Dead to the Last Drop

by Cleo Coyle

  “Do you recognize that device?” he asked between chews and swallows.

  It looked like a typical smartphone, powered down so I couldn’t read the screen. Other than that, it meant nothing to me.

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “Why do you think I would recognize it?”

  “Because it belonged to the man you’re accused of killing—the late Jeevan Varma.”

  Seventy-six

  AS a harbor foghorn wailed in the distance, my mind went back to the night Varma collapsed in my coffeehouse . . .

  * * *

  I knelt beside the well-dressed man, checking vital signs and thinking there was nothing more I could do for him. Since I didn’t know his name, I went through his clothes.

  The man’s pockets held little: a half-empty pack of cigarettes; a few after-dinner chocolate mints from J. Chocolatier; and a fine leather wallet, which contained loose bills, credit cards, and a U.S. State Department ID.

  I found nothing else on him . . .

  * * *

  I sat back, slightly stunned by the realization.

  “I didn’t find a phone on Varma that night. And what State Department employee wouldn’t have a phone on him?!” My gaze locked on to Quinn’s. “The person who killed Mr. Varma must have taken this phone!”

  Quinn nodded.

  “Then, Chan killed him? Or he knows who did?”

  “I wish it were that simple. But Chan ‘the phone man’ is only the receiver of stolen goods.”

  “Like a fence?”

  “Yeah, that’s the old-school name for it. But he doesn’t care about gemstones and watches. He’s a fence for the digital age. He’s also an informant for the Baltimore PD because he’s been dealing in stolen smartphones for the last few years. The phones are delivered as is—unwiped—because the data can be mined before the phone is restored to factory default and resold. He bought Varma’s phone in a consignment of devices stolen in and around DC.”

  “But how did you know he’d have Varma’s phone?”

  “I didn’t. I just went fishing. When Katerina told me you were the prime suspect in Varma’s murder, I got word to Danica, asked her to look for any hits on Varma. She came up with this—his phone.”

  “And Danica doesn’t know who stole it, either?”

  “No. Like I said, Varma’s phone was part of a purchased lot—the way a fence might go to a pawnshop owner with a bag of hot jewelry. The consignment Chan purchased matched phones that were reported stolen in a robbery at a catering hall in Reston, and one from a robbery in a bistro on Connecticut Avenue—”

  “I remember that Connecticut Avenue robbery. I was worried the same thing would happen at our supper club. There were two men, weren’t there? They stole wallets, smartphones, and jewelry at gunpoint.”

  “That’s not the whole story . . .”

  According to Quinn, “The stickup was a panic move to cover up their real business.”

  “Which was?”

  “Cloning those phones. These thieves weren’t simply pickpockets, they were smart and skilled. Their game was to grab devices, take them into a secluded area, and clone them, but something went wrong this time. A woman noticed the man’s hand in her bag and she screamed. That’s when it turned into an armed robbery to cover up the cloning.”

  “Cloning . . . that’s making a copy, right? But what exactly is a cloned phone?”

  “It acts like a mirror image of the original. When the first one rings, so does the clone. All communications go to both phones, all text messages, pictures, and videos stored in the original are accessible on the clone, as well. There’s only one bill, and it goes to the original owner. So whoever owns the clone can make calls free of charge, but that’s not why someone would want a clone. The real value is in the information.”

  “So it’s the ultimate wiretap?”

  Mike nodded. “It’s what the NSA and CIA call tradecraft.”

  “Spies use it?”

  “And criminals. And blackmailers.”

  My mind raced on the blackmailing angle. People stored their whole lives in their devices, including things they shouldn’t: naughty pictures; sexting; communications they wanted to keep off their public office computers . . .

  “Mike, if we have Varma’s phone, then we can find out who he was planning to meet with on the night he was killed, right? It’s a real lead!”

  “It would have been. But all texts and voice mails in the forty-eight-hour period prior to the phone being stolen—and presumably Varma being attacked and killed—have been erased.”

