French Pressed cm-6

by Клео Коул

  “Okay, I’ll bite,” Mike said. “If she doesn’t want cat food, what does she want?”

  “Human food, of course.” I folded my arms. “She probably smells the butter-browned lobster on my breath from dinner. Sorry, Java honey, I ate every bite. No leftovers.”

  MRRROOOOOW!

  Mike laughed. “I can see that went over well.”

  “Here…” I went to the cupboard, found a can of Pounce kitty treats. “Give her a few of these. They’re lobster flavor. Not the real thing, but then she doesn’t have the bank account for a Solange entrée. Actually, neither do I. Madame footed the bill tonight. Anyway, they should tame Java’s hungri-tude for awhile.”

  “Hungri-tude?” He popped the can. Java’s ears instantly perked up.

  “It’s what you get when hunger and attitude collide in a self-actualized female tabby.”

  Java jumped down, and Mike threw her a few of the triangular-shaped treats. My companionable but languorous feline began scampering across the floor like an excited kitten, catching and eating each tiny triangle as if it were a fat mouse.

  I might have accused the cat of having no shame, but then I probably would have joined her on the floor if Mike had started throwing out some of those champagne-poached oysters I’d devoured earlier in the evening.

  Since Pounce treats were all he was tossing, however, I sat my “distracting ass” down across the table and lifted my own coffee mug. The swallow I took was long and satisfying. My Morning Sunshine was an even cleaner and brighter experience than our regular Breakfast Blend, thanks to my ex-husband.

  Matteo had found us an exquisite crop of Yirgacheffe during a trip to Ethiopia, so I decided to make good use of it by creating the special blend. I savored the hints of lemon and honey blossom that the Yirgacheffe brought to the party. They also provided an amazingly juicy finish—the kind of salivation you’d get after a luscious bite of citrus fruit.

  It was the perfect cup for my morning customers, because I’d stopped the roasting process at medium, so a healthy mug of it provided a higher caffeine content than a demitasse of espresso.

  In my professional opinion, my Morning Sunshine was a superb, eye-opening coffee to wake up with—whatever time of day one needed waking. And I could certainly see, from Mike’s weary demeanor, he needed it tonight.

  “So…what’s your duty?” I asked him again.

  “I’m supervising three undercover teams at three different nightclubs.” Mike tossed Java another treat. This time she rose up on her hind legs and caught the treat with her two front paws.

  Mike pointed. “Look at that. Java does tricks.”

  “She’s just showing off for her new boyfriend.”

  Mike laughed and threw another treat.

  “So tell me what’s happening at the nightclubs. Drug sales? Assaults?”

  “Confidence game,” he told me.

  “A single perpetrator?”

  “At least four, probably six. We’re calling them the May-September gang.”

  “May-September?” I murmured, scratching my head. “They only operate in the summer?”

  Mike laughed. “No. Good guess though. Care to try again?”

  “Sure…”

  This was our usual routine. Long before we’d started dating, Mike would come into the coffeehouse as a customer, belly up to my espresso bar, and we would get to talking about his cases, from his theories and interrogations to his methods of trapping an array of criminals. I’d learned a lot about detective work, just listening to Mike as he downed his lattes.

  The first week we’d started dating, he’d confided to me how happy it made him that I genuinely cared about his work. Apparently, his wife had changed on him early in their marriage, asking him not to bring his job home.

  I’d never met Mrs. Quinn, but I couldn’t understand how she could shut down her husband like that. I thought Mike’s work was admirable and inspiring, not to mention thrilling. The man routinely risked his life to keep the never-ending New York crime wave from touching me and mine. How could I not want to hear about it?

  “May-September, May-September,” I repeated, drumming my fingers on the table. “Is the name some kind of a play on the phrase May-December relationship?”

  “You’re getting warmer.”

  Mike glanced away from Java and moved his attention fully over to me. I gulped a few more hits of caffeine just to stay focused under his intense blue gaze.

  “Okay…” I said. “If the gang is May-September, then it must mean a younger person and a middle-aged person are involved somehow. Are younger perps setting up middle-aged victims for robberies?”

