Murder by Mocha cm-10

by Клео Коул

  “Oh, really?” I said, finding my spine. “And who would they be?”

  “Ladies—” Lori said, then mouthed to her partner. “Let’s not go there.”

  Sue Ellen twirled her finger at the monitor. “Rewind some more,” she told Kevin, suddenly eager to refocus on work. “Patrice stepped outside between nine thirty and ten. I’m sure we’ll spot our person of interest—”

  “Person of interest?” Ruben Salter echoed. “I thought you were looking to track the deceased’s movements.”

  “We’re looking for a murderer,” I said.

  “Murderer!” Salter blurted so loudly we all tensed. He looked shocked a moment then seemed almost happy to hear it. “So this is a homicide investigation? Because I was led to believe this was about possible negligence.”

  “The case for murder has yet to be proven,” Lori cautioned.

  Kevin rewound to the moment Patrice came through the doors. My breathing stopped as he slowed the speed.

  “Okay, here it is,” I said. “Go forward, one minute at a time.”

  We watched as Patrice stood under the awning, waiting for the downpour to slow. Finally, she moved beyond the camera’s eye. Within a minute, a mysterious figure followed her through the Garden doors.

  This should have been our eureka moment. Unfortunately, it wasn’t. The figure stalking Patrice was carrying a very large black umbrella—an umbrella that appeared to move with the person under it, strategically blocking the camera’s view.

  Sue Ellen cursed.

  “Hold on,” Lori said. “This person had to come back in again.”

  Kevin toggled the ball until he found the very same black umbrella going back inside. Again, the person under it used the umbrella as a shield, carefully moving it to avoid being seen.

  “The ID’s blown coming and going!”

  “It looks like this person knew the camera was there,” I said.

  Ruben Salter was more devastated than any of us. “All these cameras and a murderer gets away? How is it possible? Kevin, do we have any other footage of the Garden?” He lowered his voice. “The hidden lenses?”

  Kevin checked his log, began punching the board. “I’m getting us rotating shots from two angles. I’m putting them up.”

  We studied every image, but there was nothing showing the small canopied stage and podium area in the sprawling rooftop Garden at the exact time of Patrice’s death. Nothing gave us a glimpse of the killer—or even Patrice—in the brief seconds it took to move from the door to the crime scene.

  “How long was that person in the Garden with Patrice?” I asked.

  Lori glanced at her notebook. “From the time clock: between nine and ten minutes.”

  “More than enough time to commit murder,” I said.

  “If this is a homicide,” Lori cautioned. “It could be manslaughter. Or something else.”

  “Ten minutes out there, right after the victim,” Sue Ellen declared. “Golf umbrella moved enough so we can’t make who it is? This looks wrong and you know it.”

  “Kevin, would you go back and hold on that umbrella?” Lori asked. When he did, we all studied the frozen image.

  “Look there,” I said. “Is that something printed on it?”

  The letters were blurry. Kevin tried to magnify them, but they became even more pixilated.

  “Two Ms?” Lori said. “M&Ms? Do they sell umbrellas at the M&M store in Times Square?”

  “They’re Ns,” I said. “Double Ns—like a corporate or store logo.”

  “Might be a club,” Sue Ellen said. “Neo Nirvana on the Lower East Side. Or Night Nosh, that new twenty-four-hour retro diner on Eighth.”

  “What about the National Network?” Mr. Salter suggested. “It’s an online bank that focuses on secure Internet transactions.”

  “I like the bank angle,” Lori said, scribbling in her notebook. “Banks are always giving away freebies. Umbrellas are a popular item to push their logo.” She swung around to face the lawyer. “Good call, Mr. Salter.”

  Ruben beamed.

  We reviewed the elevator cars to and from the Loft, but no one turned up with an umbrella during the appropriate times, and the few umbrellas we saw weren’t black.

  “Let’s try the lobby cams,” Sue Ellen suggested.

  “We can’t.” Lori said. “We’d be exceeding the parameters of Judge Harman’s search warrant.” She locked eyes with Mr. Salter. “It’s a shame, but . . .” She shook her head, appearing crestfallen. “We’re only permitted to view the Loft & Garden, and the elevators to and from.”

