Authors: Cleo Coyle
“Why not just send a text message to the Food and Drug Administration?” He raised his voice an octave higher. “Oh, look at me, I appear harmless, but I’m really dangerous if you ingest too much of me,
and
I’m made with Village Blend coffee beans.” His voice went down again. “Just imagine the lawsuits, ’cause I can.”
“So what are you going to do? Send this Mocha Magic to a lab for testing?”
“Not me. You’re the one who needs to have it tested. This stuff isn’t a soil sample or a new hybrid—and you know my history with Bogotá Marching Powder. Why don’t you get your boyfriend to do it? He sniffs out illegal narcotics for a living.”
I chewed my lip. “I’ll ask him.”
“I can’t believe this is such a surprise to you. I saw Dudley Do-Right at the party, sucking down cup after cup of this stuff. Didn’t he say something when you two took this Mocha Magic for a test drive?”
“We didn’t. Not exactly.”
“Oh, really? Trouble in paradise?”
“No.” I lowered my voice. “We were pretty turned on, both of us, but we were interrupted by ...” What could I say?
A cop going rogue with your daughter? A woman bludgeoned to death and dumped in a Garden pool? An erotic dream turned nightmare?
“By?”
“It’s complicated.”
“He’s a narc, Clare. He should have noticed something.”
“Mike Quinn always takes me at my word. I told him this stuff is purely herbal, and he believed me.”
“Love is blind? You expect me to buy that?”
“Love is trusting. And Mike trusts me ...” (I never realized just how much until this moment.)
“Well, here’s the problem, Clare: you trusted my mother, and she trusted Alicia—but her product can sink us. You know we could lose the Blend over this?”
“Calm down, okay? Let’s start with having the powder tested.”
Matt gulped his
doppio
. “Damn. I
must
have OD’d last night. That stuff was crazy powerful—and, let me tell you, that half-nude woman at your party didn’t help!”
“Her name is Maya Lansing ...” I tapped my chin. “Matt, when exactly did you leave last night?”
“Early. Right after I grabbed the samples. Why?”
“Because something happened after you bolted.”
I finally dropped the news bomb about Patrice Stone’s death and the police investigation. I also told him about the rivalry among the Sisters of Aphrodite and the possibility that Alicia may have done the deed.
“So now our new business partner might be a
murderess
?” Matt cried.
“Keep your voice down. Maya Lansing is just as likely to be guilty here. She had the most to gain from Patrice’s death.”
Matt shook his hairy head. “That theory won’t hold water. Maya never left that party, not once, not even to go to powder her... uh, nose. Believe me, I would have known, and so would every other man in that room.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
I cradled my face in my hands. “Alicia can’t be a murderer. This Mocha Magic can’t be illegal. It will kill your mother.”
“Want me to rub your shoulders?”
“No... Yes... No—wait! What about Maya’s husband, Herbie Lansing? The guy with the yachtsman’s cap?”
Matt nodded. “The captain? I nearly asked him why he left Tennille at home.”
“Did he leave the party and come back? I’m pretty sure he did. But did you actually see it?”
Matt shrugged. “I wasn’t staring at the chubby yachtsman—I was ogling his wife.” He swatted the hair away from his eyes and drained his demitasse. “I’ve got to go. I’d love nothing better than to get a shave and a haircut, and then hit the sack. But that’s not to be. I’m meeting Breanne for lunch.”
“How long can it take to get a haircut?”
Matt shook his head. “Breanne loves the hair now. She said she liked me scruffy. Either that or the Mocha Magic scrambled her fashionista brain. Anyway, after last night, I’m sure she’ll demand an encore performance right there in her office. So I’m going to the health club for a quick steam bath before I face the music.”
Matt rose and snatched the powdered coffee packets from the countertop. Still clutching them, he shook his fist at me. “This stuff is a drug, Clare. I’m warning you,” he said before cramming the packets into his pocket.
I folded my arms and glared.
“What?” he said.
“You just stuffed your pockets with it!”
“So? Using isn’t selling. Big difference. One I’m sure Dudley will explain if you ask him
real nice
.”
“Just go already.”
