Billionaire Blend

by Cleo Coyle

  It was a real tangle, but Joe Polaski was my Occam’s Razor.

  He claimed he could provide the information I needed to cut to the truth—information his ex-wife had uncovered while she was undercover as Eric’s driver—and finally I had a way to reach him.

  I retrieved the THORN phone from the debris on the floor. While Java and Frothy played “mouse” with my lipstick tube, I composed an e-mail and sent it off.

  Fifteen mouse-chasing minutes later, I received a reply.

  Meet U on High Line @ 1:00 AM. Will leave maintenance gate on S side of 18 St. unlocked. Come alone. JP

  The High Line again. Where I had just seen Minnow conspiring with Metis Man.

  Come alone, huh? We’ll see about that.

  *

  I HAD the cab drop Matt and me off in front of the Fulton Houses, a block and a half away from the High Line. I figured we could sneak up on anyone who might be waiting there to ambush us. Matt was dubious.

  He also groused about the cold. “My blood is thin, Clare. I’ve just spent weeks in the tropics.”

  “So have I, thanks to you, and you don’t hear me complaining,” I shot back, suppressing a shiver.

  “Well, I am glad I’m here. The last thing I want you to do is meet this nut alone.”

  “He did tell me to come alone, and he might bolt when he sees you.”

  “He might,” Matt conceded, “but where can he go? The High Line is closed and locked tight. Once we’re up there, the only way out is through the unlocked gate where we came in, so if we block it, he’s stuck.”

  I considered Matt’s reasoning, and took it to its logical extreme.

  “Joe might be thinking the same thing, only he’s figuring to block the exit so we’re the ones who are stuck.”

  Matt’s response was to stop dead in his tracks.

  “What? Don’t tell me you’re checking out!”

  “I’m not,” Matt said, pointing. “But somebody else did.”

  On the street under the High Line, I saw police cars and uniforms. They surrounded a covered figure sprawled in the middle of the street. We tried to get closer but the cops stopped us at their crime scene perimeter.

  “You can’t go any farther. There’s an accident investigation.”

  “What happened?” Matt asked.

  “Some guy fell off the High Line.”

  More uniformed officers lingered nearby. One of them was Sergeant Emmanuel Franco, Joy’s boyfriend (at least I hoped he still was).

  Franco was about to approach when he noticed I was with Matt and stopped dead.

  The two men shared an unhappy history, and now was not the time to relive it, so while Matt grilled the cops, I flashed Franco a finger phone and silently lip-synced “Call me!”

  “Let’s go,” Matt said a moment later. “The cops won’t tell me a thing, but I have a very bad feeling the corpse under that blanket is your pal Joe Polaski.”

  I shivered again, but not from the cold. I had the same bad feeling.

  Sixty-two

  INSTEAD of calling me, Franco arrived on my doorstep after his shift ended. He’d shed his uniform in favor of distressed jeans and a muscle-hugging sweater. I hung up his parka.

  “I hope I didn’t wake you,” he said.

  I shook my head. “I couldn’t sleep if I wanted to. I needed to talk to a cop tonight, and you fit the bill.”

  “You could have called Mike.”

  “That’s another subject entirely.” A thorny subject.

  Mike and I had been missing each other for weeks. My world coffee tour; his Justice Department conference (with a female boss); missed messages, misunderstandings. We had a lot of ground to make up—at least I hoped and prayed we could. Clearly, one of us had to get on a train, and it wasn’t going to be me. Not tonight, anyway.

  “You were at the crime scene, Franco. What can you tell me?”

  “About the face diver on 19th Street?”

  “Yes, what was his name?”

  “Joseph Polaski, age fifty-seven. He was wanted for questioning—”

  “For the car bombing in front of this coffeehouse?”

  “That’s right. How did you know?”

  “Did the investigating officers find anything on the body? Papers? A computer flash drive?”

  “They found a wallet, a couple of credit cards, and twenty bucks.”

  “Do you really think he took a ‘face dive’ or did somebody push him?”

