Billionaire Blend

by Cleo Coyle

  “Unless they are women.”

  “Touché.”

  “Those hand-sewn denims and the Florentine leather bomber jacket Eric wore when I first met him—your idea?”

  “They’re all my ideas, Ms. Cosi. I order the outfits tailored in miniature, from the materials that will be used to make the finished product. I show the dolls to Eric, and he makes his selections.”

  Anton owned his pride, and why not? He got to dress his own living, breathing, billionaire Ken doll.

  “It’s a more efficient system than trial-and-error, Ms. Cosi, even if it’s not perfect.”

  “What heuristic is perfect? A heuristic is basically just a rule of thumb, isn’t it? Helpful, maybe, but a rule of thumb is just an easy shortcut, like stereotyping. It doesn’t work all the time, does it?”

  Anton smiled and nodded appreciatively. I glanced at my watch. It was after one in the morning. I thought about turning on my phone, but I knew Anton would eavesdrop on any call, and I didn’t want to deal with a concerned or angry Quinn until I had privacy.

  “It’s very late, Anton. I’d better head home before the seams on this vintage dress give way.”

  Anton rose. “I’ll drive you.”

  “No, don’t leave Eric alone. I insist. Call me a cab and I’ll be fine.”

  Thirty-seven

  WAS that a whimper?

  As my taxi pulled away, I was buffeted by an arctic blast. My coat, more stylish than functional, leaked like a New Orleans levee, and the beads on my vintage Chanel dress felt more like ice chips.

  The coffeehouse was closed, the shop dark, the newly installed French doors shuttered. I was fumbling for my key when I heard the sound, like a whimper of pain or despair. A lost pet?

  I moved to the dim alley beside the shop and tried to peer into the darkness. Then I heard it again. A sob, and definitely human . . .

  It could be a homeless person or even a drunk, in which case I’d call the authorities for a non-emergency to help the person find shelter on this frigid night. But if this were a crime victim or someone who’d been seriously injured, he’d need help right away.

  “Hello?” I called.

  A large figure burst out of the shadows—so fast I had no chance to run. Heavy shoes scuffled on the cold concrete and thick arms wrapped around me in a crushing bear hug. I struggled and felt the delicate dress tear under my coat, but I couldn’t break free.

  When I tried to scream, a gloved hand covered my mouth and nose. I could barely breathe, and within seconds I was seeing stars.

  I looked down, hoping to spot a foot to stomp on or leg to kick.

  What I saw were tan construction boots and dirty denim cuffs. Then something else tumbled into view—a red wool Solar Flare cap had fallen from my attacker’s head.

  That’s when I knew the man holding me was the looter from the other night. And here I was, helpless as a bundled baby to do anything about it!

  I groaned in frustration. He must have thought I was suffocating, because the glove came off my face.

  “Stop struggling,” he hissed.

  For the second time that evening, a noxious alcohol cloud wafted over me. This time it was cheap malt, not premium juniper berries.

  “Okay,” I said, willing myself calm. “Do you want money? Jewelry?”

  I couldn’t see his face, but he gripped me so tightly I felt his head shake.

  “This is where it happened. This is where they killed her. You were there, right? You saw it?”

  When I didn’t reply, he squeezed until my ribs bruised.

  “Right, right!” I yelped.

  “Now she’s dead and they’re looking for me.” His grip relaxed a little. I might have been able to escape him, but suddenly I didn’t want to.

  “We can talk about it. Let’s go inside, have coffee—”

  “No!” His cry was anguished. “It’s a trap. There’s someone inside already. It could be the police. They’re looking for me. They think I did it.”

  “There’s no one inside. The coffeehouse is empty.”

  “You’re lying!” He shook his head. “You saw how they killed her, right?”

  “Charley?”

  “Yes, Charley. Charlene Kramer Polaski; my ex-wife. She was too close to the truth so they murdered her.”

  “What truth?’

  “The truth of who really killed that young actress Bianca Hyde.”

  “Are you telling me that Charley was the target of the bomb, and not Eric?”