  “Oh my. That won’t do. I’m giving you permission right now, Detective Soles. We’ve got to find this killer before he takes it on the lamb! Kevin, do what these ladies tell you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  For the next thirty minutes, we studied images from the lobby cams. We found a sea of people, but no one with a large black umbrella in hand.

  “The killer must have taken the stairs to another floor, or tossed the umbrella and slipped back into the party,” Sue Ellen speculated.

  I noticed Lori staring at me. “Well, Cosi? You had a front-row seat for it all. Do you have a theory?”

  I took a breath, considered the consequences of what I was about to say, then said it anyway. “Alicia Bower had a lot to lose tonight. You should question her. Another woman, Maya Lansing, the company’s fitness guru, should be questioned, as well, along with her husband, Herbie Lansing . . .” I did my best to explain the motives then added: “Maybe Patrice argued with Alicia or Herbie. Maybe it was a simple fight that went too far, a shove on a slippery stage. Maybe nobody meant for her to die . . .”

  Lori and Sue Ellen took notes, asked more questions. Finally, we all stood up.

  “I’ll have these recordings copied, Detective Soles,” Ruben Salter said. “You might find more clues with time to review them more carefully. Perhaps you’ll see the killer bringing the umbrella into the party.”

  “Bringing the umbrella in won’t prove anything,” I pointed out. “Anyone could have grabbed an umbrella out of the cloakroom—”

  “Thank you so very much, Mr. Salter,” Lori quickly cut in. “I appreciate everything you’ve done to help us here.”

  “You’re quite welcome, Detective. Please take my card. Call me if you need more help with this case, or if you need a lawyer, or for anything. Anything at all.”

  Mr. Salter watched us until we reached the end of the corridor and filed into the elevator.

  “Lori’s got a boyfriend,” Sue Ellen quietly sang after the doors closed.

  “I got us the access to the lobby cams, didn’t I?” Lori smiled.

  Sue Ellen snorted. “You little tramp! You did it again. What would the other Officer Soles say if he knew about your doe-eyed act? You know, the sergeant you married?”

  “Who do you think suggested it?”

  Forty-five minutes later, the corpses were piled high at the NYPD’s temporary command post inside Rock Center’s lobby. Dozens of dead umbrellas—wet, torn, and twisted by the wind, abandoned on sidewalks or stuffed in trash bins—were heaped like cordwood at a bonfire. All had been collected within a five-block radius around the complex, in a search that involved more than a dozen officers.

  Unfortunately, the black umbrella with the NN logo was not among the casualties. Now I waited by the mutilated parasols while Lori and Sue Ellen received a final report from their superior.

  “A detective located Patrice Stone’s smartphone,” Lori told me when the huddle ended. “It was dashed to pieces on Fifth, right below the Garden. I assume it was tossed over the side by the killer.”

  As we walked to the elevator, I remembered the countdown clock Patrice had set up on that phone, a digital monument tracking the months, days, hours, and minutes before the man she loved returned from duty in Afghanistan. Now that reunion would never take place. If her soldier came home at all, it would be for his fiancée’s funeral.

  “The pieces have been collected and bag
ged,” Lori continued. “We’ll check for prints and get the exact time the phone was destroyed from its chip, but the junk’s been lying in the street for hours, so . . .”

  Her voice trailed off when she noticed my eyes. I’d felt the tears welling but couldn’t stop the flow.

  “Sorry, Cosi. When bad guys win, I know it’s hard to take. But that’s the world we live in. Answers never come easy, and you can’t expect miracles.”

  Twenty

  As we moved toward the elevator bank, things got hazy. I swiped at my cheeks, but residual tears fractured my vision.

  Famous art deco murals adorned this grand lobby. Colossal human forms cavorted along the walls and sprawled up onto the ceiling. Now those sepia-toned images swirled into muddy chaos.

  Chaos churned inside me, too.

  Only seven or eight years separated Patrice from my Joy. I pictured Patrice’s mother hearing the news of her pointless death, and my sadness spun into outrage. I saw Patrice’s fiancé, getting the awful word in Afghanistan, and my outrage whirled into fury. Disturbed, I looked up, but the Titan-like portraits only made my existence feel more diminished.