  “Pending toxicology or a suicide note, my guess would be the latter. It’s tough to kill yourself by hopping over the High Line’s rail. A three-story fall is no guarantee of success. Joe managed to land on his head, and what a mess. You should have seen—”

  “Stop. I don’t want to have nightmares.” I chewed my lower lip. “Look, I want to tell you a story, Manny. A long story. Should I make coffee?”

  “Oh, yeah. I miss your coffee. And could I have some of those Crunchy Almond Biscotti, maybe?”

  “Of course.”

  “And a few of those glazed Pumpkin Muffins? And maybe a French Apple Cake Square while you’re at it?” He shrugged. “I missed my donut break.”

  *

  OVER coffee and a plate of pastries, I told Franco everything that happened to me since Eric’s car blew up. He listened without once interrupting, letting it all come out in a tumble of free association. When I finished, I took a breath.

  “So what’s your opinion?”

  “Well, I’m kind of prejudiced, seeing as Mike Quinn is my old boss, but—and it’s a Jennifer Lopez–sized ‘butt’—this rich guy Eric Thorner sounds extremely hinky.”

  “Hinky.”

  “It’s clear Eric is a player, a master manipulator. Sociopaths are like that.”

  I considered the charge, but . . . “Eric doesn’t seem like a sociopath to me. If anything, he feels too much, becomes infatuated too quickly. He needs a mother’s love.”

  “So does Norman Bates.”

  “Look, if Eric is guilty of murder, why is he paying for lawyers to defend Nate Sumner? Nate was framed for the car bombing. The crime appeared to be solved with a nice, neat bow—”

  “Not so neat if Joe Polaski had evidence to the contrary. Hiring lawyers for Nate, a beloved figure in the city, makes Eric appear innocent, doesn’t it? So there’s public goodwill toward Eric. At the same time, he gains the confidence of Nate and is able to pump him for information about Joe—a liability that needed to be eliminated.”

  “And tonight he was, that much is clear. Joe is dead, and I feel terrible—and responsible. Joe was supposed to meet me on the High Line. I lured him out of hiding.”

  “Aw, don’t go blaming yourself, Coffee Lady. He’s the one who came looking for you. Twice. Whoever chucked Joe over the side is to blame. Not you.”

  “Yes, but who exactly chucked him over the side? Do the detectives have any leads?”

  “They’re reviewing security camera footage, but whatever happened on the High Line is going to stay a mystery. The cameras go off when the park closes.” He paused and met my eyes. “You’re still in business with this guy, Eric, right?”

  “Right.”

  “If you can find hard evidence, Clare—anything incriminating about Thorner or his people—you be sure to let me know, okay?”

  “I wish I could find something, other than theories.” Despite three cups of my Wake Up the Night blend, I yawned.

  “I’d better go,” Franco said, rising.

  He put on his jacket, but paused at the door. “Hey, by the way, thanks for talking to your daughter.”

  “She called you?”

  “Oh, yeah. Joy and I had a long chat, nearly all night long . . .”

  “About what?”

  “About everything,” he said, and the smile of love on his face told me (nearly) everything I needed to know. “I’m sure she’ll text you about the details. See you around, Coffee Lady.”

  Sixty-three

  I WAS groggy and sticky-eyed when my alarm clock sound
ed. All night, I’d tossed and turned, heartsick over the ugly truth—Eric Thorner was very likely an accessory to murder, and I had been his dupe, inadvertently leading him to the one man who could prove it.

  Reluctantly I rose and fed my hungry beasts. Then I settled my furry girls on their favorite window stoop, dressed, and headed downstairs to help open the shop.

  Tuck had arrived before me and was already filling the pastry case with our bakery delivery.

  “Good moooorn-ing,” he warbled, still on a survival high from his near-death experience.

  “Need coffee,” I moaned.

  Tuck sat me on a stool at the counter and pulled me a double.

  “It’s so bright and cheerful today!” he chirped, unlocking the front door. “I just know something marvelous is going to happen.”

  I muttered into my cup.

  “Oh, my goodness! Something marvelous is happening right now. A limo just pulled up to the curb!”

  Oh, God, not Eric. Not now!