  “Yes. They didn’t know about me. They couldn’t. She was sending coded notes for safekeeping, deleting them from her phone before midnight.”

  Midnight? Why? Was Charley a PI Cinderella?

  I cleared my throat. “So who is they?”

  Before he could answer, the sound of keys rattling in the Blend’s front door interrupted us. The man released me so fast that I nearly stumbled to the pavement. Snatching up his red cap, he took off, legs pumping, heavy construction boots smacking the pavement.

  I lunged for the door just as Matteo Allegro yanked it open.

  “Clare?!”

  “Matt! I was nearly assaulted!”

  “I knew it!” He took one look at my gaping coat and torn dress and (despite his sub-Saharan tan) turned redder than a chili pepper. “I don’t care if Thorner is a billionaire! I’m going to kill the little son of a—”

  Thirty-eight

  OF course, I straightened Matt out and he calmed down—then he calmed me down. After plopping me on a stool at our espresso bar, he rummaged around for my container of homemade Kahlúa, and grabbed ice from the freezer and a bottle of vodka.

  “What are you making?”

  “Espressotinis.”

  I rubbed my arm, sore from the manhandling. “Make mine—”

  “A double. I plan to . . .”

  As he mixed our drinks, I told him everything, starting with the Source Club dinner, the coffee showdown with Grayson Braddock, and the fact that Eric Thorner had endured excruciating pain—just so he wouldn’t miss the chance to embarrass a business rival who’d insulted him.

  “Sounds like you had dinner in a shark tank.”

  “More of a shark aquarium, complete with its own holo-fall.”

  “Hollow-what?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Let’s just say there were plenty of predators swimming in money, and Thorner must have been planning his ‘got-ya’ moment for some time.”

  “The kid’s obviously very smart,” Matt conceded, straining my espresso martini into a glass crusted with cocoa and sugar. “Maybe too smart for his own good . . .”

  I took a long sweet hit of refreshingly cool burn and kept talking, explaining how a group called Solar Flare had gathered to protest Eric (for what exactly, I still didn’t know), then I’d come back here, and—

  “It was one of their members who grabbed me. The man outside claimed Charley—Charlene—was his ex-wife, and he was trying to tell me what he knew about the car bombing outside our coffeehouse, until you scared him off—”

  “You think I’m sorry?” Matt snapped. “The guy was obviously unbalanced.”

  “He was upset. And some of what he said didn’t make much sense. He’s mourning his ex-wife’s death, after all, and he thinks the police suspect him of being the bomber, but I don’t think he’s crazy.”

  “He told you the police think he’s the bomber? Maybe he is, Clare, and the last thing you should have proposed was a one-on-one sit-down with him in this coffeehouse.”

  “But I believe him. He said his wife was murdered because she was close to discovering the truth behind the death of Bianca Hyde. He also used the pronoun they, which implies a conspiracy, so I’m going to speak with Nate Sumner first thing tomorrow—”

  “Mother’s old hippie friend? That geezer who teaches at the New School?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? What does Sumner know about reality after all those psychedelic acid trips?”

  “Nate is a member of Solar Fl
are; he was at the demonstration tonight; and the man who grabbed me was wearing one of their red caps, so Nate might know him—”

  “I don’t like this.”

  “Look, all I need to do is locate that man and get his statement to Quinn or Lieutenant DeFasio at the Bomb Squad. DeFasio owes me, and I know he’ll listen.”

  “Well, don’t get your hopes up. Not after Nate saw you on a date with Thorner. You’re sleeping with the enemy.”

  “I am not sleeping with—”

  “In Nate’s eyes, you’re in bed with Eric—metaphorically, anyway, and before this is all over, who knows?”

  “Stop it.”

  “No. That Thorner kid got you into his bedroom tonight, didn’t he?”

  “Well, truthfully, he did but—”

  “I knew it!”

  “It was only to help his butler administer medical aid!”

  Matt smirked. “Face it, Clare, the rich are used to getting what they want, and from where I stand, that rich kid wants you in his bed.”

