Dead to the Last Drop

by Cleo Coyle

  (And, yes, I left out all the messy stuff about the White House, the First Lady, Abby’s secret assignations with an army vet jazz drummer, my simmering feud with a female Secret Service agent, and my actionable lies to the DC Metro police!)

  “It’s all a complete FUBAR!” I cried, borrowing Stan McGuire’s handy term. “Abby’s identity was supposed to be kept secret—and we are in no way prepared to handle the publicity!”

  When I finished, Quinn stared a moment. “You’re right, Cosi, I am shocked. When did you get so good at keeping secrets?”

  “A certain police detective taught me. A guy who’s far better at it than I am.”

  “Touché.”

  Snatching my keys from the dresser, I blew him a final air kiss—mainly because the sight of Quinn’s powerful body lying there, half-draped in Egyptian cotton, made me certain of one thing: any more physical contact between us and I’d leave Gardner, Cage, and her entire advance team hanging till noon.

  “Give ’em hell, sweetheart!”

  As Quinn’s deep voice echoed down the mansion’s staircase, I found myself smiling, despite the impossible situation. Then I put on my game face, pulled up my speed dial numbers, and hailed New York.

  “Clare? What time is it? Did you butt-dial me again?”

  “No, Matt. This is a real, actual, ‘meant to call you’ call.”

  A short pause followed as the sound of Matteo Allegro’s groaning yawn traveled down the eastern seaboard.

  “What’s up? Is something wrong?”

  “Very. And I’ll explain everything. But first I need you to get your butt out of bed and do something.”

  “What?”

  “SOS.”

  “Clare, did you just say—”

  “Yes. Send Our Staff!”

  Forty-five

  “LISTEN up, Cosi, you will need to provide accommodations for my detail. That means a room on the ground floor where we can establish a command post. I’d get on that, first thing . . .”

  Despite her youth and bouncy blond ponytail, Agent Cage spoke like a battle-hardened general preparing for combat. In her crisp navy blue pantsuit, athletic form erect, she stood like a military pillar in the middle of my relaxed, bohemian coffeehouse.

  Needless to say, the contrast was unnerving.

  Flanking her were two members of her detail—the tall, dark, and irritated Agent Sharpe, and a bald, brawny guy in a dark blue vest with SECRET SERVICE emblazoned across the back.

  Obviously not one of the agents meant to blend in with the environment.

  When I first arrived, I found the “small group” of reporters and bloggers, which Agent Cage had described, was much bigger—and growing.

  Up to now, our Jazz Space didn’t take reservations, and these folks were clearly desperate to get in.

  But it didn’t mean all of them would.

  Gard and I agreed to come up with a plan that would give Abby’s loyal Open Mike fans the chance to see her headline tonight, while still allowing these early line squatters their earned entry.

  Until then, Gard was happy to finally use those brass posts and velvet ropes that, sadly, we’d never needed before today. The deep blue color of the velvet matched our Jazz Space motif, adding panache to our exterior, and (honestly) seeing them put to use on our sidewalk gave me a little thrill.

  Meanwhile, the Secret Service troops began to move in. Several of their large, black vehicles were parked along the street as more rolled down Wisconsin. Inside one of the windowless vans, I heard barking. Apparently, bomb-sniffing dogs would be searching our premises—and re-searching them all day.

  Do they bring dog food for something like this? I wondered. Or was I supposed to supply the kibble?

  Next, agents from the Uniformed Division began shifting tables and chairs by the front door.

  “We need a screening area,” one of the men announced.

  With a sigh, I ducked behind the counter, pulled my first espresso of the day, and shot it back like a gunslinger getting the nerve up for a high-noon standoff.

  Gardner was already back there, filling airpots.

  “Matt’s sending people down from New York,” I informed him. “In the meantime, we need to call in every part-timer we have in DC. I’ve already phoned Luther and warned him . . .” I paused, getting an idea. “Be right back.”

