by Coyle, Cleo
Well, I thought, some people make Welsh rarebit with beer. Why not try coffee?
The recipe I came up with was ridiculously easy—in other words, perfect for an eighteen-year-old dorm rat. I half filled a coffee mug with shredded cheese. Tonight was a combo of mild cheddar and Gruyère, but over the years I’d used almost every semisoft variety: Colby, Monterey jack, provolone, Gouda, mozzarella, cellophane-wrapped American, you name it.
When my freshly brewed coffee was good and hot, I poured it over the cheese in the mug. Mike couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. His eyebrows practically fused together with naked skepticism.
“Oh, ye of little coffee faith,” I scolded. “As I recall, you were just as squeamish about trying your first café latte.”
“True.”
“And now they’re your favorite.”
“I don’t know—that giant Depth Charge you made me today practically let me see into the future.”
“Well, don’t tell Esther. She’ll insist we rename it Nectar of Delphi.”
For about fifteen seconds, I stirred the mug’s contents then poured off the greasy coffee, carefully holding back the gooey ball of spreadable goodness. What I had left in the mug was a unique delicacy—melted cheese with a meatier, more complex umami flavor, like a Welsh rarebit.
Finishing our croques monsieurs, I covered the two remaining slices of bread with my melted coffee cheese, slapped the ham sandwiches together, and slipped them into a hot skillet of bubbling melted butter.
After frying them on both sides—getting that chewy, crusty, rustic French bread to turn a golden toasty brown—I slid the sandwiches onto separate plates, cut them on the bias, and presented one to the skeptical cop at my table.
Mike took a tentative bite and closed his eyes. “Oh man . . .” He took a few more bites, made a guttural kind of man-in-ecstasy noise, and inhaled the rest.
I finished off my own sandwich. As I licked my fingers, I noticed Mike casting a sheepish glance my way. “What’s wrong?”
“Can I have another?”
I laughed. “Didn’t I tell you it was good?”
“You did—I should have trusted you.”
“I guess that admission earns you another, but it’ll cost you . . .”
He brightened. “Personal favors? I’m up for that.”
“Rain check,” I said. “Tonight I just want information.”
“Franco and Joy?”
I nodded. “I’ll start cooking and you start talking . . .”
TWENTY-TWO
“Y OU remember why I had to leave the party, don’t you?” Mike began.
“An urgent phone call,” I said, prepping the man’s second sandwich. “A ‘certain member’ of the NYPD required your attention.”
“Well, that ‘certain member’ was Franco. Sergeant Sullivan wanted to warn me about him.”
“Warn is not a happy word.”
“When Franco found out about my handing his and Sully’s case over to the Feds, he blew a gasket. Sully stressed the decision wasn’t mine; it was Hawke’s—the first deputy commissioner.”
“I remember who Hawke is.”
“Well, Franco didn’t care. He went off half-cocked, anyway.”
I slipped the croque monsieurs into the bubbling butter. “What does that mean exactly?”
“It means he went rogue.”
“In English.”
“He went after the Jersey dealer himself, beyond our jurisdiction and counter to his superior’s decision, which is grounds for reprimand—or even termination. Given the situation, I understood his feelings. Sully is just as emotional about the case, but he’s not as young and hotheaded as Franco. So he called me, and we took off to track Franco down and stop him before he did something actionable.”
“I need a little more here . . .” I slid Mike’s finished sandwich from the pan to his plate.
“So do I. Give me a sec—” He crunched into his croque monsieur, chewed, swallowed, and sighed with satisfaction. “Okay,” he mumbled around another buttery bite. “What don’t you get?”
I refilled Mike’s cup and my own, then sat down opposite. “I don’t get why Franco blew his top. What’s the difference who puts this drug dealer behind bars?”
“That’s just it. Putting him behind bars is the issue. This dealer has no previous record. If he’s smart, he’ll cut a deal with the Feds and do little to no time.”