  “I really don’t need your insulting negativity right now. What are you doing here, anyway? Don’t you have a wife . . . I mean life?”

  “I’m here because your boyfriend asked me to check up on you. The flatfoot called me around midnight and said you never answered your cell. So he—”

  “Assumed the worst?”

  “He called me because he was worried about your safety. Are you going to call Quinn or what?”

  “When I go upstairs and have some privacy. But since you’re here, we need to talk.”

  “We are talking.”

  “About something else—”

  “You know, it’s odd how you claim that creep tore your dress under the coat. Are you sure you’re not making up a story to protect the boy billionaire?”

  “Eric was a perfect gentleman, which is more than I can say for the guy who grabbed me. Or Grayson Braddock.”

  Matt scratched his black beard. “Braddock’s a playboy, that’s true. Bree and I went to one of his parties at last year’s South Beach Wine and Food Festival. The guy lives large. A mansion playground in Coral Gables. Women. Fast cars. Kinky parties. A yacht called Made in the Shade—”

  “Your eyes are glazing, Matt. Who are you jealous of, Braddock or Thorner?”

  “Both, frankly, and I’m wary of both. Those men are players—in business and monkey business, too—and they play to win, so I wouldn’t believe what either one of them tells you. Thorner probably steered the police toward Braddock just to foul him up.”

  “Don’t compare Eric to Braddock. I like Eric. He struck me as an earnest, trustworthy young—”

  “Don’t waste your time selling me on the kid. Sell your flatfoot boyfriend.”

  “Actually, Matt . . .” I took a long hit off my nightcap. “I do have to sell you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because tonight Eric offered us an incredible, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity—”

  “The answer is no!”

  “Hear me out.” I gestured to the bar stool beside me. “Why don’t you sit? When you hear this, I think you’ll need to.”

  Matt didn’t budge. Standing even taller, he folded his arms. “There’s no offer Thorner could possibly make that I would accept. Ever.”

  I took another vodka-laced sip of courage and launched into my pitch (the one I’d rehearsed in my head on the cab ride home).

  “Eric wants us to create the ultimate coffee. A world-class cup of excellence called Billionaire Blend. He wants us to use the rarest, best, and most exclusive coffee beans in the world. I do the roasting, after you source the beans.”

  Matt snorted. “I’m supposed to go broke scouring the world at the behest of the boy billionaire?”

  “Eric wants to pay for everything—up front. Money is no object. You can fly anywhere and pay any price; all you have to do is buy the best with Eric’s money, and I’ll do the rest right here in our basement.”

  Matt went silent for a very long moment.

  “So, what do you think?”

  “I think I have to sit down.”

  Yes! “Does that mean you’re in?”

  Matt raised a hand. “Not so fast. What about this ‘they’ the man who grabbed you mentioned?”

  “What about it?”

  “What if whoever ‘they’ are killed Charley to cover up Eric’s murder of Bianca Hyde?”

  “You’re just saying that because you’re jealous of a handsome, young man who has it all, and earned it all, by himself.”

  “And you’re just saying that because you want Eric to be innocent. Money changes everything, doesn’t it, Clare?”

  “If that were true, I would have stayed to watch the sunrise in his Central Park bedroom.”

  “You don’t think there’s even a chance Eric is guilty? Not even a little bit?”

  “No. And try this on for size: you’re being incredibly selfish.”

  “Me? Selfish?!”

  “Think about all the good you could do with Eric’s money.”

  “What?”

  “Remember that tribe in Uganda you told me about—the one without a washing station? How about those struggling farmers in Haiti? And what about Costa Gravas? They finally dumped their dictator, but that’s just a start. Their new democracy needs to rebuild its coffee industry from the ground up.”

  “That’s true . . .” Matt frowned and took his own long drink as he thought about that. “Costa Gravas is so close to Jamaica, they have the same microclimate. In a few years, they could be producing beans with a rep that rivals Blue Mountain. But the farms have no infrastructure support, their situation is even worse than Haiti’s, they’ve got sinkholes for roads, antiquated methods—”

  “Things you could help change by directing Eric’s money to the right places, to worthy people. A ten-thousand-dollar grant to every farm or cooperative you single out could help change lives.”

