Murder by Mocha

by Coyle, Cleo

  Alicia turned when she heard my voice. “Clare! Help me!”

  “Quiet,” Sue Ellen barked.

  Lori Soles stopped to speak with me while Sue Ellen and two other officers proceeded down the ramp. As Alicia was pulled along, she called over her shoulder. “Bay Creek Women’s College! Find Aphrodite’s thesis. Find it, Clare!”

  “You have to let me speak to Alicia!” I begged Lori.

  “That’s not going to happen, Cosi.”

  “But—”

  “We got a nice print from a piece of the victim’s smart-phone that the killer tossed off the Garden’s rooftop. It took time, but we found it—and matched it with a print on file in Long Island. We now have a solid case against Alicia Bower for the murder of Patrice Stone.”

  “Listen to me! There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for that print. Ask Alicia. She’ll tell you—”

  “Alicia will have her day in court,” Lori said before turning away.

  Matt appeared beside me, put a hand on my shoulder. “You know, Clare. You did think Alicia was the murderer.”

  “Because that’s what the killer wanted me to think. But Alicia’s not a murderer—and I don’t think Sherri is, either. Someone went to great lengths to frame Alicia and Sherri. Someone wanted to frame them both.”

  “Clare’s right,” Madame told her son, lips tight. “Alicia is not a murderer.” She faced me, her violet eyes welling. “We have to fix this. We have to help her.”

  “We will.” I took her hand in both of mine. “I promise.”

  Matt pointed over my shoulder. “Why don’t you start by asking Dudley Do-Right here for some advice.”

  “Mike’s here?” I spun to find Quinn’s long legs striding across the deck. In his wake were Sully and a uniformed officer. Mike paused, scanned the crowd, and walked right over to the Hasidic man in the broad-brimmed hat. He paused to stare into the older man’s eyes while Sully took hold of the man’s arms and pinned them behind his back.

  With a brush of his hand, Mike knocked away the hat, pulled at the false beard. As it fell away, I saw that terrible bone-white scar.

  “Cormac Murphy O’Neil, you are under arrest for the murder of a New York City police officer. You have the right to remain silent—”

  Madame heard the man’s name and blanched. “It can’t be...” When she turned to look, their eyes met. Matt and I had to move quickly. We caught her in our arms before she sunk to the deck.

  THIRTY-NINE

  KEEP your head down. Stay quiet. Don’t give yourself away...

  God, it was hard. The giggles were bubbling up again, threatening to expose her. But it was just too perfect: Seeing Alicia and Sherri led away in handcuffs.

  Now they knew what her mother felt: Fear. Dread. Humiliation. Now they would go through a public trial, be shunned by so- called friends, torn from their families, suffer living vivisections by a rabid press.

  Have fun, ladies! Enjoy having prosecutors dissect your lives, examine every blemish, exhume every personal secret . . .

  Yes, this was what she’d dreamed of, all those years ago: to watch this show, watch them suffer! She bit her cheek, made it hurt, then swallowed down the laughter.

  Only one more act to go now. Like the judge and prosecutor, this monster’s fate would end with an execution. And if that little snoop, Clare Cosi, dares get in my way again, I’ll end her, too.

  FORTY

  “HOW’S she doing?” Mike Quinn asked.

  He pulled me aside when he noticed Madame’s reaction. Cormac O’Neil had been led away by now, escorted down the gangplank, and placed in Mike’s unmarked vehicle.

  “A doctor on board is checking her over to make sure she’s okay. Matteo and I just need to get her home.”

  Quinn nodded. “Have you spoken with her yet about the past? Her grand jury appearance?”

  Shaking my head, I considered explaining what kind of day I’d had, but this wasn’t the time or place to start unloading. Mike’s own day was far from over, and he didn’t need more baggage from me. So I simply said—

  “If Madame needs to talk when we get her home, I’ll listen. Otherwise, I’ll broach the subject tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow’s fine. Don’t stress her. O’Neil surfaced for a reason, and I’m guessing he’ll give it up easily.” He lowered his voice. “What about you? How are you holding up?”