“But he’s responsible for at least two deaths, isn’t he? The girl who overdosed on his drugs and the artist boyfriend who killed himself over buying them for her.”
“The Feds won’t see it that way. In the bigger picture, this dealer is small time. If he offers good intel on perps higher up the supply chain, they’ll use him as an informant.” Mike finished off his sandwich, sat back.
“And you’re okay with that?”
He folded his arms. “No, I am not ‘okay’ with that, but my feelings are not the law. When you’re on the job, you have to pick your battles. Earlier today, I picked mine. I was willing to go down for my squad. Franco seems willing to go down over this lowlife drug dealer.”
“Why?”
“Because he feels responsible for that kid’s suicide. He thinks he should have seen the signs.”
“Okay, so Franco’s having problems with cop guilt. How does ‘going rogue’ help? What did Franco do exactly?”
“He sat on the dealer.”
I blinked, flashing for a second on those hulks from WrestleMania. “Literally?”
Mike’s grim expression finally broke. “No, not literally. Although Franco’s not above a move like that—” He reached for his coffee mug. “What my young sergeant did was conduct his own private stakeout. He took a little drive across the river to see this perp, and it turned into a very long drive. We tracked him for hours from his radio’s GPS.”
“Wait a second. Are you telling me your sergeant took my daughter on a stakeout of a drug dealer?”
“Calm down. Nothing happened. Absolutely nothing.”
“What in the world was Franco thinking?”
“It wasn’t his idea. Apparently, Joy called him before he got to the Lincoln Tunnel. He picked her up, they parked by the river, and he explained that he was heading to Jersey on a stakeout. He was about to drive her home, but she insisted on going with him.”
“What in the world was she thinking?”
“They weren’t thinking, neither of them . . . As I understand it, Clare, your chocolates were involved.”
I massaged my temples. “Half a box of Voss Raspberry-Espresso Flowers.”
“Well, Sully and I tracked those flowers all over Jersey. Franco and Joy started off watching the scumbag’s house, saw him drive away, tracked him to a nightclub, waited him out there. They hit a diner and finally followed him to a girlfriend’s house. They were practically in Pennsylvania when we caught up with them. Never once did this dealer cross into Franco’s jurisdiction so he never made a move.”
“What move would that be?”
“A move to find cause . . . a new reason to arrest the guy.”
“Okay, I get it. But you still haven’t told me what happened between Joy and Franco while they were alone in that car?”
“I didn’t ask.”
I sighed. “She’s really smitten, isn’t she?”
“I think so.”
“What about Franco? How does he feel about my daughter?”
“He’s a hard case, Clare. I don’t know.”
I closed my eyes and saw Joy in a wedding gown; Franco in formalwear with matching black do-rag and motorcycle boots; Matt sweetly walking his little girl down the aisle—then lunging to strangle the groom.
“Try not to worry,” Mike said. “Joy will be back working in Paris soon enough, right?”
An argument beyond lame. I’d made it myself two times already—to no avail. Joy had been drawn back to Franco like pig(headed) iron to an industrial magnet.
“Let’s talk about something else
,” I said. “I don’t need a new nightmare.”
Mike studied me. “What was it about? You never said.”
I took a breath, met his gaze. “You were on the road for hours, right? You never came back to Rock Center, did you? Never used your handcuffs on me?”
“Uh, that would be a no . . . not that it hasn’t entered my fantasy life.” Mike began to smile, until he saw my expression. “I was joking, Clare—for the most part, anyway. Are you telling me your bad dream was about me?”
“I had an erotic dream that turned bad. We made love. You sort of handcuffed me and seduced me into it . . .” Mike’s eyebrows rose with fairly predictable male fascination. “Then I found the body all over again.”
“Body?” His eyebrows fused. “What body?”
Before I could answer, Mike guessed: “That ‘accident’ you told Joy about—you were in the middle of it? Is that what you’re telling me?”