  “Can’t you use some kind of forensics to un-erase them?”

  “If I had my full powers, I would get a warrant to access his cloud drive, but we’re not exactly in the position to do that.”

  “Then this phone is of no use to us?”

  “The phone itself is evidence because whoever holds the clone is guilty of one murder at least. And we got lucky with one more thing . . .”

  He turned on the phone and showed me its contact list. The list was long, but there was one name on it that we both recognized—Katerina Lacey.

  Seventy-seven

  I stared at Katerina’s name, feeling numb for a moment, then angry, and finally frustrated.

  “This proves they knew each other.”

  “But little else.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “For now, we hold it.”

  I pounded the tabletop. “This may not prove Katerina did anything to Varma, but it’s proof enough to me that she’s involved in this mess.”

  “Me too. The bad news is—there’s nothing else. When Danica told me she had a connection to your case, she was right, but . . .”

  Mike sat back.

  “I get it. If Mr. Varma’s recent voice mails and texts were wiped, we can’t prove he met with Katerina the night he was murdered.” I shook my head. “Maybe he didn’t even meet with her. Maybe she sent someone to do her dirty work . . .”

  I thought of Lidia, that pretty, young Latina assistant I saw by her side in the White House, teetering on those stilts, trying to measure up to her boss. I’ll bet she’d do anything Katerina asked . . .

  “We’re stuck, Clare. We’re out of leads.”

  “We can’t be . . . we just can’t . . . Let me think . . .”

  And to fuel my little gray cells, I intended to eat.

  Yes, I know I just inhaled a steak dinner, but those fudgy Berger Cookies were calling out to me, and I was going to answer—with a fresh, hot cup of joe. Chocolate and coffee were too good a pairing to pass up, especially after dinner . . .

  Hey, wait a minute. I froze, my mind racing. Chocolate and coffee . . . after dinner . . .

  “Mike,” I cried. “Chocolate and coffee!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Give me your prepaid phone. I need to make a call . . .”

  When I took a minute to explain my plan, Quinn was all for it.

  “Keep the call short,” he warned. “Speak in Italian as much as possible, and do not use any real names. Use code.”

  “Got it . . .”

  * * *

  “HELLO, Tito, cosa c’è di nuovo?” I asked. (What’s new?)

  “Chi sei?” he demanded. (Who are you?)

  “Your old friend,” I replied in Italian. “Signora Rogers. Remember? From Signor Rogers’ neighborhood?”

  “Holy Mother!” Tito cried. “Where are you?!”

  “Speak in Italian,” I advised—in Italian. “And I can’t tell you where I am. You understand?”

  Tito paused, then his voice was much calmer. “I understand . . .”

  I asked him about the drummer boy. “Have you seen him?”

  “No. He’s gone. Disappeared.”

  “And what about the piano man. The one who has an office on the thir
d floor. Is he around?”

  “No! Men in suits came and took him away. Now he’s gone, too!”

  “Tito, I need your help.”

  “Anything. What can I do?”

  “I want you to call the woman who runs J. Chocolatier and ask her for the names of the locations she supplies with chocolates. Narrow the area to twenty blocks around our Village Blend’s address. Do you understand?”

  “I understand. I don’t know why you’re asking such a thing, but I understand.”

  “Don’t worry about why. Get the information, and I’ll be grateful . . .”

  “Okay. I’ll do it.”

  “I’ll call again, Tito. Thank you. Don’t tell anyone about our talk. And try not to worry. Buona sera.”

  “Buona Sera, Signora Rogers.”

  * * *

  I handed Quinn back the prepaid phone. “Enough code for you?”

  “Good job.”

  “We’ll see,” I said. “But those J. Chocolatier chocolates in Varma’s pocket should have been a dead giveaway—excuse the pun. The man was impeccably dressed. It made no sense for him to be carrying around after-dinner chocolates unless he’d gotten them at a restaurant the same night.”