  Feeling Quinn’s heavy hand on my shoulder, I closed my eyes, still amazed that a simple touch from this man was all the aphrodisiac I needed. Like a warm espresso, it woke up every part of me.

  “I’m fine. Long day, that’s all . . .”

  He cupped my cheek. “You don’t know how much I’m looking forward to its end.”

  “Me too.”

  Mike moved his hand back to my shoulder—his grip felt firmer. “I have to ask you something, Clare. Has Sergeant Franco tried to contact you?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know if he’s been in contact with Joy?”

  “He hasn’t, and she’s left plenty of messages for him. What’s the matter? Is Franco in danger?”

  “He’s not in danger. He’s in trouble.”

  Aw, no . . . “It’s the dealer again, isn’t it? The case he couldn’t let go.”

  Mike nodded. “Franco defied orders, trailed that scumbag from Jersey, and arrested him in Manhattan. Hawke found out. He and Franco had words . . .”

  Mike’s public mask was rigid but not unreadable, not to me. His dark blue eyes had narrowed slightly, deepening the crow’s feet at their edges. His mouth looked tight.

  “Hawke’s really angry, isn’t he?” I said. “What’s he forcing you to do?”

  Mike exhaled. “He wants Franco’s badge and gun.”

  “For heaven’s sake, what’s the sense in that? Didn’t the man simply do his job?”

  “Following orders is part of the job, too, Clare.”

  “I’m sorry, but this stinks like office politics—another big boss with a big ego.”

  “I don’t like it much, either, but the chain of command can’t be broken without consequences.”

  “And what if the top of that chain is wrong?”

  “Franco’s done a good job for me, for my squad. I want to save his career, but he has to help himself now. He has to come in.”

  “It’s just . . . Mike, it’s not right, and you know it.”

  Quinn looked away, rubbed the back of his neck. His expression went from stony to openly grim, as if he were trying very hard to control anger—or pain. “If he contacts Joy or you, try to convince him, okay? Tell him to call me. We’ll work it out.”

  “Can you really work it out? Or is it too late?”

  “Honesty, I don’t know. I’ll do what I can...”

  An hour later, I was sitting in Madame’s penthouse apartment near Washington Square. Her live-in maid had greeted us at the door. Like a doting mother, Consuelo fussed and clucked, tucking Madame into bed, plumping her pillows. Consuelo brought her a cup of cocoa, too, even fixed a tray for me and Matt before retiring herself.

  “Okay, she’s resting comfortably,” my ex-husband said, striding out of his mother’s bedroom. “She insisted on calling a lawyer for Alicia, but she’s finally settled in. Now talk to me, Clare...”

  “Sit down,” I told Matt, cradling the warm cup. The rich, heady aroma of fine European chocolate reminded me how Madame had fussed and clucked over me during my pregnancy. The drink tasted of everything that was sweet and comforting and good. “Have some cocoa.”

  Matt remained standing. He folded his arms. “I want to know who this man O’Neil is, why he was arrested, and why my mother fainted when she saw him on that yacht tonight!”

  “Lower your voice—I’m going to tell you. But I want you to sit down first. This is liable to be a shock . . .”

  When Matt finally settled on the sofa, I explained it all: how Mike Quinn got involved, how he read the police file, how Madame was thrown in jail for protecting a cop killer.

/>   “I can’t believe she did that . . .” Matt was holding his head now, just as shocked and upset as I knew he’d be. “When did this happen exactly?”

  I gave him the dates.

  “I remember that time . . .” He sat back, gaze going glassy. “About a year after my father died, Mother arranged for me to spend six months with the Gostwick family—they were good friends of my father’s, and they owned a coffee farm in Costa Gravas.”

  “I know the Gostwicks, Matt. You and Ric are best friends...”

  “I’m just trying to explain. I missed my dad so much back then. I was failing out of school, getting into fights . . .” He shook his head. “It must have been extremely difficult for my mother. You know, I didn’t even think about it then. I only thought about myself, my own grief. But now that I’m a father...” His voice caught. “I think it must have been very hard for her to send me away like that. Maybe it screwed up her judgment.”