Matt was about to face the door when I spied a familiar roughneck over his shoulder. Sergeant Emmanuel Franco had strolled in, espresso-dark leather jacket open, shaved scalp gleaming in the sunlight. His detective’s gold shield dangled from a strap around his neck, but I suspected Franco wasn’t here on NYPD business—and if Matt caught sight of him, there’d be hell to pay (and plenty of broken furniture).
“Wait!” I cried, seizing Matt’s arms.
Annoyance registered. “What is it, Clare?”
Franco heard us, spotted Matt, and made a swift retreat.
“It’s... It’s your
hair
,” I said. “Breanne might be right. It’s very attractive long like that. Takes ten years off your face.”
“Really? You think so?”
The coast was clear, so I released my grip. “Yes. I really think that’s a good look for you.”
“Thanks,” Matt said, grinning now. “I’ll drop by later,” he added, then tossed me a wave before heading out the door.
Not even a minute passed before the Blend had a return customer. This time Detective Franco carefully scanned the coffeehouse before stepping over the threshold. When our eyes met, he sauntered toward me, flashing his cocksure grin.
TWENTY-FOUR
“Y
OU! Sit!” I tapped my index finger on the stool beside me. Franco’s confident expression vanished.
“Detective,” I said with motherly sternness, “I just saved you from a world of hurt. If my ex-husband knew you took his little girl on a dangerous stakeout—”
Franco blinked as he sank onto the barstool. “You got it wrong, Coffee Lady. Joy and I parked on a variety of suburban streets in
very nice
Jersey neighborhoods, ate fruity chocolate flowers, and talked.”
I narrowed my gaze.
“Okay,” he said, dropping his voice, “there was some liplock involved, but give us a break, we haven’t seen each other in months.”
“How could you take her on the stakeout of a criminal?”
“Joy was never in danger, okay. I wasn’t going to do squat with her in the car. I just wanted to start getting a handle on this guy’s routine. She’s a grown woman, you know, and she wanted to come. I don’t see the big deal. It’s not like it was official.”
“Not official? Don’t you give me that dodgy crap! Mike told me the whole story. You shouldn’t be pursuing this dealer at all.”
A shadow crossed Franco’s face. “Listen, it’s real simple. Some poor innocent schmuck of a wannabe artist kissed a Brooklyn sidewalk from ten stories up—partly because I couldn’t see he needed bigger help than I threw his way. The scumbag responsible for his death and a beautiful young girl’s overdose is going to
pay
. Just think of me as the cosmic collection agent. All I have to do is catch the SOB on
my
side of the Hudson.” He folded his arms. “And when I’m done with him, the DEA is welcome to mop up what’s left.”
“I’m sure Mike warned you of the consequences if things go south on that plan.”
“Hey, look, Lieutenant Quinn is the man. I have nothing but respect for my loo, but he can’t tell me how to spend my free time, and I know what I’m doing.” Franco met my eyes. “So truce, okay?”
I had plenty more to say, but I decided to save it for my daughter. This was a grown man with a deadly serious mission in his eyes, and making an enemy of a possible future son-in-law wasn’t a brilliant move in any case.
I sighed. “How about a House Special? Double cream, double sugar?”
Franco’s grim expression broke. “Aw, Coffee Lady, you remember?”
“That’s what we do here, Manny.”
I saw the line at the register. “I’ll get it myself.”
As I rose from the espresso bar, a young woman with green skin and a black fright wig sat down on the other side of Franco.
“Greeeeetings, my pretty!” she cackled.
“How’ya doin’?” Franco said with a calm little nod. (Now there was a New Yorker.)
To make Franco’s joe, I used our Clover—essentially a cross between a single-serving French press and a high-tech vacuum pot. The handy little eleven-thousand-dollar machine allowed me to customize every cup by digitally calibrating everything from water temperature and pressure to brew time in order to coax the utmost flavor out of Matt’s scrupulously sourced (and my roasted-with-love) beans.
As I ground those beans fresh, I noticed Tuck boning up on his director’s skills while whipping up a slender actress’s decaf (“why bother”) latte with skim milk and sugar-free caramel.
“From what I understand,” he told the young actress, “the witch role is pivotal to the entire show.”
“Oh, come on,” she replied. “The play’s called
Return to Munchkin Land
, so the munchkins are going to be the real stars, right?”
“Actually, I got a peek at the script. It’s really about a tragic love between the young Wicked Witch and a handsome munchkin. So you can see how the role of the Wicked Witch is actually the key to the whole story.”
