Murder by Mocha

by Coyle, Cleo

  “Nice to meet you, Daphne,” I said, and introduced Madame.

  “Nice to meet you both, too. Just don’t call me Daffy, okay?” she said with a laugh.

  “This is my new assistant.” Patrice gestured to the second girl. Her face was round and smooth, her eyes chocolate-covered almonds, her lips slick with a pretty gloss that matched her sheer, plum stockings. She extended her hand. The shake was surprisingly firm.

  “Susan Chu,” the girl said.

  “And don’t call her Sue,” Daphne warned.

  Susan rolled her eyes. “Sue Chu sounds ridiculous, don’t you agree?”

  “Sue-Chu! Gesundheit!” The two young women chanted it together, like it was a very old joke.

  “Both names sound pretty to me,” I said.

  Susan smiled. “Daphne and I are the glorified gofers for all of Aphrodite’s Sisters this week. If you have any problems, just ask us to help.”

  “That’s very nice of you . . .”

  “Well,” Patrice said, “now that the show’s over . . .”

  “It was a show, wasn’t it?” Daphne said, eyes sparkling. Clearly, she wanted to keep dishing.

  Susan giggled. “When it comes to Maya, it’s more than show. That woman is a twenty-four-seven three-ring circus.”

  “And Susan knows of what she speaks,” Daphne added.

  “Really,” I said, “and why is that?”

  Susan shrugged. “During my first year with our community, I worked for Maya.”

  “Yeah, and Maya made Susan work out with her, too, didn’t she?” Daphne teased.

  Susan gave a mock shudder. “Let’s not relive the horror . . .”

  Madame touched my arm. The escort, she whispered in my ear.

  Oh yes! “Would either of you happen to know anything about Maya’s escort tonight?”

  Susan made a face. “You mean the captain?”

  “Captain?” I said. “He’s a military man?”

  Daphne and Susan laughed. “Oh, funny! . . . No, no! . . . Wow, not even close!”

  “Herbie Lansing is an independent film producer,” Patrice levelly informed us.

  “That silly cap is for show,” Susan explained. “He belongs to a sailing club on Long Island and swans around pretending he’s a yachtsman to impress potential clients and investors, but really all he owns is a little Chris-Craft—”

  “Okay!” Patrice sent a pointed glance toward the two young women. Enough dirty laundry in public. “Let’s all get back to the party . . .” She looked ready to say something more, but as she reached into the tiny pouch on her belt, her face froze in horror. “Ohmigod!”

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Are you in some kind of pain?”

  “I lost my smartphone!”

  Automatically, we all looked on the ground, but there was no sign of it.

  Patrice groaned. “I remember setting it down on the Garden podium. But the rain started before I finished my speech, and I got caught up in herding everyone inside. It must still be out there!”

  “Won’t your device be ruined?” Madame asked.

  “No, the podium has a shelf. It should be perfectly dry under there, but I’ve got to find it. My whole life is in that thing!”

  “I’ll get it,” Susan offered.

  “No, it’s my fault,” Patrice insisted. “You all go back to the party.”

  Alicia touched her arm. “Do you have a trench?”

  “No.” Patrice shook her head. “I didn’t think we’d get rain.”

  “Take my Burberry. It has a hood.” Alicia handed over the still-damp coat. “Do you want an umbrella, too? There are several from guests in the cloakroom stand.”

  “The wind’s blowing too hard,” Patrice said. “And there’s a canopy over the stage area.”

  “Just be careful out there—the floor is slippery.” Alicia turned to us. “If you’ll all excuse me, I need a moment to freshen up.”

  As Alicia made a beeline toward the ladies lounge, Patrice slipped on the pearl-gray trench, hurried to the Garden’s doors, and flipped up the hood. The dark rectangle of glass served as a stark backdrop for her light-colored figure—the perfect subject for a pen-and-ink. Maybe that’s why I stared at her image so long, or maybe on some level I felt a premonition.

  Patrice cracked the door and a chilly gust swept down the corridor. The damp air swirled around my stocking-covered legs, sending shivers through me as she stepped outside.