  Answers never come easy, and you can’t expect miracles . . .

  But I did expect miracles. I expected them because I saw them every day. My daughter was a miracle; Mike was a miracle; love was a miracle; and so was life itself. Patrice’s earthly existence may have been extinguished tonight, but that had more to do with hell than heaven, and I had no problem calling on a higher power to help me find justice for her.

  At the elevator bank, my gaze drifted north again, over the heads of the detectives. In one of the lobby’s murals, five muscular men kicked a small globe around as if playing a game of soccer. Each of these giants represented a different race of mankind. Each appeared bent on winning control of that kicked-around world.

  The masterpiece was dynamic, bold, commanding attention. The detectives didn’t even glance at it.

  “Matisse was right,” I murmured.

  “What’s that?” Sue Ellen asked.

  I gestured to Sert’s famous Contest. “While John Rockefeller was building this complex, he tried to hire Matisse to paint a mural for his lobby.”

  Lori and Sue Ellen finally looked at the work.

  “That’s Matisse?” Lori asked.

  “No. That’s José María Sert, a Spanish artist. Matisse turned down the commission.”

  Sue Ellen snorted. “Not enough money, right?”

  “Money wasn’t the issue. Matisse didn’t think workers hustling to and from their offices would have the patience to see the qualities in his art.”

  “Uh-huh,” Sue Ellen said, but her head was already down again, considering her leads.

  In my own way, I was, too.

  On our ride up, I thought about Matisse’s rejection—and how it became Sert’s opportunity. I considered the figures in his Contest, a group of competitors struggling against each other to obtain control of a world.

  I could almost hear Mike’s voice: Just think of it in your terms, sweetheart. If someone commissioned you to paint a mural of tonight’s competing players—suspects who had motive and opportunity—who would they be?

  Certainly, Alicia and Maya would be in the foreground. That pair had the strongest motives for wanting Patrice dead. Herbie Lansing I’d put right next to his wife, Maya.

  The next figure wasn’t as compelling a subject, but it was one I couldn’t erase: the pixie-haired Susan Chu. As Patrice’s assistant, Susan might advance with her boss’s sudden demise. That wasn’t a strong motivation, but it was cause enough for concern.

  Sharing that background horizon would be the “Luv Doctor,” Sherri Sellars. The radio psychologist had come here to help Alicia pitch Mocha Magic, but I couldn’t help wondering if that was her only business tonight. Did Sherri secretly covet a piece of Alicia’s product, just like Maya, the fitness queen? Would getting rid of Patrice advance that goal in some way?

  Almost at the vanishing point (yet still in the picture), I saw Sherri’s assistant, Daphne Krupa. “Don’t Call Me Daffy” struck me as a young woman with intelligence, energy, and ambition—and with those chili-pepper red glasses and matching stockings, she was obviously vying for some kind of attention. Like her friend Susan, Daphne might score a major advance now that Patrice was out of the game.

  Before the elevator doors swished wide again, I made my quick, final suggestions to Lori and Sue.

  “Add Sherri Sellars, Susan Chu, and Daphne Krupa to your possible persons of interest. If Maya, Herbie, or Alicia don’t pan out, take a look at those three. If nothing else, they’re all good sources for victimology. Patrice’s boss should provide some good background, too. She goes by the single name Aphrodite . . .”

  The detectives nodded, made their notations, and I followed them along the corridor and into the Loft space. Several guests glanced our way as we entered. From their flinching gazes, I knew I looked a sight—torn stockings, matted hair, and Kevin’s jumbo sports jacket wrapped around me like a Big Apple circus tent.

  Not my best moment.

  Lori touched my shoulder. “The names you gave us. Are they in this room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Point them out.”

  I did, quietly describing each person.

  “You know to stick around, right?” Sue Ellen said. “We may have more questions for you.”

  “Whatever I can do . . .”

  While the Fish Squad drifted across the sea green floor, I noticed a dozen men in suits, standing stiff as Doric columns among the sagging clusters of remaining guests. These men were Lori and Sue’s colleagues from the One Seven. They were still taking statements—and in their hands were familiar looking paper cups. I tensed at the sight. Sure enough, one glance at the samples bar confirmed my fear: a line of cops stood waiting for refills on Mocha Magic.