  “Agent Cage,” I called, dodging a few big males and one skyscraper of a female. “Your people can use my former chef’s office. He won’t be back today, or ever.”

  “Show me,” Cage commanded.

  Leaving her team behind, she followed me through the kitchen to the former large closet turned small office. She poked her head through the door and scanned the windowless room.

  “This will do,” she declared. “I’ll get back to you on our security plan. And I’ll need a list of your employee names and social security numbers.”

  “What are you going to do with them?”

  “Standard background checks. If anything questionable comes up, I’ll let you know.”

  “Can I allow customers to come in now? We’ve got coffee and pastries ready to sell.”

  “It shouldn’t be too long. When the magnetometers are in place, Sharpe will give you the okay.”

  As I turned to go, she called me back. “Cosi . . .” The agent actually looked sheepish. “Would you mind . . .”

  “What?” I tensed. “Do you need something else?”

  “A triple espresso? And one of those muffins in your glass case?”

  “Which?” I asked with relief. National security freaked me out, but coffee and pastries I could handle. “How about our Oatmeal Cookie Muffin? The oats are soaked in buttermilk to soften them, and the muffins are packed with the flavors of brown sugar, cinnamon, and raisins, so they taste just like a fresh-baked oatmeal cookie. Or maybe you’re more of a Farmhouse Peach Muffin kind of girl? That one has sour cream in the batter and a beautiful peach glaze drizzled on top. Our Maple-Bacon Pancake Muffin is excellent with coffee, but so is our Charming Chocolate Chip. The crumb is delectable, and if you sip your espresso as you eat the muffin, the rich roasted flavor of the coffee mingles on the palate with the bits of chocolate in a mind-blowingly sensuous dance . . .”

  Sharon Cage stared at me, speechless. Her lower jaw had gone slack and a tiny drop of saliva glistened at the corner of her mouth.

  Obviously the woman skipped breakfast.

  “I’ll bring a selection!” I declared. “And I’ll get an airpot of hot coffee for your team, too.”

  “Thanks,” she managed.

  I turned to leave but stopped and faced the woman again.

  “Agent Cage, I want you to know, for the record, that our former chef was the one who released the news about Abby—without my knowledge. I’ve fired the man, and he won’t be back. Please believe me. Gardner and I will do anything to keep Abby safe.”

  Cage refused to meet my eyes. “What I believe doesn’t matter. The only thing that does is the safety of the President’s daughter in the next twenty-four hours. I want to get Abigail through this without harm or incident . . .”

  As I turned to go, she added one last thing.

  “Please remember, Ms. Cosi. I’m willing to stake my life on it.”

  Forty-six

  SHARON Cage’s last words made me realize how serious the situation was.

  As a quiet college student, Abigail Prudence Parker was nearly anonymous. Few people cared what she did. But all this publicity now made our “Abby Lane” a target—for crackpots, enemies of the President (foreign and domestic), maybe even terrorists. And over the next few hours, that publicity became overwhelming.

  As Cage predicted, the news of the First Daughter’s jazz show hit the twenty-four-hour TV cable cycle. Network vans pulled up with satellite dishes, and well-known correspondents started interv
iewing members of the public in front of our coffeehouse.

  Our queue was alarmingly long now, far past the velvet ropes. It snaked all the way down to Blues Alley, where these sorts of lines were usually seen—near showtime.

  But Abby’s performance was still eight hours away, and the mob of locals and tourists flowing into and out of our coffeehouse—excited to drink down our roasts and gobble up our pastries—was making me nervous.

  All it takes is one nut with a bomb or a gun . . .

  I tried not to think about that, but the idea made me view every single customer in a different light, and I began to get a clue why Sharon Cage was such a hard case.

  When she came back out to the coffeehouse floor, I was on my third attempt to contact our freelance baker, but my calls kept going to voice mail, which meant she was probably busy with an on-site wedding cake assembly.

  “Looks like we’ll have to refill the pastry case ourselves,” I told Gardner.