  The wind was still strong, but the steady rain was easing, its tattoo decelerating with a promise that waiting it out would be worth it. Beneath the narrow awning, Patrice lingered, watching drops turn to drizzle.

  “Clare?” Madame called. “Are you coming?”

  “Yes.”

  Turning to go, I stole one last glimpse of the desolate image: Patrice Stone, arms folded, waiting for the wind to die.

  SIXTEEN

  AS we moved back inside the crowded party room, Daphne and Susan drifted away, and I leaned toward Madame. ��We need to find Maya Lansing’s husband.”

  “Captain Herbie? Why, dear?”

  “Because . . . the fake corpse we saw covered in fake blood this morning was a bodybuilder, and Maya is a fitness queen. There might be a connection. Alicia actually called her a ‘steroid-shilling witch.’”

  “Coincidence?”

  “Mike says in police work there are no coincidences. This isn’t exactly a criminal investigation, but . . .” I met Madame’s gaze.

  Her silver-gray brows knitted. “You think Maya really put her own husband up to seducing Alicia?”

  “It’s outrageous, I grant you, but Maya strikes me as the kind of woman who banks on outrage.”

  “But why bring the Candy Man here? How could it help her? What would it accomplish?”

  “For one thing, it would rattle Alicia, goad her into causing a scene while Maya can stand back and look poised and together.”

  “Oh yes, I see. That would be disastrous—and diabolical.”

  We found Maya easily enough. She was holding court near the tall windows, her stunning body dramatically backlit by New York’s cityscape. On the edge of the knot that had formed around her, I spotted my ex-husband. (Not a surprise. Next to coffee beans, half-naked women were Matt’s favorite stimulant.)

  Every few seconds he stole a glance at the daringly undressed fitness diva. The photojournalists weren’t nearly as coy. Snapping pictures, they openly admired her display right along with the wholesale buyers, some of whom actually took personal cell phone shots.

  “That Maya is one clever operator,” Madame whispered.

  I wasn’t going to argue. Her topless stunt, plus a room of mostly male buyers, plus samples of our new aphrodisiac would add up to a stunning success for her attention grab—unless we could stop it. Unfortunately, as Madame and I crept closer, our hopes sunk. “Captain” Herbie Lansing was nowhere to be found.

  “Dead end,” Madame whispered.

  “Not funny.”

  “Sorry, dear.”

  “Listen, Maya’s husband is here somewhere. Maybe he stepped out to the restroom. Just keep an eye out for a cheesy yachtsman’s cap.”

  Suddenly, Madame’s eyes lit up. She pointed.

  “You see Herbie?” (I assumed.) “Where?”

  “Not Herbie. Someone else. Someone I know you’ve been looking for . . .”

  Turning, I finally saw him: Detective Michael Quinn. He stood near the samples table, talking with my daughter, his broad-shouldered form draped in the blue serge suit that I’d helped him pick out a few months ago. Expertly altered by an NYPD-friendly tailor, the coat was nipped and tucked to curve with his athletic physique while giving away no sign of his weapon (in Mike’s case, the gun and shoulder holster he wore like a third arm). As he turned, I noticed his tie, silver and blue silk—the one I’d helped his young son and daughter select for a special Christmas present.

  Whatever Joy was discussing with Mike appeared to amuse him immensely. His lighthearted mood surprise
d me. Could he really be over his resignation so fast? Or was laughing with my daughter just a polite act?

  “Go visit with your man,” Madame said. “I’ll keep an eye out for Captain Herbie.”

  “Captain Herbie?” It actually took me a second to refocus, but refocus I did. Leaning close, I left Madame with a piece of advice: “When Alicia gets back here, warn her—in no uncertain terms—what could be coming her way.”

  “Oh, I will. Don’t you worry, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “If Maya’s husband does turn out to be Alicia’s Candy Man, what next?”

  “Tell Alicia she should use the situation to her advantage. She needs to stay calm and composed. She should pull Maya aside and demand she leave the party right now and drop all attempts to cut herself in on the profits of Alicia’s product or else.”

  “Or else what?”

  “Or else Alicia will file charges.” When Madame tilted her head in confusion, I reminded her: “You know that martini the Candy Man pushed on Alicia last night?”

