Murder by Mocha

by Coyle, Cleo

  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 . . .

  When I opened my eyes, I found myself standing, my clothes back in place and Mike on the ground. He was propped against the building’s wall, his long legs stretched out in front of him. I was still handcuffed, although not to myself. We were back to one cuff on me, the other on Mike.

  “Hey!” I called, nudging him.

  He snored lightly.

  “You’re sleeping?” I shook him, but he failed to stir, and that’s when I heard it—a small, wild voice.

  “Clare!”

  I stilled. Traffic sounds drifted up from the avenue but no voices. I leaned out of the recessed doorway, peered down the long balcony. Against my cheek, the night mist felt sticky, like sky nectar.

  “I’m in the Garden! Help me!”

  I bent over Mike, shook him more violently. “Wake up!”

  His eyes half opened. “Can’t a guy catch some z’s?”

  I rifled through his pockets. Finally, I found it—the handcuff key! Working quickly, I freed myself, then moved toward the voice.

  “Hurry! Please, hurry!”

  I flew through the mist, but the Garden was gone; some unearthly cloud had swallowed it whole.

  “Clare!”

  With every yard, the gray soup grew denser. I nearly gave up—until a light appeared and then another. Like gas lamps along a foggy street, the faux Greek columns illuminated small pools of rooftop. From one to the next I moved, shadowy outlines jumping out at me, ghosts of potted plants, specterlike folding chairs.

  But where are the police?

  I saw no uniforms or nylon jackets; no notebooks, cameras, or latex gloves. Only the puddles were left, like liquid mirrors, reflecting my moving legs as they hurried along until a flash of red stopped me—my daughter, dashing by in her red hooded jacket.

  “Joy!” I called, but she vanished in the fog.

  “Help me! Please!”

  The rain-swept platform stood before me, its white canopy fluttering. I searched the stage. Empty.

  “Here I am!”

  In the Garden pool, I found her—Patrice Stone, alive! Her prairie-sky eyes were blinking, her mouth moving.

  “Help me! Please!”

  I saw no blood in the water, no terrible wound. Her skin no longer appeared gray or pasty but radiant as an angel, warm as a sun. Locks of golden hair floated like a halo around her head. With her expression so lovely and serene she didn’t appear to need help at all.

  But she’s underwater! She must be drowning!

  I lunged to the pool’s edge, seized both her hands, and heaved. She felt heavy as a block of marble. With all my strength, I yanked again then abruptly the force was reversed. A jolt came and then a shock. I was no longer pulling her out. She was pulling me in!

  The pool roiled with our tug-of-war. Water sloshed over the side, soaking my skirt and legs. I battled like a madwoman, strained every muscle, but her strength was unreal. Now I was in the water, suddenly cold. My hands felt like ice, and then Patrice turned to ice, actual ice.

  I thrashed and fought, aware her features were transforming. Soft curves resculpted themselves into hard angles until Patrice was no longer Patrice. She’d become the Venus de Milo, carved from frozen water, like the centerpiece of my budino staircase—except this Venus had arms, glacial arms, and they locked around me.

  Reclining in her pool, the icy beauty hugged me tight. Then we sank together toward her underworld, the shallow water bottomless. I gasped for air, I choked and coughed. An umbrella opened over me. Black as death it floated, down, down, down . . .

  As freezing fluid filled my lungs, I closed my eyes and screamed.

  TWENTY-ONE

  “CLARE? Are you okay?”

  I opened my eyes.

  Mike was bending over me, his hand on my shoulder. I took a breath, felt the certainty of air
in my lungs, the sweetness of a pillow behind my head. My clothes were no longer damp. My thin blouse and torn stockings were gone, replaced with a faded Steelers jersey and fleecy sweatpants.

  Propping myself up, I found my duplex living room softy lit, flames crackling in the hearth. Firelight flickered across the polished surfaces of Madame’s antiques, bringing me back over twenty years to those nights when Matt’s mother sat up with me, soothing away my expectant-mother anxieties with cups of Belgian chocolate melted into hot milk and plates of buttery praline sablés.

  Despite the cozy externals, my heart was still hammering.