  “You got it.” He put the lid on the Pounce treats. Java got the hint. She licked her brown paws, stretched, then trotted off toward the living room. “Looks like I lost my new furry girlfriend.”

  “Pop the lid on those treats, and she’ll be all yours again.”

  “I see. It’s a superficial thing.”

  “So…how are they doing it exactly? The gang?”

  “The MO’s been the same a half dozen times now. A twentysomething perpetrator picks up a middle-aged target at a nightclub, brings the target to another location, where accomplices initiate the robbery. Sometimes there’s violence, other times just some gun pointing. They always leave the victim tied up. CompStat confirmed the pattern, and my captain asked me to form a task force.”

  “Does that mean this gang’s operating beyond the Sixth Precinct?”

  Mike nodded. “Lower East Side, Soho, and here in the Village.”

  “I guess that makes sense…I mean, those are the hot spots for nightlife.”

  “Three clubs seem to be favorite locations for this gang,” Mike said. “We’ve got personnel undercover, posing as nightclub customers.”

  “You have them well-dressed, I assume. Flashing cash and jewelry? Looking clumsy and drunk, like easy marks?”

  “You got it, Cosi.” Mike smiled. “Didn’t I tell you to sign up for the Police Academy?”

  “You know I’m way too old for that, Detective. I may be a long way from December, but I’m definitely pushing September. Are women getting hit on as victims in these nightclubs or just men?”

  “Women and men. Both have been targets.”

  “But you haven’t had any bites yet?”

  The smile left Mike’s eyes; he glanced into his cup. “Nothing.”

  “That’s not unusual, is it? I mean, you just started your operation…”

  “The robberies are getting more violent: pistol whipping, choking to unconsciousness.” He frowned, looked away, sipped more coffee. “If we don’t tag a lead quickly, I’m concerned we’ll be looking at homicides.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you should use me as a decoy.”

  “I have a lot of plans for using you, Cosi. None involve setting you up as bait for a confidence sting.”

  “Okay, fine…as long as one of your plans involves those handcuffs of yours.” I put my wrists together in front of me, hoping to lighten his mood again. “Did I mention the bed upstairs is a four-poster?”

  My little joke seemed to perk up Mike faster than another hit of Sunshine. He smiled, rubbing his chin, but he wasn’t taking the bait where the handcuffs were concerned.

  “So tell me how your little investigation ran?” he asked, pointedly changing the subject, which was probably smart, considering we had zero time to act on the other subject.

  “My investigation?” I knocked back more coffee, refilled my mug.

  “Come on, Clare. You mentioned going to Joy’s restaurant tonight, and I know you didn’t choose it for the ambiance. You went to check up on your daughter, right?”

  “Right. I admit it. Wasn’t that easy? And you didn’t even have to beat it out of me.”

  “Well? How did it go?”

  “Not very well, I’m sorry to tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  Mike’s brow knitted as I recounted my evening, from the schizoid dinner of perfect f
ood and lousy coffee to my daughter being threatened by a knife-wielding, probably drug-addled sous-chef. When I finally finished, he leaned forward, his mouth tight.

  “And where was the great Tommy Keitel during all of this?”

  “He was missing in action. Joy says he’s been disappearing a lot lately, and tonight I saw it for myself. This executive chef came in after dinner service was over—and with this creepy guy named Nick in tow.”

  “Creepy how?”

  “His demeanor, I guess. I mean, I’ve seen all types in the Village, believe me, but this guy was hard-core intense. His skin was extremely pale, and his brown hair was longish, but not in a trendy way. It just hung there, you know? And he was dressed all in black—which, again, isn’t exactly atypical for New York. But these clothes weren’t in the least fashionable. He didn’t utter a word to me, even after we were introduced, and he wore these pointy boots and a black leather blazer, the kind the outer-boroughs guys wear.”

  I suddenly thought of Esther’s boyfriend. BB Gun had been wearing a black leather blazer that was a lot like Nick’s.

  “Anything else you remember?” Mike asked.

  “Yeah. When Tommy introduced me to Nick, he said the man was from Brighton Beach.”

