mail, we should speak with her, see if she wants to lodge a formal charge. Then we can pursue it.”

  “There hasn’t been anything specific,” Matt admitted. “Not yet anyway.”

  Sue Ellen glanced at Lori then shook her head. “If the Web site is just poking fun, which it sure sounds like it is, that’s a first amendment freedom. We can’t arrest a guy for posting what amounts to a bad taste editorial cartoon. You get what I’m saying?”

  “Yeah, I get what you’re saying.” Matt’s body was tensing up. He laced his fingers tightly in front of him on the metal table. “Then what about the SUV? Last time I checked, running someone down in the street wasn’t protected by the Constitution .”

  “Check that tone,” Sue Ellen snapped.

  “We can run the vehicle description through traffic’s records,” Lori quickly added, her voice obviously straining to sound helpful. “We might get a hit for reckless driving the day and time of the incident.”

  “But that’s just it!” Matt threw up his hands. “If the driver was trying to run down Breanne, then that would have been the only incident. I already reported it. And the cops uptown came up with zip!”

  “Take it easy,” Lori said. She glanced meaningfully at me—Can’t you control this guy?—then back to Matt. “We’ve got your statement, Mr. Allegro. Why don’t you speak with your fiancée? Ask her if she wants to pursue a harassment charge against this man Perry, okay?”