  “How about those Best Blueberry Muffins you brought to our greenroom last week? They were fantastic.”

  (I called them “Best” not because they were the most elaborate, but because the recipe was one I used all the time. With little fuss and few ingredients, it produced amazing results—juicy berries packed into a vanilla-lemon crumb with the tender texture of scratch pound cake.)

  “I’ll give Chef Bell my recipe . . .”

  “And what about those Honey-Glazed Donuts he makes for the staff? Can’t he fry up a giant batch for the customers? Maybe with chocolate glaze, too?”

  “Sounds like a foodie plan—”

  “Cosi!”

  Sharon Cage’s barking voice continued to take a bite out of my central nervous system. After waving me to the side of the coffee bar, she began to share her plan, too, but it didn’t involve fresh blueberries, and she was in no mood to honey glaze it.

  As she rattled off her daunting to-do list, I could hear professional pride (and a little sadistic mirth) in her tone.

  “At one o’clock sharp, Abigail will arrive with her Secret Service escorts. She plans to rehearse with her band and then rest in your greenroom before the show. Once she goes up there, we’re sealing the second and third floors. Nobody but you and select members of your staff will be permitted upstairs until you’re ready to seat the audience.”

  “Okay, got it.”

  “In the meantime, beginning at noon and continuing until everything is wrapped and our asset is safely off these premises, we’ll be conducting constant security sweeps and perimeter checks around your building. We’ve placed magnetometers at the front and back doors. And if warranted, we’ll search anyone suspicious who wishes to come in. We might even check for shoe bombs.”

  I took a breath. “Look, I have an idea for you. One the NYPD uses for Times Square every New Year’s Eve. I think it will work for our situation.”

  And maybe make our coffeehouse a little less intimidating than Checkpoint Charlie.

  “I’m listening,” she said.

  Forty-seven

  “THE shops around us close early on Saturday,” I began, “so why not seal off the entire block a few hours before the show? You can screen everyone who goes in, and once they’re inside your controlled space, people can move freely. That will be far more comfortable for everyone.”

  “What about the line of customers you have now?”

  “Gardner worked out a ticketing system. We’ve reserved fifty seats for the loyal customers who’ve already registered with us over the past few months, which means we can pass out seventy-five premium vouchers to people already in line—it’s up to them to go to our website and fill out our membership registration. It costs five dollars, but it comes with a free drink and a year’s access to the Jazz Space’s live streaming. A good deal. Then they can pay for the show ticket with a credit card, show the voucher to get in, and we can check their photo ID and card against the registered, paid-up names.”

  “Seventy-five tickets isn’t very many,” Cage pointed out, “and you’ve got a very long line out there.”

  “That’s why we’re going to sell second-tier seating on this floor. We’ll put speakers and a big-screen monitor down here in the coffeehouse and offer our full Jazz Space menu.

  “Finally, our third-tier tickets won’t be allowed to enter the building, but they can be part of the event by listening to the concert through outdoor speakers and buy drinks and snacks at a food stand we’ll set up outside.”

  Cage fell silent a moment. “I like that everyone with a ticket has to register with a name, address, and credit card—and show a photo ID to enter the secure perimeter. That alone will help us eliminate most of the problematic people.”

  “Problematic people?”

  “Criminals, troublemakers, crackpots.”

  “Don’t they have addresses and credit cards, too?”

  “They also have records, and we’ll know that up front.”

  “What about the crackpots who don’t have records?”

  “That’s why we have the magnetometers and bomb-sniffing dogs. But what I like most about your plan is the large perimeter. If we block off the street, we won’t have to worry about random traffic passing through, and Abby will be as safe as we can make her.”

  Cage gave me a grudging half smile. “Yeah, Cosi, we’re in agreement.”

  “On everything but the terminology.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Feel free to call it a secure perimeter. But I’m going to call it a Village Blend Block Party.”

  “Call it what you like. Just be sure to reserve some of those upstairs tickets for the White House—ten seats.”