  “Did Tito understand what you asked?”

  “Absolutely . . . and once we know who serves J. Chocolatier chocolates in our area, we’ll have Danica check their security cameras. If we’re lucky, we’ll see Katerina’s bony ass sashaying in on the same night as Mr. Varma.”

  “You missed your calling, Cosi. You should have been a cop.”

  “Thanks, but guns and I don’t get along,” I said, going for a refill. “I’m better with coffee.”

  Seventy-eight

  FEELING more positive, I finally took my shower. The warm water felt heavenly sluicing over my naked curves. I washed my hair, too, and used the blow-dryer to fluff it up prettily. Then I wrapped myself in a mauve towel, took a deep breath, and sashayed into the bedroom.

  Oh, shoot. No Quinn . . .

  I could hear the TV in the other room. And I could guess why.

  Down deep, the man was a romantic. Back in Greenwich Village, he loved lighting the fire in my bedroom’s hearth. A bottle of wine, soft music, and he was putty in my antique four-poster.

  Unfortunately, this boudoir had all the charm of a 1970s pimpmobile.

  It didn’t even have the tasteful 1890s “Mauve Decade” palette going for it like the rest of the boat. The few pieces of furniture were upholstered in either purple or pink, or purple and pink—and everything was fuzzy, very fuzzy. The fuzziness extended to the pink and purple animal-print carpeting.

  Illumination was provided by a pair of lava lamps—naturally, one was purple, the other pink—positioned between the pillows on purple acrylic nightstands.

  In between the lamps was the water bed. A terribly underinflated water bed. And it was circular.

  Dropping the towel, I got in.

  While oozing bubbles rose and sank beside my head, I felt the sloshy mattress under me, rocking me back and forth like a rudderless lifeboat in a storm-force gale.

  “Mike, this bed is crazy!” I called loudly. “I’m getting seasick, and this yacht’s never left its dock. Why don’t you come in here and throw me a line?”

  “Just shut your eyes, sweetheart,” he called from the couch. “You’ll be asleep in no time.”

  “What about you?”

  “I can’t sleep right now. I’ll be in soon . . .”

  Lying there in the pink and purple gloom, I sighed the sigh of a woman ignored.

  I’d been down this road before. Anyone involved with a cop knew The Job was always there. In Mike’s case, when the stress of his work wasn’t eating at him, his mind was working overtime on cases—and in this case, we were on the hook for our very lives.

  Now I was worried. And I knew Danny was, too, which is why she put me on the spot earlier in the galley.

  If Mike didn’t get some good rest tonight, he wouldn’t be at his best tomorrow. And a guy packing a Glock, a .45, and a gym bag of extra ammo needed to be at his best.

  Drinking was a bad idea. I agreed with Danny on that. And a sleeping pill could put him out for too long. Which meant we were down to two choices: Hot milk. Or hot MILK.

  Peeved at the thought of lukewarm moo juice trumping my “older lady” sex appeal, I rose from the drowning pool, tossed on one of the oversize Orioles T-shirts, and peeked into the yacht’s small living room.

  Mike’s big body was folded on the couch, watching cable TV news, one knee bouncing anxiously. I was about to launch my plan when he rose abruptly and crossed to the stocked bar, but not for a glass of warm anything.

  He poured himself a few fingers of straight scotch.

  Crap.

  He sat back down, knee bouncing again. But before he could start sipping the alcohol, I moved into the living room, blocking his view of the big screen.

  “Sweetheart, what are you doing?”

  “I’m sorry, but”—I threw up my hands—“I lost an earring!”

  “You what?”

  Bending at the waist, I began to scan the carpet.

  “Darn, no luck . . .”

  When I moved to my hands and knees, Mike’s knee stopped bouncing.

  “It’s a shame,” I said, moving ever so slowly across the floor. “This could go on all night.”

  “Clare?”

  “Yes?”

  “You didn’t wear earrings today.”

  “Didn’t I?”