  “The drink he brought to her hotel room?”

  I nodded. “Alicia was smart. She pretended to drink the stuff but poured most of it into the flower vase. Then those two martini glasses vanished the very same time that Dennis did, and I got suspicious. I convinced Detectives Soles and Bass to have the alcohol in the vase tested for drugs. If they find any, the Candy Man can be charged with a felony, and if Maya put him up to it, then she’s culpable . . .”

  I stopped talking when I saw Madame was no longer paying attention to me. “What are you looking at?”

  Lifting her chin, she smiled. “Good evening, Detective Quinn.”

  “Good evening, Madame Dubois. Mind if I borrow your manager?”

  Her violet eyes sparkled. “I think she’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

  A moment later, Mike’s breath was hot at my ear. “Somewhere private where we can talk?”

  I swallowed, surprised at the voltage just one of Mike’s whispers could send through my system.

  “Follow me,” I said, taking his hand.

  The kitchen was dimly lit and empty, the constant whir of large refrigerators the only sound. As I turned to face him, he deftly slid an arm around my waist and yanked me close.

  “Whoa, slow down!” I said, flattening my palms against his chest. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “Five shots of that Mocha Magic stuff . . . Or maybe it was six.”

  “Six shots!”

  “Esther fixed me up.” Mike’s hands slipped up and down my back, then over my backside.

  “Seems to me, she fixed me up!”

  “Not her fault,” Mike said. “I told her I needed a major caffeine hit, and she said there were more than enough samples to go around.”

  “Believe me, Esther loves to play imp.”

  “You wanted us to test this stuff, didn’t you?” Mike’s reply was somewhat garbled. His lips were too busy tasting my neck, my jaw, my earlobe.

  “Hey, I’ve been worrying about you for hours,” I said, squirming in his grip. “I want to know what happened today. You seem pretty darn happy for a guy who just resigned from a job he lives for.”

  “I didn’t resign.”

  “You reconsidered?”

  “I reassessed.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means my paranoid assumptions were flat-out wrong. The first deputy commissioner wasn’t hunting for a head. He knew about our case coming apart with that poor kid’s suicide, but he said he understood. He’d had his own share of jobs gone wrong. He seems like a good guy—Larry Hawke is his name.”

  “Hawke?”

  “He’s a real old-timer. Hero cop, decorated while still in uniform . . .” Mike smiled down at me. “See? No more worries.”

  “But—”

  My reply melted away in a kiss so electric it could have been licensed as a stun gun. Fighting to keep my head, I broke off, pulled away . . .

  “Take it easy, okay? Anyone could come through that kitchen door at anytime.” I exhaled. “Alicia claimed this stuff was potent. It looks like she was right.”

  Mike laughed. “I haven’t enjoyed herbs and spices this much since I was in uniform, splitting a bucket at KFC. I ever tell you that?”

  “No.”

  “My partner liked the wings. I was a breast and leg man.”

  I removed his roving hand from my thigh. “What were you and Joy laughing about, by the way?”

  “You don’t know?” Mike said in a tone that implied I should.

  “No. I don’t know. What?”

  “I’ll tell you about it later.”

  “Well, I hope you weren’t telling her what happened with me this morning. I take it you heard about the Topaz bagman by now? Cop gossip. Or maybe the Fish Squad filled you in—”

  “Oh, I heard. You’re the talk of the PD today, Cosi. Let’s just say I got a lot of pats on the back, along with plenty of ribbing, mostly guys asking why my girlfriend didn’t phone me for the collar.”

  “It wasn’t your jurisdiction.”

  “My jurisdiction? I see. Well, how about we find my jurisdiction . . .”

  Mike grabbed my wrist and tugged.

  “Hey! Where are we going?”

  He didn’t reply. Like a caveman in a mating frenzy, the man simply pulled me toward the kitchen’s glass double doors, a service exit that allowed the catering staff to reach the Garden.

  Against my better judgment (although not my hormones) I willingly followed. The rain was still coming down, but an awning extending out from the doorway kept us relatively dry.