  I hurried toward my baristas, waving my hands. “Stop serving!”

  Esther glanced up from her French press pour. “What’s your issue, boss lady?”

  “You know what my ‘issue’ is. You’re passing out aphrodisiacs to half the badges in Midtown!” I turned to Tucker. “I’m surprised at you.”

  He shrugged. “They’re thirsty.”

  “No more cupid helper. The faucet is off as of now!”

  I shooed away the refill line and helped my baristas break down the station. In the process, I broke down myself and knocked back two successive cups of Mocha Magic. Yes, okay, I was being a total hypocrite, but exhaustion was setting in, and I badly needed something warm and stimulating.

  Unfortunately, as I started ingesting my third cup, the world began to look hazy again—and not from unshed tears. Beyond the Loft’s wall of windows, the city’s neon rainbow pixilated and spun. I gripped the samples table and closed my eyes . . .

  Opening them again, I noticed a familiar figure in a blue serge suit stepping out from a cluster of bodies. A head taller than the other detectives, this broad-shouldered lieutenant drained his paper cup as he approached.

  Mike? I rubbed my eyes. Was I imagining him?

  “When did you get back?”

  He didn’t answer, simply took hold of my wrist and pulled me along. We retraced our steps to the catering kitchen. Honestly, I was relieved to go. After tonight’s horrific events, I badly needed to talk things over.

  At the kitchen door, Kevin the Matterhorn stood guard. This surprised me, but Mike gave the young man a quick nod. Kevin stepped aside, and we moved into the kitchen.

  The space was deserted and dimly lit, giving us plenty of privacy to talk. Mike didn’t appear interested in talking. Tossing away his empty cup, he headed for the exterior doors.

  “Wait!” I said. “I don’t want to go back out there!”

  Like a soundless phantom, Mike continued pulling me—through the exit and onto the balcony-like strip that led to the rooftop Garden. Pivoting, he used his body to back me into a wing of the recessed doorway.

  The storm may have
ended, but its heavy air lingered, dropping damp, gray fog over everything. A gauzy curtain of mist hung between us and the city, turning skyscrapers into looming Titans. Dark and motionless, the giants hovered with more menace than the lobby’s sepia-toned ceiling gods.

  “They’re watching,” I whispered, pointing to the security camera. “We’re not alone.”

  Mike didn’t appear to care. His free hand flashed behind him and then I heard a click. I jerked to pull away but couldn’t. Looking at my arm, I saw why—

  “You handcuffed me?”

  Mike shook his own cuffed wrist. “We’re linked now.”

  What kind of game was this? “Unlock these! Let me go!”

  “You’re not going anywhere, Cosi.”

  “The hell I’m not!”

  I moved to leave. He tugged me back. I tried again, but he was stronger. With a chuckle, he pulled my cuffed arm up around his neck. He grabbed my other wrist, placed it there, too. Click-click!

  I tugged at my wrists, tried to pull them back from behind his neck. I couldn’t. Mike had freed himself while locking my wrists together.

  “How did you do that?”

  “Magic,” he said. “Now hold on.” His big hands reached under my thighs and lifted me up, pressing my back to the hard stone wall—

  “You’re acting crazy, you know that? We can’t do this!”

  He obviously didn’t agree. While his lips nuzzled my neck, he angled his lower body to brace me. With one arm, he held me close, freeing the other to tug up my skirt.

  “Mike, slow down!”

  Struggling against him, I raised my arms to gain some slack. My bonded wrists nearly cleared his head when he dropped me a few inches, locking me close again.

  This is insane! “They’re watching!” I cried.

  “Forget them,” he whispered. “Forget them all . . .”

  Sealing our mouths, he used his tongue for another kind of persuasion. Soon my tension melted, my limbs relaxed.

  “Say yes,” he rasped.

  The moment I nodded, the handcuffs unlocked, clothes were shoved aside, and finally, inexorably, he joined us. The city lights blurred as he moved, faster and faster. I felt breathless, feverish. Beads of sweat formed on my limbs and forehead. I closed my eyes, letting his body blot out everything until my need for release made me dizzy. At last, he was crying out and so was I . . .