  Mike put down his drink. “And I see something else . . .”

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  “You forgot to put on underwear.”

  “Did I?”

  That was all it took.

  One minute later we were back among the lava lamps, making waves.

  Seventy-nine

  A short time later, Mike was in dreamland, and I followed him there. His strong arms were around me, lovingly possessive, the sweet sensation of his lovemaking lingering in my limbs, making everything good again.

  Even this ridiculous water bed felt different.

  Gone was the seasick sensation of riding out a rocky gale. With Mike’s warm body next to mine, the undulating mattress sent me to an island paradise where gentle waves lapped pristine sand, until—

  Glaring light and a thunderous racket ripped me from my beautiful beach.

  I hardly opened my eyes before I was dragged out of floating tranquillity and onto the hard, fuzzy floor. As Mike blanketed me with his own body, I glimpsed a shocking sight through the portholes—beams of white light stabbing the dark.

  “Mike! What’s happening?”

  My cry was drowned out by the rolling throb of engines overhead. A helicopter was flying so low its downdrafts rocked our boat. Shouted commands and the bark of a dog added to the clamor. Then came the bouncing stomp of running boots along the wooden pier.

  Mike pulled me closer, whispered through my hair.

  “It’s a raid, Clare. They’re coming for us. Helicopters, boats, SWAT teams, dogs—”

  Oh, God, I thought. It was my phone call to Tito. They must have traced us!

  A motorboat roared by, its wake slamming the yacht against the pier. Flashing scarlet lights and the scream of a siren added to the kaleidoscope of chaos.

  “Mike, what’s going to happen?”

  “They’ll rip through this cabin like a tornado. When they get to the bedroom door there’ll be no warning. They’ll crash it down.”

  Arcs of stark halogen light bathed the night in brightness, piercing the shadows, and bleaching the walls in a colorless white glare.

  “They’ll lead with flash grenades,” Mike warned. “They’re meant to stun, not kill, but close your eyes and cover your ears so you won’t get hurt.”

  The wake
of a second boat battered the yacht. Meanwhile the thundering boots were getting closer.

  “When they come through the door, stay on the floor but raise your hands so they can see them.” Mike spoke faster, his tone urgent. “We’ll be separated for interrogation, Clare. I won’t be able to help you. Keep demanding a lawyer and say nothing; eventually they will have to give in.”

  Mike shifted his body so I could cover my ears. Before I did, he whispered one more thing.

  “If I never see you again, please remember . . . I love you.”

  I began to pray while the pounding beat of racing feet got louder and louder as they reached our yacht—and then receded as the men kept right on going.

  On the water, the sirens faded as the twin motorboats raced to the far end of Pier K. Finally, the helicopter veered away, too.

  “What the hell?”

  Mike sounded as bewildered as I felt. And then we got curious.

  In seconds, we were on our feet and through the door. We moved through the darkened yacht to an enclosed part of the upper deck and cautiously peeked through the window blinds.

  The beam of a hovering helicopter shone down on the fifty-foot yacht that had pulled in when we’d first arrived at the marina. FBI agents in Kevlar vests and helmets surrounded the boat; and, in the middle of the pier, three people in pajamas were on their knees, hands behind their heads, half a dozen guns trained on them.

  More boot-stomps approached.

  “A drug raid?” Mike whispered.

  “No,” I said, recognizing the figures jogging past our yacht, toward the commotion. “Those three are Secret Service . . .”

  One was the bald guy in the vest who’d set up the front door checkpoint at my Village Blend. Next to him was Agent Sharpe, an automatic weapon in his hands. The third figure was clad in black from the tips of her boots to the helmet on her blond head.

  “That woman is Agent Sharon Cage. They must be looking for Abby.”

  Mike still looked confounded. “Could they have gotten the wrong boat?”

  I watched as Agent Cage boarded the fifty-footer, and went belowdecks. A few moments later she reappeared, and strolled to the bow of the boat.