  This part of the roof had the feel of a balcony or (given the downpour) a narrow section of Noah’s deck. A corner of the building cut us off from the bulk of the event area. Far to my right, I could barely make out a sliver of the lighted Garden—like catching part of an ark’s bow from the vessel’s port side. Yet in front of us we had the same billion dollar view, a virtual sea of city lights.

  At only seven stories north of Fifth, we floated just above the Midtown streets. Glistening towers of glass and stone rose up around us like dramatically lit stalagmites. Across the avenue, the Gothic steeples of St. Patrick’s Cathedral loomed whitely in the night like twin spires of a delicately carved ice palace.

  Mike kept us under the overhang, just a few steps away from the kitchen doors still veiled by shadows. He swung me around and pressed my back to the wall. The surface was cold, but his caressing hands felt warm against my chilled skin.

  “I still don’t understand,” I whispered as his lips began to nibble. “Why did this deputy commissioner Hawke make such a big deal about calling you in?”

  “He wanted all the paperwork on the Brooklyn suicide and the Jersey drug dealer the kid had been buying from. He’s turning everything over to the Feds. In the meantime, he had another case for me. An important one.”

  “What case?”

  “A cold case. He said I was in a unique position to handle it.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll tell you about it—later.”

  “You’re putting me off?”

  “Only for a little while. The truth is, I’m going to need you.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. This cold case puts you in a prime position to help me. And speaking of prime positions . . .”

  Mike’s body pressed into me.

  “We shouldn’t be doing this—” I lamely rasped, until his kiss convinced me otherwise.

  For a time we were content, wrapped in a cocoon of bliss, our mouths sealed, the magical lights of Rockefeller Plaza shimmering through the soft rain. Then something far less ethereal kicked in.

  My skin began to tingle and my heart rate picked up. A rush of adrenaline seemed to heighten every touch, every kiss. Was Mocha Magic really this potent? I’d only sampled a little yet I felt genuinely breathless, slightly dizzy. Clearly, Mike did, too. When his big hands began roughly tugging up my skirt, I knew he’d
lost his head.

  “Mike, no!” I pushed hard at his chest, smoothed my skirt back down. “Not here.”

  “Where, then,” he whispered, breath searing my ear. “Your place? Later?”

  “Actually, no.”

  He tensed.

  “Joy’s come home unexpectedly. She’ll be staying with me.”

  “How about after Joy goes to sleep?”

  I shook my head.

  “Come to my place, then.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Better do more than try, Cosi . . .”

  Mike’s primal need for fleshly delights reasserted itself. Once again, I felt his hands shortening my hemline. This time I didn’t stop him. My own unbearable need for release had finally short-circuited every synapse of my better judgment.

  Thank heaven for the urgent ringtone of his cell, which put the brakes on his out-of-control libido (and mine). Mike cursed softly as he answered the cell call with one hand, kept tight hold of me with the other.

  “Yeah, Sully.”

  Mike listened, his face growing impatient. “And this has to be done now and not later?”

  Within a minute, the conversation was over. As he put away his phone, I readjusted (and rebuttoned), which took a good minute.

  “It seems a certain member of the NYPD requires my attention,” he said, clearly annoyed. (Those little veins at his temples were more accurate readers of his mood than a standard polygraph test.)

  “Hey, look on the bright side,” I said, “this morning you thought you were out of a job.”

  “I also thought I’d be spending the evening with you.”

  “The evening’s not over yet,” I whispered.

  “You really understand?”

  I smiled, leaned close, and kissed him deeply. “I know you, Michael Ryan Francis Quinn. When duty calls, you go . . .” Then, taking his hand, I led him out of the Garden and back into the light.

  SEVENTEEN

  AT the elevator bank, I gave Mike’s hand a final squeeze. By now, the gathering was breaking up, and the cars to the lobby were crowded. Just before the doors shut, Mike sandwiched himself between a pair of jovial middle-aged confectionary executives, asking directions to the Carnegie Deli.

  Before returning to the party, I used the glass on the rain-streaked Garden doors as a mirror to check my state. As I turned my wrecked French twist into a simple ponytail, I spied another reflection in the glass.