  I swallowed hard. “Are the President and First Lady coming?”

  “No. They’re committed to another engagement, but I’m sure they’ll watch some of Abby’s performance, like most everyone else, via the live stream on your website.”

  “Then who are the tickets for?”

  “The deputy press secretary. She’s bringing a press pool reporter and photographer, some White House staff, and a few media VIPs.”

  “Hey, Sharon!”

  I turned to see Agent Sharpe striding up to his boss.

  “We have a problem at the front door.” He spoke low. “The man claims he works here, but he’s not on the employment roster, so we’ve detained him.

  “Point him out,” Cage demanded.

  “It’s that guy with the mop of dark hair and neo-pioneer beard. He won’t let us search his backpack. Instead he made some crack about ‘jackbooted fascists.’”

  I followed Agent Sharpe’s pointing finger, past a few women in the crowd whose heads had already been turned by the athletic, olive-skinned figure with shoulders broad enough to fill up most of the front doorway along with his torso-hugging Cup of Excellence, Guatemala! T-shirt.

  His jeans were worn and his right wrist displayed a glittering Breitling chronometer; his left a multicolored tribal bracelet made from braided strips of Ecuadorian leather.

  Nearly as tall as the two agents flanking him, he must have felt our stares, because his hairy head turned, and his expressive brown eyes caught mine. After a beat, he slung his leather jacket over one shoulder and, with a half-amused expression, cocked his head.

  “The guy’s backpack is covered with airport stickers from all over the Third World,” Agent Sharpe continued. “Hellholes like Rwanda, Colombia, and Indonesia. He’s trouble, for sure. He even looks like an international terrorist—”

  “Why, Agent Sharpe,” I cut in, “I’m shocked, shocked at your prejudiced profiling.”

  Agent Cage frowned. “What are you talking about, Cosi?”

  I pointed at the bearded, shaggy detainee. “That’s no terrorist. That’s my ex-husband!”

  Forty-eight

  AFTER clearing Matt through security, I pulled him to a quieter s
ection of the coffeehouse floor.

  “I’m glad to see you, but what I said was SOS—as in send our staff!”

  “Take it easy, Clare. Joy’s here to assist Chef Bell.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Getting her chef’s jacket from the luggage. She and Mother took the bags straight to the N Street house where you’re staying.”

  “Your mother came, too?”

  “Are you kidding? After you yelled SOS, I couldn’t keep her off the plane.”

  “Who else?”

  “Tuck and Punch will help with service. They’re driving my van down with Esther and Boris, and fifty-plus pounds of freshly roasted coffee beans—”

  “Which beans?”

  He studied the ceiling. “The Yirg, more Sumatra, that primo Toraja Sulawesi—”

  “Tell me you remembered my warning on roasting that Sulawesi?”

  “Sure, I remembered. My batch cupped beautifully.”

  “We’ll see. What else?”

  “The Guatemalan micro-lot, and I got you the Kona.”

  “Extra Fancy?”

  “Of course.”

  “Really? Oh, Matt, I could kiss you!”

  “Sounds good to me.” He grinned. “Now? Or later?”

  “Figure of speech, Allegro.”

  “Hey, you know me. I’m always ready to pucker up.”

  “And that’s precisely why our marriage didn’t last.”

  “You didn’t get enough kisses?”

  “No. You applied your philosophy globally.”

  Just then, Agent Sharpe’s deep, authoritative voice caught my attention as it rose above the crowd. “Yes, Ms. Cosi is here.” He pointed. “There she is!”

  “Mom!”

  Sharpe stepped clear, and I saw my daughter.

  Matt beamed, watching us race to each other across the crowded shop. After our tight hug, I stepped back to get a better look at my baby. Okay, not exactly a baby anymore, but in my daughter’s heart-shaped face, warm peach complexion, and lively green eyes, I’d always see that first baby smile and those first baby steps, even the first meal she made—a Mother’s Day breakfast of ricotta pancakes and coffee—with a little help from her father.