Dead to the Last Drop

by Cleo Coyle

  Trees and brush were now on both sides of me, with streetlamps far apart. Most of the road ahead was in shadow. The dark sedan was far ahead by now. With my headlights out, there was little chance its driver could see me.

  Suddenly an arm came out of the driver’s window and slapped a portable magnetic bubble onto the roof. A pair of siren bursts shrieked and a speaker boomed—

  “County Sheriff’s Office. Pull over.”

  I sat back, relieved.

  Quinn told me this might happen. Because he was taking a prisoner across county lines, he and Danica would have to speak to any local police that stopped them. The sheriff probably saw an electronic notice. But Danny had the e-warrant ready to show him.

  As the silver SUV pulled over, the black sedan rolled onto the shoulder a few yards behind it.

  Cutting my own engine, I came to a stop, too, more than twenty yards behind the sheriff. The road was empty and quiet, the trees and brush black, chirping insects the only sound. But I didn’t feel much peace.

  For justice to be done, someone else needed to be sitting next to Katerina in that backseat. Quinn believed his boss had an accomplice. And so did I.

  But who?

  I closed my eyes and pretended I was back painting my greenroom mural, the picture frustratingly incomplete, like a puzzle almost done yet still lacking that final piece.

  Remember, Clare, details matter . . .

  My mind raced back through all the events that brought us here, the situations and people, tragedies and triumphs, frustrations and fears.

  Someone in this story had the perfect edges to slip into place . . .

  And then it hit me—

  Who was at the Smithsonian the night Helen was poisoned?

  The same man who was near the Village Blend the night Mr. Varma was killed. The same man who could easily make deals with lowlifes skilled at “Apple picking” and phone cloning.

  The very same man who treated me like a MILK, making it look like I had an affair with Varma. And, while he was at it, making sure half the men on the DC Metro force knew what I looked like, so it would be easy to apprehend me after he framed me for his crimes!

  Sure enough, the man who stepped out of his unmarked “sheriff’s” sedan was exactly who I thought it would be—Tom Landry.

  No wonder the guy liked “older ladies.” No doubt, Katerina Lacey was sleeping with him on top of paying him handsomely for a few simple “favors.”

  Landry was not in uniform tonight. His car was unmarked and so was he. In his dark pants and black T-shirt, he looked like the criminal he was, and I’d bet silver dollars to warm donuts the gun tucked into the back of his belt was not his authorized police weapon.

  I popped the glove compartment and grabbed Quinn’s .45.

  He’d taught me to shoot it. But I was no marksman. In a situation like this, I could hit Danica or Mike. Nevertheless, gun in hand, I climbed out of the coffee van.

  As Landry approached Danica’s car, he reached for his gun. There were floodlights on his vehicle and he was blasting them directly ahead, effectively blinding Mike and Danny to his approach. When he stopped, far short of the driver’s window, and raised his weapon, I knew—

  He was going to execute Mike and Danny, bullets to the head, in cold blood.

  You son of a bitch!

  I fired into the air.

  The explosive sound bounced around in the trees like a nuclear blast. And because I fired over my head, the noise bounced around inside my skull, as well.

  Landry turned.

  I ran forward, firing over my head again. (You’d think you’d be ready for the noise after the first time. FYI: you’re not.) Now my ears were ringing like Stan’s cymbals after a jam session. Even my own voice sounded muffled as I shouted with all my strength—

  “I know who you are, Tom Landry! I’m a witness to what you’ve done! You’re a murderer!”

  My ears were shell-shocked, but not Landry’s. He heard me just fine. I knew because by now he was aiming his gun at me.

  I froze, waiting for the shot.

  When it came, it was Landry who spun in a circle, then crashed to the ground.

  Danica was immediately out of the car and standing over him. Shouting for him to freeze, she stepped on Landry’s right arm as he frantically groped for his fallen weapon. She had to press the barrel of her gun to his head before he finally raised his hands in surrender.