The woman’s eyes lit up. “And I thought I was trying out for a small part.”
“There are no small parts, honey, only small actors.”
She frowned, pointed to her lime-green bodysuit. “Small actor might define me. These other girls went all out, with wigs and body paint, even fake noses and warts. Maybe I’m not showing enough commitment to the part.”
“It’s your voice, movement, and vulnerability that matters.” Tuck completed her latte pour with a perfect little heart. “Show your warts emotionally, and you won’t need fake ones on your face.”
“Thanks for that. I’ll do my best. I had no choice. That body paint is a bitch to get off, and I have this modeling gig at the Javits Convention Center later today. Those trade shows are pretty good jobs. Ever done them?”
“The Toy Show,” Tuck said, handing her the drink. “I love it. One year I played a mad scientist for Creepy Crawly Critters—rewrote their sales pitch and everything. Where are you modeling?”
“The International Confectioners’ Expo. The Nutrition Nation booth hired me through my agency. They’ve got a pretty big setup this year—”
I spilled half of Franco’s meticulously brewed coffee on our restored plank floor. “Excuse me,” I interrupted, “who did you say you were modeling for?”
“Nutrition Nation,” she said, a latte-milk moustache decorating her pretty upper lip.
I blinked. Adding it up was too easy: Nutrition Nation—NN—the letters on the big black golf umbrella carried by Patrice’s killer. The company had a booth at the ICE show, where giveaways were part of doing business, and many of the ICE attendees were invited to last night’s Mocha Magic party.
The actress glanced at her watch. “My audition! I’m up in ten minutes! I’d better go—”
“No!” Tuck said, raising a finger. “You’re the Wicked Witch. You don’t go... You fly.”
“Got it,” she said, flashing Tuck a thumbs-up.
“Break a leg,” he called as she hit the door.
“If you need me, I’ll be in my office,” I told Tuck after brewing a new coffee for Franco—this one in a paper cup.
“What took you so long?” he asked.
“Everything takes longer when you’re snooping.”
“Excuse me?”
“I made your coffee to go, so let’s go,” I told him.
I headed to the Blend’s second floor, where I had a small office and a computer. Franco followed me. As I slid behind my desk, he took the only other chair, throwing up his legs so he could cross his motorcycle boots on top of a stack of old invoices.
“So?” he said.
“So I’d tell you to make yourself comfortable but—”
“I always do.”
“I can see that. Enjoy your coffee. I have to check something online, and then we’ll talk.”
I fired up my computer, typed
Nutrition Nation
into a search engine, and clicked on the corporate page. Scanning the site, I began to wonder what the heck NN was doing at the Confectioners’ Exposition.
As far as I could tell, the company was shilling muscle-building powders, protein mixes, and enzyme shakes.
So where’s the snack food?
I started to wonder whether the Wicked Witch had gotten her facts wrong when I spotted a link teasing a new line of products.
To be announced at the ICE
show.
Hmm...
The imagery for the ad was done with artsy flare: a black-and-white photo of a nude male photographed from the side. The muscular model’s perfectly sculpted abdominal muscles were highlighted by stark light and deep shadows. I scanned up to the face, which looked awfully familiar, especially those long sideburns. A closer look and I was certain: This was Alicia’s Candy Man, Dennis St. Julian!
“You’re awfully quiet, Coffee Lady. What are you doing? Surfing for man-porn?”
“Kind of,” I replied as I smacked the print command.
While the printer churned away, I phoned Detective Lori Soles to give her a head’s up about Nutrition Nation. Unfortunately, all I got was her voice mail. I left a short “call me” message, reluctant to say more on a recording.
When I hung up, I discovered Franco also had been contemplating a photograph. The silver-framed snapshot on my desk had been taken more than a decade ago, when Matt and I were still married and Joy was around six.
My little girl had been dazzled by a young Olympic skater, whirling and leaping on an NBC morning show segment. The show was taped at Rockefeller Center, during those winter months when the courtyard was transformed into an outdoor ice skating rink.
Six-year-old Joy told her daddy she just
had
to twirl on that same skating rink as the Olympic girl. Before the day ended, Matteo Allegro was guiding shaky blades across ice for maybe the second time in his life.