  I was still getting used to the idea that Thorner was a criminal, but I hadn’t worked out how to prove it. Not yet!

  Fortunately, our first customer of the day wasn’t the Boy Billionaire from Silicon Valley—it was that Big Billionaire from Down Under, the one who’d confronted me at the Source Club.

  “Hello there, darlin’. Charming place.”

  Pausing in our doorway, Grayson Braddock struck an impressive pose. His hand-tooled leather duster was custom cut to his huge shoulders. With a confident flourish, he removed a pair of designer sunglasses, loosened his cashmere scarf, and swept the wide-brimmed Outback hat off his shaved head. Then he swaggered across our wood-plank floor and took over the stool beside me like he owned it (or was about to).

  I glanced at Tuck. He read my mind. For this, I’m going to need a triple.

  “You’re up early,” I said as Tucker began the pull on our new Slayer.

  “Naw, darlin’, I just got back from Sydney. It’s about dinnertime there.”

  “I see. Well, what would you like, Mr. Braddock?”

  “You, darlin’, can call me Gray.” He flashed a toothy grin.

  “Only if you drop that darlin’ stuff and call me Clare.”

  “Deal—and you choose for me, Clare, you’re the coffee expert.”

  I had Tuck pull a doppio for Braddock, as well. He served us both, along with a plate of warm Blueberry Blondies.

  Braddock sipped the espresso.

  “Oh, my,” he said. Then he blinked, as if startled, and I knew the amazing notes the Slayer was able to pull from Matt’s beans—the bright citrus, spicy cinnamon, and earthy chocolate—were dancing on the man’s tongue. “Crikey, that’s damn tasty!”

  “Glad you like it, but I presume you didn’t rush here straight from the airport just for coffee.”

  Gray drained his demitasse and smiled down at me. “I’m here to extend an invitation. I’d like you to fly to Miami tomorrow and be my guest at the South Beach Wine and Food Festival.”

  “South Beach, Florida!” Tuck cried.

  I shot Tuck a stern look. “I’m sorry, Gray, but—”

  “Come on, Clare. Don’t be a wet blankie. There’s nothing wrong with mixing business and pleasure.”

  “What business do you and I have?”

  Gray leaned close. “I have information for Eric Thorner—valuable, game-changing information that your little friend needs to hear.”

  “Why would you want to help Eric?”

  “I didn’t say I wanted to help the kid. I’m saying that Thorner needs this information to make an important decision. He and I have too much bad blood between us. He won’t listen if it’s coming from me, but I know he’ll listen to you.”

  I took a long, hard look at Grayson Braddock. If he were truly guilty of murder or conspiracy to commit murder, it would have been insane for him to show up here with an invitation like that. A guilty man would have stayed put in Australia—at least until the investigations were over. Still, the idea of having to “be his guest” to hear some kind of secret information reeked of an ulterior motive.

  “Why don’t you tell me now?” I challenged.

  “The truth?”

  “Please.”

  “This is an old-fashioned horse trade, Clare. My good buddy Chef Harvey asked me to invite you. He’s still embarrassed about that Ambrosia incident at the Source Club; he’s eager to repair his reputation with you, and, well . . . I’d like to have your company, too. Give it to me, and I’ll give you the information.”

  “What sort of information is this? Give me a hint, at least.”

  “Let’s just say that something serious is happening inside Eric’s company and he needs to know about it for his own good—and the good of his company.”

  That gave me pause. Braddock talked like he knew what I knew. Was it possible he had proof of Minnow and the Metis Man’s conspiracy?

  “Honestly, Clare, I’m not peddling a load of codswallop. You can trust me. Bring a chaperone if you like, bring two or three, bring a whole party!”

  “I’ll come, I’ll come!” Tuck cried, literally jumping up and down. “Oh, my God, South Beach! Can I bring my boyfriend?”

  “Sure, the more, the merrier!” Gray proclaimed. “I’ll have my secretary send over tickets. You’ll fly first class, stay in my hotel. Say yes and you’ll be in sunny Miami by noon tomorrow.”

  Tuck implored me with his eyes. “It sounds marvelous, CC, please, please, pleeeease?”