  “What time is it?” I checked my wristwatch—2:55 AM.

  Mike, still in his blue suit, sat on the edge of the sofa, concern creasing his features. “You were crying for help. Did you have a bad dream?”

  A dream, I thought. Of course. Clearly, I’d been dreaming. What wasn’t so clear was when it started. Maybe my head was too fuzzy from sleep, but I couldn’t discern where my real memories ended and my nightmare began.

  I glanced at Mike, about to ask what (if anything) had happened between us on that Rock Center rooftop when—

  “Mom?”

  My daughter’s voice. Excited, I sat farther up, searched the room to find her standing in the shadows, still wearing her red hooded jacket. I swung my legs to the floor, patted the cushion next to me.

  “Sit!”

  Joy stripped off her jacket and sat down. I put my arms around her and hugged her tight.

  “Why did you run off like that?”

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I just . . . all of a sudden . . . I really needed to see Manny.”

  Manny? I blanked for a second, forgetting Manny was short for Emmanuel, as in Sergeant Emmanuel Franco, the young detective on Mike’s squad who’d once arrested me and Joy’s father. (But that was another story.)

  By now, I’d forgiven the guy. My ex-husband had not. In fact, a short time ago, Matt stupidly forbade Joy to get involved with the cocky cop, which (knowing my daughter) made the prospect all the more enticing.

  “I know you’re not a child anymore,” I told her, “but I’m never going to stop worrying about you . . .”

  Joy sighed, shook her head. She really did appear sorry. “I don’t know what came over me . . .”

  “It’s okay. That Mocha Magic powder had us all acting a little”—I shot Mike a look—“out of character.”

  Mike arched an eyebrow. “At least you know the stuff works.”

  “Works?” I said. “I’m beginning to think the product needs an outsized warning label.”

  “Like what?” Joy said. “Do not take without your significant other present?”

  Mike smiled. “Consuming alone may prove hazardous.”

  “Consuming while driving may prove hazardous!”

  Joy laughed.

  I didn’t. “Is that what you and Franco were doing all night? Driving around eating aphrodisiac-laced chocolates?”

  “We were driving and then”—Joy couldn’t hide her amusement—“we weren’t!”

  Right, I thought. But it failed to explain Mike’s involvement. I speared him. “So you tracked Joy down and gave her a lift home?”

  “I tracked Sergeant Franco down,” Mike corrected. “Police business.” He’d clipped the words, unwilling to elaborate, at least in front of Joy.

  “Don’t be angry, Mom. I know I shouldn’t have run out on you . . .” She playfully nudged me. “You know, a part of me was surprised I actually got away with it, considering what you used to pull on me in high school.”

  “Is that right?” Mike said, moving to stoke my dying fire. “And what was that?”

  “Mom always knew when I was getting ready to sneak out. Always! I’d call my friends from my bedroom, make my plans, quiet as anything. Her door would be shut, her lights off, but just as I climbed out my window—she’d be in the yard waving me back inside with a flashlight! I couldn’t figure out how she knew, but she always did. She used to tell me she was a little bit psychic.”

  “That’s right, honey. I am. Just remember that. I always know when you’re about to do something stupid—so don’t.”

  “I really am sorry.”

  “It’s okay. As it turned out, your leaving was for the best. Something happened at the party and . . . frankly, I’m glad you weren’t there for it.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”

  “C’mon, Mom!”

  I exchanged glances with Mike. “Someone had an accident, okay? No one you know. The police came. They had to do interviews, take IDs. It’s good that you and your father were gone by then. As you know, your dad doesn’t react well to authority—and you need to return to France very soon. The whole thing might have held you up.”

  “Oh, merde! You are so right! After what I went though with Chef Keitel’s death, I absolutely hate dealing with the police!” Joy froze. Cringing slightly, she cast an apologetic expression Mike’s way. “I mean except for you and Franco. I don’t hate you guys.”

  “I know.” Mike patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Okay, honey, you’ve had a long day.” I hugged Joy again. “The guest room bed is all ready for you.”

  “Thanks, Mom. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “Good night, Mike.”

  “Good night.”

  Joy gave him a hug, too. I was surprised how much it warmed my heart.