I nodded and he softly cursed. “I heard the chatter on the police radio, knew there was an incident at Rock Center, but it’s a big place, and I was sure you weren’t involved. And do you know why? Because I never got a call from you!”
“Don’t be angry.”
“Why didn’t you contact me?”
“I turned off my cell during service, and after I found Patrice dead, the events just snowballed . . .” I did my best to quickly fill Mike in on the evening’s festivities—witnessing Maya’s threats, finding Patrice’s body, working with Detectives Soles and Bass.
“So you think Patrice Stone was murdered?”
“I know she was murdered. Why else would the killer hide from a visible security camera under a giant black umbrella?”
“There could be a reason. A good defense attorney will find one—have no doubt. Did Soles and Bass make an arrest?”
“We couldn’t get a clear ID from the camera, but they’re gathering all the digital footage, having it analyzed frame by frame.”
“You were at the party, Clare. Do you have a theory?”
I told Mike about Maya and Herbie and a few other possible suspects, including the suspect who worried me most: Alicia Bower.
“Alicia?” Mike frowned. “Isn’t she your new business partner? The one who invented the Mocha Magic stuff?”
“She is.”
“What about her worries you?”
“She’s a headstrong business woman, yet I found her in a fetal position yesterday morning at her hotel . . .”
The whole fake knife in the chest Candy Man incident seemed like a week ago by now, but I did my best to bring Mike up to speed on it.
“Despite being the obvious target of a horrible prank, she refused to cooperate with the police. According to Madame, Alicia actually wanted to hire me to get some answers rather than bring a professional investigator into it.”
Mike met my eyes. “Would you describe Alicia as mentally unstable?”
“I’d describe her as under extreme pressure—and extremely secretive. But then so is Madame when it comes to whatever past they shared.”
Hearing that, Mike fell silent for a long minute, his expression moving from cop curious to obviously troubled. “So you’re telling me Alicia is connected to Madame’s past? But she’s surfaced only lately?”
I nodded. “Madame says she owes Alicia a great deal. But she won’t say why. And Alicia was supposedly a barista at the Blend, yet Matt doesn’t remember her.”
“I get the picture,” Mike said. “And I’m sure Soles and Bass are already doing a background check on her . . . I’ll talk to them tomorrow, try to find out if she has any kind of criminal record or history of mental problems—but there’s something else you need to know . . .”
The grooves of tension in Mike’s forehead made me stiffen. “Bad news?”
“The primary reason I went to the Fourteenth Floor today wasn’t to turn Franco and Sully’s case over to the Feds. That was incidental. First Deputy Commissioner Hawke was far more concerned about a cold case that’s suddenly heating up. He said I was in a unique position to crack it for him.”
“Unique position?”
“The case involved the Village Blend.”
“My Blend?”
“Hawke learned about my ties to you, this place, and he asked me to investigate.”
“This is the old case you mentioned on the rooftop? The one you said I could help you with?”
Mike nodded. “Your former mother-in-law was somehow involved. She was taken into custody for a short time during the height of it.”
“She was arrested?”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“Refusing to answer questions before a grand jury.”
“Questions about what?”
“The murder of a police officer.”
I blinked, stared. “I don’t believe it . . .”
Mike said nothing, just waited for me to absorb the shock.
Finally, I asked: “Was Alicia involved?”
“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “Hawke only gave me an oral briefing today. Sometime this week I’ll be given access to the files and evidence. I’ll let you know more after I review them.”
“What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”
“What detectives do all the time, Cosi. Wait.”
“Well, I’m not waiting in this kitchen.” I drained my cup, grabbed his hand. “Come on . . .”
BY the time we reached the master bedroom, I was more than ready for unconsciousness. My daughter was home safe, thanks to the man climbing under the covers next to me, so I snuggled up close and held on tight.
“Do me a favor,” Mike murmured, stroking my hair.
“What?”
“Don’t have any more bad dreams about me.”
“Believe me, it wasn’t my choice.”