  “Brighton Beach, huh? That area of Brooklyn is full of Russians.”

  “So?”

  “So it’s a long way from Manhattan. Why’s Keitel hanging with a guy like that?”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “Yes, you can, Clare. The black leather blazer’s a popular rag with the wiseguys. Do you know if Keitel owns his restaurant?”

  “He doesn’t.” I related what I’d overheard during Brigitte’s meltdown. “One of the men on the staff loudly reminded Brigitte that she was under contract just like Tommy Keitel.”

  “So.” Mike paused, put down his cup. “Tommy doesn’t own the restaurant. Which means he answers to an owner—or owners. And restaurants like Solange aren’t cheap. Starting a place like that must cost a cool million—”

  “Six.”

  “No.”

  “Yeah. David Mintzer told me it costs around six million to get a-two-hundred seat restaurant off the ground in midtown Manhattan. And to maintain it, the cost is something like five to eight hundred dollars per square foot per month, just for rent.”

  Mike whistled. “I guess that’s why a martini in those joints costs eighteen bucks.”

  “And a lamb chop is forty-four. Yeah, that’s why.”

  “Well, there you go,” Mike said. “The picture seems clear enough to me.”

  “What picture?”

  “Put the pieces together, Clare. Somebody with big money is backing Tommy’s restaurant. Tommy goes missing from dinner service. Nobody knows why or where he’s gone. Then he shows up late with some creepy guy in wiseguy rags from Brighton Beach—”

  “You’re saying Nick’s attached to the Russian mob? That Tommy got his financing by way of some corrupt gangsters from the eastern bloc?”

  Mike leaned back, folded his arms. “You know and I know the Italian mob has a long history of funding food-related businesses in New York. They practically owned the Fulton Fish Market before Giuliani cleaned it up. And where the Italians have lost ground, the Russians have been moving in to take it up.”

  “I don’t know…” I shook my head. “Mob or no mob, the problem from my point of view isn’t Tommy and his backers. I mean, factoring out the man’s recent neglect of his responsibilities, the real danger to my daughter is Brigitte Rouille, and that’s all I care about…”

  I stood up and began to pace the small kitchen. “If I could just find some way into that restaurant, I could keep an eye on things, make sure Brigitte doesn’t freak on my daughter again…Maybe I could even help the woman…get her to admit she has a drug problem…”

  Mike cleared his throat. “Uh, Clare…” He lifted his coffee cup and pointed to it.

  “What?” I stopped pacing. “You want a refill?”

  “No.” He laughed. “I mean…yes, I’d love more. But that wasn’t my meaning.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Didn’t you tell me Solange’s coffee was abysmal? You said it tasted like…What was it?”

  “Mississippi swamp mud. Although I’ve never actually tasted mud from the mighty Mississippi, so it’s technically an unfair comparison.”

  “And didn’t you help out David Mintzer this past summer? Setting up the coffee service at his new Hamptons restaurant?”

  “Yeah, sure.” I shrugged. “I roasted blends especially for his place, created a coffee and dessert pairings menu, and—Oh, yes! I see where you’re going! I can do the same thing for Solange!” I started pacing again. “Tomorrow, I can go back. I can make a sales pitch to Keitel and Dornier!”

  “Dornier? Who’s Dornier?”

  “Napoleon Dornier is Solange’s maître d’ and wine steward.” I folded my arms and tapped my chin, thinking aloud. “Since he’s responsible for the front of the house, he’s got as much say in the beverage service as Keitel, so if I can’t persuade Tommy, I’ll work on Nappy. He struck me as a prideful man. I can’t imagine he thinks it’s a good idea to poison a customer’s palate at the end of a meal with crap coffee.”

  Mike nodded. “So there it is. You’ve got an in.”

  “I’ll give it my best shot anyway. Thanks, Mike. Thanks for the suggestion.”

  He smiled. “So how about seconds?”

  “Sure. I think you’ve earned it.”

  I grabbed the French press pot off the counter, but before I could refill his mug, Mike’s strong arm circled my waist. He tugged me onto his lap.