  As Danica cuffed a bleeding Landry, I realized she wasn’t the one who fired. That man was Michael Ryan Francis Quinn. He was standing on the other side of the hood, still gripping his service weapon.

  His hand was steady, his aim true.

  One Hundred Thirteen

  I was back at the Village Blend, DC, savoring every moment of a daily routine that seemed forever lost just two short weeks ago. My joy was transcendent—so intense that the April sun streaming through the windows sparkled with a special magic. Food tasted better, desserts seemed sweeter, and the coffee I sipped was more comforting than I imagined possible.

  My taste buds were so happy and honed that I used them to create my brand new Big Bold Beltway Blend. I couldn’t wait to try it out on a certain NYPD detective.

  Still, when his SUV swiftly pulled up to my shop, I felt a sudden panic—a post-traumatic reaction to the events of the past few weeks. But my fears rapidly receded when Mike Quinn strolled through the front door with that smile meant only for me.

  Of course, it wasn’t just my company he was anticipating. I’d promised the man a special treat, so I quickly ducked behind the counter to snag the last slice left in the display case, the one I’d set aside for him. Then I French pressed a pot of my new quadruple-B.

  Five minutes later, Mike was sitting in the chair opposite mine, his long legs stretched out in front of him. His warm smile had morphed into an expression of sheer ecstasy after his first bite of Luther’s Black Magic Cake, followed by a Big Bold Beltway Blend chaser.

  “You weren’t exaggerating, Clare,” he said between chews. “I don’t know what’s better, Luther’s outstanding chocolate cake or your amazing coffee.”

  “I was sorry you missed the food when you skipped Abby’s performance, but at least you can sample the dessert.”

  Mike, still in the throes of a food trance, wasn’t listening. “Upon consideration, the winner today is the cake. A sweet this satisfying is the perfect complement to sweet news.”

  I leaned across the table. “Sweet news? As in . . . ?”

  “Tom Landry was indicted this morning, on all counts, including the murder of Jeevan Varma and the attempted murder of Helen Trainer.”

  “That is sweet news.”

  “And it’s all thanks to you, Clare. If it wasn’t for your quick thinking, Danica and I would be six feet under your Underground Railroad.”

  I shuddered at the terrible memory of that moment. The image of Landry’s gun barrel pointed at the heads of Mike and Danny still gave me nightmares.

  “In the end, though, it wasn’t me who got Landry. It was that last drop in Helen’s cup . . .”

  The same drop that incriminated me ironically proved my innocence.

  A forensic team found the same poison used on Helen in Landry’s apartment, along with twenty thousand dollars cash, hypodermic needles, and the same grain alcohol that killed Jeevan Varma. After that, young Tom sang like one of those little bluebirds over the rainbow, telling the police all about his partner in crime, Katerina Lacey, in hopes of lessening his sentence.

  “Landry’s going to spend a lot of time in the Lee County Federal Pen,” Mike declared, and he speared another delectable morsel of frosted chocolate cake with his fork.

  “It’s a tragedy,” I replied. “I’m guessing Landry never intended to kill Varma.”

  “Good guess. The plan was to knock the man out after his meeting with Kateri
na and steal back the two-hundred thousand in blackmail money,” Mike explained. “Landry got back the cash, but Varma tricked his killer. To ensure his safety, he gave Katerina a flash drive without the e-mails. When she opened it, all she found was the promise of a dead drop at a later date.”

  He shook his head. “By the time Katerina realized she didn’t have the e-mails, Varma had broken into your coffeehouse, collapsed, and landed in the hospital, where he never recovered.”

  “But why did Landry return to the crime scene?”

  “After he took out Varma, he heard the report of your 911 call on his police radio,” Mike explained. “His goal was to influence the investigation and learn what Sergeant Price thought, while pretending to be a clueless young officer impressed by hot MILK.”

  “Don’t remind me. All those cops staring. Goodness knows what they thought.”