  “I’ll consider it. No promises. First I have a phone call to make.”

  “Good enough, Clare. Here’s my card—call that number and the plane tickets will be waiting for you. Hope to see you ladies under the palm trees!”

  *

  BRADDOCK was hardly out the door before I hit the speed dial for Matt.

  “How would you like to go to South Beach?”

  “With you? Tempting, but I can’t, Clare. I’m meeting with coffee brokers today, and then Eric and I are flying to Brazil.”

  “Brazil? Why? It’s not harvest season, is it?”

  “It’s a good time to grab coffee cuttings. We’re going to Terra Perfeita to snatch a few Ambrosia plants.”

  “Is that wise? The Brazilian government locked down that plantation with the DEA because of its connection to drug dealing. Aren’t you going after forbidden fruit, so to speak?”

  “Don’t worry, I have a plan.”

  I groaned inwardly. In Matt-speak “don’t worry” and “I have a plan” were red flags.

  “Eric wants to cultivate Ambrosia on the island of Costa Gravas,” Matt explained. “The kid learns fast. It’s a brilliant idea. Far more lucrative than blue roses. He might end up growing the finest single-origin coffee in the world, if he stays in it for the long haul.”

  The world deserved another chance to experience Ambrosia. But the world might not get it if Eric Thorner was involved.

  “Listen, Matt, I have something to tell you.”

  Without dropping Franco’s name, I recounted my conversation with the young officer. By the end of the discussion, I’d so convinced myself that Eric was involved in murder that I tried to dissuade Matt from making the trip to South America with him. When I’d finished my pitch, I waited for Matt’s “I told you so” lecture.

  It never came.

  “You’re off track,” Matt said. “Way off track. I’ve spent time with Eric, and so have you. He’s not a killer and we both know it.”

  “Have you been blinded by dollar signs?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means we’ve switched positions. Now that I think Eric’s hinky, you think he’s swell.”

  “I don’t think he’s a murderer, that’s all. And speaking of murder, tell me more about this information Grayson Braddock promised you, and why you have to go to Florida to get it.”

  “Grayson called it an ‘old-fashioned horse trade.’ My company for his intelligence, which is ridiculous. Braddock’s surrounded by a floc
k of willing women. Why me?”

  “You really don’t understand men, do you Clare? It’s obvious—to me anyway. Braddock and Thorner are in competition—for everything. Braddock wants you because Eric had you—”

  “How many times do I have to tell you! Eric Thorner and I never—”

  “I know that! But Braddock doesn’t.”

  I groaned—outwardly this time.

  “You’re a big girl, Clare. You can handle Braddock—”

  “You actually want me to go to South Beach?”

  “As long as Tuck and Punch are your chaperones, you’ll be okay. Just stay close to them and find out what Braddock knows. I’ll keep an eye on Eric, and one of us is sure to find out something.”

  “I’m not convinced.”

  “Then think about this: Joe Polaski died last night because he had information about Eric. Six hours later, Braddock shows up on our door claiming he has information about Eric.”

  “Now you’re saying Braddock killed Joe Polaski and grabbed his evidence?”

  “More likely someone working for him did the dirty work . . .”

  I closed my eyes, defeated. “You’re right, Matt. I have to go.”

  There was no more debating. If Grayson Braddock had gained possession of Joe’s evidence, I had to go to South Beach and find out—and learn exactly what that evidence was. Otherwise Joe Polaski died for nothing.

  Sixty-four

  GRAYSON Braddock was as good as his word (so far, anyway). Tuck, Punch, and I flew out of the New York cold and into Florida’s tropical sun. By noon the next day we were standing on the sidewalk in front of Miami International Airport.

  Braddock had a car waiting to meet us so we could avoid the crush at the taxi stand.

  “So this is how the other half lives,” Tuck purred as he settled into the air-conditioned passenger compartment.

  “The other half?” Punch said. “More like the other one percent.”

  “Dial back El Revolución, Fidel Castro,” Tuck replied. “It’s our lifestyle now! Well, for the rest of the weekend, anyway.”