  “Maybe. But I’m sure she hoped the change would be good for you.”

  “Oh, it was. I learned so much over those months. Ric’s father taught me about the coffee business from the bottom up, and we traveled, too, because the family loved to sail. They showed me Jamaica, Haiti, much of the Caribbean. We even motored through Central America. I came back to New York fluent in Spanish and Creole French, feeling ready to take on the world.”

  “And you did . . .”

  Just a few years later, Matt went off alone to backpack Europe. I was staying with relatives, studying Renaissance art. We met in Italy. One chance encounter on a beach, and our lives changed forever.

  “Well,” I said, “if you were in Costa Gravas that long, it explains why you don’t remember this character O‘Neil. He must have duped your mother into the relationship because, according to the police file, Cormac O’Neil was one dirty cop.”

  “Cormac O’Neil was one good cop.”

  Madame’s voice was fixed and strong. She stood in the doorway to her bedroom, a white silk robe wrapped elegantly around her, her bearing as regal as ever.

  “Cormac was also a righteous man. The best. I’m sure he still is.”

  I set down my cup. “That’s not what the police file says.”

  “And I was not duped into a relationship with him. Our love grew out of friendship. And our friendship grew from trust. Cormac protected me, and he saved our Village Blend . . .”

  Matt and I exchanged glances. Was this guy a devil or a saint? He couldn’t be both. Could he?

  Matt stood. His voice was soft. “I’d like to know everything, Mother. I think you better start from the beginning.”

  FORTY-ONE

  TEN minutes later, we had heard most of her story—a completely different version than the one on file with the NYPD. According to Matt’s mother, Detective Cormac O’Neil came into her life about the same time as Alicia Bower.

  “You said Alicia worked for you as a barista,” Matt reminded her.

  “That’s right. She’d been raised with quite a lot of money and status on Long Island, but her family lost everything when her father was caught running an investment scam. The fallout was terrible for her. She was finishing up her senior year at New York University—suddenly, she had no money to her name, and she badly needed work.

  “Alicia loved our Blend. She was there all the time as a customer, with her books, between classes—so I hired her. I trained her as a barista, and she really took to it. She worked so much and so well, I even made her my assistant manager. I came to trust her like you two trust Tucker.”

  “I get it,” Matt said. “But why don’t I remember her?”

  “Because, by the time you came home from Costa Gravas, she was accepted into a graduate program at the school she mentioned tonight—Bay Creek Women’s College. She earned her doctorate and was offered a position as an assistant professor. But not before she helped me get through what became one of the best and worst summers of my life . . .”

  “Because of O’Neil?”

  “It didn’t start with him. It started with a couple of young punks who decided to run a criminal enterprise from a corner table of our second floor.”

  Matt looked stricken. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Oh, it was over by the time you came home. Everything was. And back then Greenwich Village was a much different place than it is today.”

  “I remember,” Matt said.

  Even I knew that. New York had gone through a devastating fiscal crisis in the seventies. The early eighties weren’t much better. Crime exploded, graffiti covered everything, dealers sold drugs openly, and the Village . . . well, it was a much less polished and picturesque place.

  Because rents were lower, artists, musicians, actors, and writers were still living here in great numbers amid the cobblestone streets and Federal-style walk-ups, but so were druggies and vagrants. Eclectic, offbeat shops were more prevalent, too, and so were empty storefronts and crumbing property facades.

  “Cormac came in for coffee every so often,” Madame continued. “We’d never spoken beyond polite greetings, but suddenly, I needed help. I didn’t want the police to think I was profiting from the loan-sharking and drug dealing those men were engaged in, so I told Cormac about my problem. Within a week, he set up a sting and had them arrested.”

  I glanced at Matt—so far, this guy didn’t sound dirty.

  “Cormac became a regular after that. Since I refused to take his money, he insisted I go out to dinner with him. He was a proud, quiet man, but he knew about loss and pain, and... he was a good listener.”