  “I have a clue, sweetheart. But Landry was doing more than slandering your morals. By then, he’d reported back to Katerina, and they worked out a scheme to put a frame around you for Varma’s murder. Then Abby went missing and it opened a window for Katerina to shove you through. She knew about your friendship with the First Daughter, and her acquaintance with the First Lady and perch at the DOJ put her in the perfect position to implicate you in a conspiracy.”

  “Funny how Katerina never once considered that Abby was in love with Stan, or that she eloped. But something tells me the word love isn’t in that woman’s vocabulary.”

  “No. Her favorite words were sex and power . . .”

  Mike was right, especially when I considered what Danica had told us about how she and Landry got together. To borrow a phrase from a jazz standard, she’d put young Tom in her spell the day he pulled her BMW over for a traffic violation.

  According to Danica, Metro DC’s version of Internal Affairs had put together a background file on Landry. It appeared he always wanted to be a spy, but after a short stint in the military, Landry failed the Central Intelligence Agency’s psychological screening.

  “He settled for a local career and got through the Metro DC police department’s psych screening, which isn’t nearly as rigorous,” Danny had told us. “The job was not as thrilling as he expected, but the uniform and gun gave him the trappings of power, and an air of danger.”

  When a young, eager, and armed Landry stopped Katerina on a traffic violation, she took him to bed. Pillow talk about his CIA dreams ensued, and Katerina gained a useful drone by offering Landry “another way to serve his nation.”

  Mike lifted his cup in a mock toast. “And once again, a big criminal mess comes down to unscrupulous underlings trying to get ahead by cleaning up a President’s past.”

  Katerina’s fate was predetermined. With pressure to contain the damage to the Justice Department’s public image, lawyers convinced her to plead guilty. Now she was facing a twenty-year sentence in a medium security facility, with a presidential pardon unlikely, not with her story breaking in the press.

  One of the President’s aides was forced to admit he’d hired Katerina to “dust bust” (aka dig up dirt and neutralize it), during the President’s first run for office. The man credibly swore that he knew nothing of Katerina’s political targets or her phone cloning—a trick she learned, along with “parallel construction,” from an ex-Drug Enforcement Agency boyfriend who routinely used those tactics to secure Federal convictions.

  “Katerina was like a cocktail party girl who became an ugly lush,” Mike said. “She abused a classic technique of law enforcement until it no longer resembled anything having to do with the law, and the word justice no longer had meaning beyond a tool for her own advancement.”

  “So how do we prevent people like Katerina from doing the same thing again?”

  “We don’t.”

  Mike was right, I realized, thinking of pretty-in-pink Lidia with her demagnetized moral compass—another Katerina in the making.

  “I guess the only thing this country can hope for is that men and women like you and Danica have the courage to blow the whistle.”

  “It takes more than that,” Mike said with a little smile.

  “What else? A bottomless cup of coffee?”

  “That . . . and citizens like Clare Cosi, who care enough to demand the truth.”

  Unfortunately, like Emerald City with its Great and Powerful Wizard, there would always be truths in Washington that the American people would never know.

  “The Bathsheba Incident” would remain behind the curtain, part of our government’s thirty year e-mail archiving gap.

  The flash drive I’d kept so close to my heart would stay in the possession of CIA officer Bernie Moore, who promised to keep it close to his vest as long as Abby’s mother agreed to stay off the girl’s back.

  Madame put it all in perspective. “My dear,” she said one night at dinner, “when you think about it, this whole story comes down to a family drama. It’s simply the First Family!”

  “Mail for you, boss,” Tito interrupted, dropping a stack in front of me. I quickly saw the reason for his wide grin. On top of the pile sat an elegant envelope with “The White House” embossed in gold as the return address.

  I opened it and read.

  “I just received an invitation!” Now my grin was wider than Tito’s. “And this is one memento I can’t wait to frame and mount on our Village Blend wall.”

  I showed him the embossed card.

  Now Mike was grinning, too. “So,” he said, “do you need a date?”

  Before I could answer, he added—

  “An even better question: Are you ready to set one?”