“You know, I’ve been dealing with crime scenes for a lot of years. You want some advice?”
“Absolutely.”
“Try to think good thoughts before you drift off. Focus on a positive image.”
“I’ll try . . .”
Closing my eyes, I summoned the first moment I saw Joy today, looking so lovely and grown up in the grand lobby of Rock Center. I saw us hugging and felt my spirits lift. Next I brought back the image of Joy embracing Mike before she went off to bed. My heart soared even higher. Finally, I recalled my first glimpse of Mike at the party, all freshly shaved and smartly pressed in that blue serge suit, chuckling with Joy at the samples bar . . . which reminded me—
“What were you and Joy laughing about at the party?”
“Oh, that . . .” I could almost feel him smiling in the dark. “We were kidding around about her big question.”
“Big question? What big question?”
“Come on, Clare . . .” He chuckled. “You don’t have to play me.”
“Mike, I swear. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You didn’t put Joy up to asking me when you and I are getting married?”
Oh good God! “No. I did not . . .” Tension flowed back into me. I took a breath, let it out. “She asked me that same question earlier today. I don’t know why she suddenly cares so much.”
“You don’t? It’s a pretty basic deduction, sweetheart. She loves you, and she wants to see you happy, settled . . .”
“And she might be thinking over that question for herself.”
“It’s certainly possible,” Mike conceded. “So . . .”
“So?”
“So when are we getting married?”
I stiffened. “I don’t want to talk about that, Mike. Not now. I’m too tired. Aren’t you tired, too? Can’t we just go to sleep?”
Mike fell silent for a long moment. I felt the tension in his body now. My reaction obviously threw him. But soon he relaxed, letting it go. “Good night, Clare,” he finally whispered and softly kissed my head. “Sweet dreams . . .”
TWENTY-THREE
THE calm after the storm. That’s what I’d hoped for, and whe
n I came downstairs the next morning, my expectations were seemingly met.
Outside the fog had passed; the cobalt sky was clear, and sunlight poured through the Blend’s wall of spotless French doors, transforming our marble tabletops into luminous pools of gold. Everything seemed perfectly normal, except the shop’s customers, most of whom were women—with green skin.
“Who killed the Witch of the East? Who? Who? Who?”
Either I was having another Mocha-induced nightmare or my Blend was hosting a coven of wannabe Wicked Witches. Okay, two covens, because a coven is only thirteen, and there were over two dozen witches, some wearing wigs and false noses, most with day-glow complexions more commonly seen on the Yellow Brick Road.
“Okay, Tucker, what’s going on?”
“Good morning to you, too, boss.”
I grabbed a stool at the espresso bar, motioned him closer. “There really are green women in here, right?”
“Don’t worry, C.C., you’re not hallucinating.” He fluttered the back of his hand. “This is simply spillover from an open casting call at HB Studios.”
“Glad to know I’m not crazy.”
On the barstool next to me, a leanly muscled Latino man nudged me with a laugh. “Your customers are the ones who are crazy today. Crazy for a part in another ridiculous Broadway spectacle.”
I greeted Punch—dancer-singer-actor and Tuck’s current main squeeze. “Let me take a wild guess,” I said. “It’s not Stephen Sondheim.”
The two silently shook their heads.
“Somebody’s reviving The Wiz?” I tried.
“You’d think that, wouldn’t you?” Punch said. “I mean, I wish!”
“You have to understand, these are post-postmodern times,” Tucker said as if they’d been arguing about this subject. “One must either deconstruct the traditional or approach it with an innovative sequel.”
“Innovative,” Punch said, rolling his eyes. “Uh-huh.”
“So what’s the production?” I asked.
Punch smirked. “Return to Munchkin Land.”
“It’s a working title,” Tuck noted.
“Who killed my sister? Who? Who? Who? Was it you, my pretty?”
Tuck slid an espresso in front of me. “Given the events of last night, that question’s timely, you have to admit.”