  She turned toward her son. “I was still grieving for your father, and Cormac could see that. But he helped me work through my sadness over those months when you were gone, and . . .we fell in love.”

  I picked up my cup and took a long drink of warm chocolate. This was a sweet and poignant story, but I knew it was about to take a bad turn. Swallowing hard, I braced myself.

  “Cormac and I were happy. We’d settled into a routine, began making plans for the future, and I didn’t think anything could hurt us, but . . . as the summer progressed, he became tense and even more quiet than usual.

  “One night, he confided in me. There were dirty cops in his precinct. He wasn’t sure how to handle it because he didn’t know where in the chain of command the corruption stopped, and he needed hard evidence and solid witnesses for the charge.

  “Soon after, I received a phone call. Cormac was frantic. He’d been on an apartment building rooftop, arresting a dealer when a young patrolman appeared out of nowhere and blew the perpetrator’s head off.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “I’m sorry, dear, but that’s what happened.”

  Matt leaned forward. “What did O’Neil do?”

  “He drew on the uniform, and there was a shootout. Cormac’s partner was killed, and Cormac jumped from the roof—he landed on a fire escape and got away.”

  “Why did the patrolman do that? What was he trying to accomplish?”

  “This young police officer was on the payroll of organized crime. His buddies discovered Cormac and his partner were working on a case against them, and they ordered them both killed. This patrolman had a superior officer ready to back his version of events. They made Cormac out to be the corrupt one, the dirty detective who killed his partner, murdered the dealer, and ran off with the drug money.”

  Matt rubbed his goatee. “Sounds like your guy was an Irish Serpico...”

  To older New Yorkers, Detective Frank Serpico was more than just the subject of a Hollywood movie. Serpico’s near-death experience at the hands of fellow officers was legend, and his testimony about widespread police corruption led to the Knapp Commission, which cleaned up much of the NYPD.

  Madame nodded. “Corruption was certainly rife in the early seventies. The Knapp Commission helped, but it wasn’t a cure-all. Cormac told me this particular patrolman was well connected. He had a few relatives high up on the force. Cormac intended to bring his story to the Justice Department�
��and that meant he had to disappear for a while.”

  “Did he go to the Feds?” I asked, hopefully.

  “I assume he did, but I don’t know what happened after that. I thought he would come back for me . . .” She shook her head. “I hoped he would, but he never did. And when that corrupt patrolman was never brought up on charges, but instead promoted as a hero, I came to believe they got to Cormac. I thought for sure he’d been killed.”

  “What about the grand jury?”

  “Before he disappeared, Cormac implored me not to say a word to anyone about what I knew, not even to a judge or jury. What could I say? I couldn’t prove anything—and the corrupt cops would have known I was a threat. The possibility of my being murdered for exposing it all—with no evidence, mind you—was just too great. I wouldn’t risk making Matt an orphan. I vowed to stay silent to protect my son. So I refused to answer their questions, and the judge sent me to jail.”

  “Jesus,” Matt whispered.

  “Alicia was the one who saved me. She was a tower of strength, so efficient and fearless, like a machine. She took over the Blend, ran it in my absence. She found a lawyer for me and the means to bail me out. She continued to prop me up and run the coffeehouse even after I was released from jail, until I was emotionally able again.

  “Alicia was even the reason for my subsequent happiness. When she met Pierre Dubois at a Long Island charity dinner, she absolutely ordered him to drop by my coffeehouse for the very best cafés au lait and sablés in the city. I never would have met Pierre otherwise. I owe her so much . . .”

  I looked at Matt. He exhaled hard. Finally, we understood.

  “If not for Alicia,” Madame said, “I never would have held on to the Blend or gotten through losing her the way I did...”

  Madame’s gaze was downcast. It was so late now, and I wasn’t sure I’d heard her right. “You mean, losing him? Cormac?”

  “No . . .” She took a breath, let it out. “I lost my daughter. Our daughter. I had a miscarriage in jail. Cormac didn’t know I was expecting. I didn’t think I could anymore . . . I was going to name her Clare—after the younger sister he’d lost in his childhood . . .”