  Epilogue

  THE sky over Washington was cloudless that day, the temperature kind. The only wet drops present were on the cheeks of the wedding guests at the sight of the retired young army sergeant in full dress uniform with a deep blue eye patch, awaiting his bride. Standing beside him was his best man, Gardner Evans, unable to suppress his grin.

  Four hundred guests and two hundred staff were assembled in the West Wing’s garden that June, and (unbelievably) I was one of them.

  Abby, no longer in black, walked down the aisle to her own solo organ arrangement of “Fix You.” And when the reverend pronounced them husband and wife, the Jazz Masterworks Orchestra struck up the joyous end to that song, now and forever their personal duet.

  As for Bernie Moore, he was present to witness the happy union, but he almost wasn’t . . .

  The First Lady had objected strongly to Abby’s real father attending the ceremony, but Abby countered with a strategic invitation to her good friend, former White House Curator, Helen Hargood Trainer, who brought Bernie as her “plus one.”

  “Now, Mother, we can’t be ungracious . . .” she’d cooed when the First Lady discovered she’d been trumped.

  Yes, it seemed after four years studying political science, Abigail Prudence was finally learning how to win the game of politics in her own family—ironically from her lessons in jazz.

  “Swing is about letting go of fears and inhibitions, of prewritten scripts and limiting strictures,” she remembered Gardner telling her. “But it’s also about balance and equilibrium in the face of very difficult rhythms . . . It’s about the elegant way you negotiate your way through . . .”

  Of course, the President was a seasoned veteran of political swing, and as the nation watched, he looked suitably fatherly, escorting the young bride down the garden aisle; and, later, sharing a father-daughter waltz on the polished floor of the East Room.

  But Abby had something special planned for Bernie, too.

  Amid the crowd of couples, none but a handful of people knew why Abby had requested the band play, “Someone to Watch Over Me,” before tapping the music critic’s shoulder for a special dance.

  Mr. and Mrs. Stanley McGuire shared their first dance of married life on that historic floor, as well, with
the band playing a song Abby once again publicly dedicated to him: “Our Love Is Here to Stay.”

  As for their life after wedlock, Stan and Abby had a plan for public service born of their love of music and their own healing experiences from it. They were starting an outreach program of music therapy for wounded veterans. Their musical tour of VA hospitals was scheduled to start right after their two-week New Orleans honeymoon.

  At Abby’s insistence, Agent Sharon Cage would accompany them as the head of their traveling Secret Service detail.

  My own contribution to the happy couple’s day was culinary. I’d handcrafted a Village Blend coffee especially for them, which would forever be called Over the Rainbow.

  Two single-origin beans made up the blend: an earthy Sumatra and a transcendent Sulawesi. Like Stan, the Sumatra provided the grounding beat, a stable, solid-bodied platform for the fragrant, colorful notes of the rarer coffee.

  It was in my roasting room that I’d learned the secrets of Sulawesi.

  Unlike other beans, when the heat was on, it didn’t show a uniform color, which is why it was easy to look at the mottled little thing and misjudge it. As a result, this special and beautiful coffee was too often mishandled, over-roasted to ruin by those unfamiliar with its potential. But masters of the process learned how to see with more than eyes.

  It all came down to a universal lesson: Appearances can fool you. You must focus instead on what you get in the cup.

  Which brings me to the likes of Katerina Lacey, an intelligent, capable woman who’d stirred increasing spoonfuls of corruption into her work and life until it all became toxic, right down to the last drop.

  No evidence was ever found that the President or his First Lady knew anything of Katerina’s criminal actions. Now that the public knew the truth, however, they would have to decide for themselves whether to hold the man accountable.

  Would Benjamin Rittenhouse Parker be reelected come fall?

  That was up to the American people.

  Personally, I was looking forward to an election in the far future. President Stanley Malcolm McGuire had a nice ring to it; and, it seemed to me this country could use a First Couple whose favorite song was titled “Fix You.”