  “As if Thorner would care.”

  “I think he would, if you educated him. Offer to take him with you on your sourcing trips. Teach him how the farmers who grow coffee live, what they struggle against every day. Convince Eric that he can create real change in the real world simply by helping them.”

  “Fine!” Matt threw up his hands. “You win, okay? I’m on board with the rich kid’s scheme—as long as the twerp doesn’t turn out to be a mad bomber.”

  “He’s not.”

  “Or a lady killer—literally.”

  “He’s not that, either.”

  “I know you, Clare. Your lips may say he’s not, but those worried green eyes say you’re not entirely sure.”

  “What you see in my eyes is exhaustion. Let’s call it a night, okay?”

  I closed and locked the door behind my ex, then headed upstairs.

  Dreamland was calling, but the night wasn’t over yet. There was one more man I had to calm down, and (heaven, help me) ask for a favor.

  Thirty-nine

  “CLARE?”

  “I hope you’re looking at your caller ID.”

  “I am.”

  “Then you know I’m home safe—and I’m so very sorry, Mike. Things got crazy, and I lost track of time—”

  “I was worried. I called your ex-husband—”

  “I know.”

  “And DeFasio—”

  “DeFasio? At the Bomb Squad? Why?”

  “I told you, I was worried. I asked if there were any bomb scares in Lower Manhattan. He answered—and I quote—‘No, Mike. I swept Eric Thorner’s limo for devices myself before he picked up your lovely lady.’”

  Oh, geez. “So how angry are you?”

  “What I am is a little embarrassed, but I’ll live.”

  “You didn’t have to call him.”

  “You could have called me.”

  “Let’s not argue . . .”

  I heard the hard exhale on the other end of the line.

  “I love you, Mike, you know?”

  “I know. And you know the feeling is mutual�
�otherwise, I would have waited for the morning news to see if you survived the night.”

  “You won’t be angry all weekend, will you?”

  “Does that mean you’re coming to Washington?”

  “Yes, of course. It’s my turn to travel, isn’t it? I’ll be on the afternoon Acela—you can pick me up at Union Station. I’ll even bake you that Triple-Chocolate Cheesecake I’ve been promising, if . . .”

  “There’s an if? After what you put me through, I don’t get the cheesecake free and clear?”

  “I need a favor.”

  “You’re pushing it, sweetheart.”

  “True. But it’s for a good cause . . .”

  I explained what I needed. By the end, I was so exhausted (from the day and the vodka), I nearly drifted off.

  “No promises,” Mike said at last. “But I’ll see what I can do. Now, get some rest and do me a favor . . .”

  “Anything.”

  He lowered his voice. “Dream about me.”

  “I plan to . . .” I said, then hung up and (on a stifled yawn) placed one last call.

  “Clare?”

  “I’m so sorry to disturb you at this crazy hour, but I need a very important favor . . .”

  Madame listened to my request. Yes, she agreed. First thing in the morning, she’d call her old flame and invite him for coffee.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Then I bid her sweet dreams and promptly passed out.

  Forty

  “BOOTSIE Girl!”

  Nathan Sumner’s cry interrupted the chatter of our late-morning rush. From behind our counter, I watched as the old professor, eyes only for Madame, strolled across our restored plank floor.

  “Bootsie Girl?” Esther and Tucker said in unison before I shushed them.

  Madame rose to greet the plus-sized man. He opened his arms wide, and they shared a lingering hug and affectionate pecks.

  In his youth, Nate had been a passionate young man with a baby face, golden ponytail, and idealistic fire in his hard, brown gaze. The ponytail was still there, though shorter now, and as silver as Madame’s pageboy. He wore rimless glasses over those brown eyes, and his baby face now sported a close-trimmed white beard and more than a few creases. As for the rest of him . . .