  When she headed upstairs, Mike shrugged off his beautiful blue suit jacket, threw it over a chair. For the briefest moment, the sight of his shoulder holster and weapon actually startled me. It was easy to forget what kind of weight Quinn carried around with him all day, every day.

  He sank down next to me, exhaling like a battered balloon. Leaning back, he stretched out his strong arm. I nestled into him, and for long minutes, we simply watched the fire snap and crackle, both of us too drained to talk. Finally, I wrapped my arms around him and squeezed.

  “Thank you for bringing her home,” I whispered.

  “Glad to.”

  “You want to crash here again?”

  “I thought you didn’t want me to sleep over when Joy was here.”

  Mike was right. That was my rule. But sending him away seemed even more wrong.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I mean, it’s pretty obvious Joy won’t mind.”

  “All right, then, I will . . .” He paused. “Okay if we stay up a little longer?”

  I’d been through this before with Mike whenever he came off duty late. If he went to bed now, he’d be staring at the ceiling for an hour.

  “You’re wired, right?” I said.

  “I just need to unwind a little more.”

  “Good. Because I’d like to know what the heck happened between Sergeant Franco and my daughter.”

  “I figured you would.”

  “Then come into the kitchen. I’ll fix you a snack.”

  Mike smiled. “Now who could say no to that?”

  “SO how did you do it?” Mike asked, folding his long body into one of my kitchen chairs.

  “Do what?”

  “Catch Joy in the act of vacating her bedroom via the window, past midnight, every single time she tried it?”

  I smiled. “Trade secret of the Maternal Union.”

  “I see . . .” Sitting back, Mike began to roll up his starched white shirtsleeves. He did it to keep his cuffs clean, but the gesture always reassured me.

  Quinn was the most trustworthy man I knew—the most dependable, patient, and steady—but all that control came with a caveat. He was also the most guarded. For years, I was forced to guess what he was thinking—until he rolled up those sleeves. Then, at least, I knew he could get comfortable in my kitchen.

  “You can trust me, you know,” he said.

  “I know . . .” Bending down, I poked my head in the fridge, began pulling out ingredients. “But I like the idea of having valuable information to b
arter with.”

  Mike eyed my backside. “Sweetheart, you can barter with me in that position all night.”

  “Don’t get fresh, Detective.”

  “Fresh is the last thing I am right now.”

  “Which is why coffee is on our midnight menu . . .”

  Caffeine and I were such old friends, drinking coffee late seldom kept me up. In fact, a hot cuppa joe relaxed me like most people’s cocoa, so I reached for my French press.

  The bean choice was easy enough. Matt had sourced some amazing new cherries from Rwanda and Sumatra. During my last roasting, I’d paired them with an old favorite from Costa Rica. The new blend I’d created produced a rich, enticing brew with notes of brown sugar, chocolate, and spices. The blend was so new, I hadn’t yet thought of a name for it . . .

  “And is there going to be food on our menu?” Mike inquired.

  “But of course. Croque monsieurs with coffee Welsh rarebit.”

  “In English?”

  “The croque monsieur is just a French bistro version of a grilled ham and cheese—thin slices of ham, Dijon mustard, and melted cheese on buttered and grilled bread. The coffee cheese is my own little spin on it.”

  “And what exactly is coffee cheese?”

  “Watch and learn, grasshopper . . .”

  I cut four thick slices from a rustic French loaf and buttered them. On two of the slices, I laid out my beautiful Black Forest ham and caressed it with Dijon. Next I began making the coffee cheese.

  “You’re kidding,” Mike said, watching me. “Where in the world did you come up with this one?”

  “College . . .”

  My short answer. The truth was, during my two years of fine arts education—before I’d spent a summer studying in Italy, met Matt Allegro, and became pregnant with Joy—I kept two small appliances in my dorm room: a toaster and an electric kettle. With the kettle I conjured countless pots of French-pressed bliss. With the toaster, I created tasty snacks, slathering toasted bread with everything from compound butter, fruit preserves, and Nutella to freshly made deli salads. Then one day, I had a craving for a grilled cheese. I tried using the microwave in the community room, but the results failed to inspire.