  “I meant seconds of something else,” he murmured in my ear.

  A shiver tore through me as Mike’s lips moved down my neck. Oh, yes… I was exactly where I wanted to be, and if I were a cat, I’d most definitely be purring. There was only one problem—

  “Mike…I thought you only had thirty.”

  “We’ve got at least five left.” He tipped his head at the kitchen clock. “Let’s make it count.” Then his mouth was on mine, and for the next few minutes the only thing I drank in was Michael Ryan Francis Quinn.

  Five

  “I wish you didn’t have to go…”

  Mike and I were standing by the apartment’s front door. He was holding me close, stroking my hair, which was now free of its pins and down around my shoulders.

  “Three more hours tops, Clare. Then I’ll be back.”

  I nodded, hardly able to believe it. “Wait,” I said as he turned to go, “let me get you a key. Then you can just let yourself in and come upstairs, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Mike smiled as he held out his hand, ready to take that little piece of magic metal—the key to a lot more than my front door. But before it left my fingers, a loud, sharp bang sounded somewhere below us. We froze, realizing a door in the stairwell had opened and closed.

  Mike met my eyes. “Are you expecting anyone?”

  I shook my head, listened to the footsteps on the staircase. “Could be Joy,” I whispered. “She’d be off work by now. Her roommate’s in Paris for the next six months. Maybe after what happened tonight, she doesn’t want to be alone…”

  But as the shoes clomped closer, I realized the tread was far too heavy to be my daughter’s. Mike and I waited, staring at the apartment’s front door as a key scratched into the lock, then came the click-clock of the dead bolt, and the door opened.

  “Hey, Clare!”

  Oh, no.

  Short, black hair on a square-jawed face, Roman nose, cleft chin, and a hard body courtesy of his favorite extreme sports: rock climbing, cliff diving, mountain biking, and meaningless sex (not necessarily in that order). My ex-husband beamed at me through the wedge of swinging wood. He pushed the fissure wider, and his cheesy grin fell.

  “Quinn?”

  Mike blew out air. “Allegro.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut, willing away the ruination of my evening. But it
didn’t work. When I opened my eyes again, Matteo Allegro was still standing in the doorway, his right arm in a white plaster cast, his left shouldering an overstuffed athletic bag. He’d come back to stay.

  My ex-husband glanced at me, then glared at Mike Quinn. “What’s he doing here?”

  “Clare and I have been seeing each other for a month now,” Mike levelly replied. “And you knew that already, Allegro, so don’t be a horse’s ass.”

  Matt flipped his key ring. “Gee, thanks for clearing that up, Detective. Because I thought you might be staking out the place to arrest me again.”

  Quinn shook his head, looked down at me. The warmth had drained from his blue eyes. The chilly cop curtain was back. “I’ve got to go.”

  As he began to turn away, I touched the sleeve of his overcoat. “The key,” I whispered, holding it out again.

  “Can’t.” He jerked his head toward my ex. “Not if he’s here.”

  I wanted to scream, but it wouldn’t have helped. I stood dumbfounded and horrified, watching Quinn’s sturdy form stride out while my ex-husband sauntered in. As they passed each other through the doorway, Matt purposely bumped the detective with his bulging canvas bag.

  “Grow up, Allegro, will you?” Quinn bit out before continuing downstairs.

  Matt moved into the duplex’s antique-filled living room and dropped his bag onto the Persian rug. “What’s his problem?”

  “He doesn’t have the problem! I do!”

  I chased after Mike, following him down to the shop to let him out and lock up again. I tried once more to offer the key, but he absolutely refused to come back with Matt in the apartment. How could I blame him? If the tables were turned, and Mike’s estranged wife had appeared with a legal right to use his living space, I would have felt the same way.

  “I could come to your place,” I offered.

  “No.” He gently touched my cheek. “It’ll be a while before I’m off. You get some rest. I’ll drop by tomorrow.”

  After trudging back up to the duplex, I found Matt in the kitchen, fixing himself a fresh pot of coffee—or at least trying to. With his right arm in that cast, he was making a royal mess of it.