On What Grounds (Coffeehouse Mysteries, No. 1) (A Coffeehouse Mystery) (6 page)

“Thank you. You should let me make you some coffee.”

“Not necessary.”

“Really, it’s no trouble. I promise it’ll be a thousand times better than your usual Sixth Avenue bodega’s milk, no sugar.”

The detective stopped and stared at me with an expression somewhere between stunned and annoyed.

“Your left lapel,” I said.

He glanced down, saw the coffee stain, and frowned.

“How about a fresh cup?” I asked, a tiny smile edging up the corner of my mouth. “As I said, we roast our blends right here, in the basement.”

He stepped up to me, emphasizing his height in that towering way again. “Another time,” he said flatly.

“On the house,” I offered, craning my neck backward.
God,
I thought,
if his wife is as short as me, she must need neck traction every night.

“No sign of forced entry here,” he said to the young officers. “Let’s go.” He led us back into the service staircase, pausing at the second door on the landing. “Where does this go?”

“My duplex. It’s one flight up. There’s an entrance to the private stairway here. There’s also a separate entrance on an outside stairway leading up from the back garden.”

“Do you keep this door locked?”

“Of course.”

The detective reached into his pocket, put a latex glove on his right hand, and tried the door. It didn’t budge. He examined the frame. “Locked. Okay, let’s go back down.”

We descended the service stairs and returned to the main room.

“I’m going to check the back alley,” Quinn said and went out the front door and toward the back. I watched his lanky form disappear around the corner and turned to the young officers.

“Quinn’s a pretty serious detective, isn’t he?”

Langley laughed. Demetrios grunted.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“If you only knew,” said Demetrios.

“Knew what?”

“It’s like this,” said Langley. “Quinn’s the guy who put a Proverbs saying up in the Sixth’s detective squad room. He wrote it out in that real ornate kind of writing—it’s like his hobby—what’s it called? You know—”

“Calligraphy,” said Demetrios.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“You would if you read the saying,” said Langley.

“Well, what does it say exactly?” I asked.

Langley glanced at Demetrios, whose black eyes glanced down and then back up with the sort of deadly serious look reserved for city morgues.

“‘If a man is burdened with the blood of another, let him be a fugitive until death. Let no one help him.’”

T
HE
front door opened again; Quinn was back.

“See anything?” I asked.

“No sign of attempted forced entry or anything else out of the ordinary in the alley—just this.”

Quinn’s long legs reached me in a few strides across the wood-plank floor. With a latex-gloved hand, he held out a torn piece of thick paper printed with heavy black ink.

“JFK,” I read aloud.

Langley took a look. “It’s one of those airport luggage tags.”

“Not a smudge or footprint on it,” said Quinn. “Clean. And in your alley. So it was very recently dropped, I’d say. Could it be yours, Ms. Cosi?”

“No. And I can’t think of anyone on my staff who’s come back from a trip in the last few weeks.”

“Could be nothing,” Quinn said to me as he placed it in a small plastic bag and set it carefully on one of the marble-topped tables. “But listen, I have something to ask you. Officer Langley informed me that the shop’s front door was open when he arrived. Was it open when
you
arrived?”

“No,” I said. “It was locked. I mentioned that already, didn’t I? I had to use my key.”

The detective glanced at Langley and Demetrios standing behind me, but I couldn’t read his expression. “Thank you, I just needed to confirm that. It’s very important. And was there anything missing from the shop? Anything valuable?”

A robbery.
The thought slapped me as obvious. I’d been so flustered by the morning’s events, I hadn’t considered the most obvious explanation.
A robbery? My God, a robbery.
I raced to the register, my hand digging into my jeans pocket for the thick ring of keys. I separated out the short one and was about to slap it into the register lock to open the drawer when one word boomed across the shop—

“FREEZE!”

The perfectly measured burr of a dispassionate detective had suddenly changed into the explosive boom of a take-no-shit street cop.

Suffice it to say, I froze.

“What’s wrong?” I asked as Quinn came barreling up behind me.

“You were about to disturb evidence.”

“Evidence?”

“Within a crime scene, Ms. Cosi,
everything
is evidence.”

“Oh. Right.” I suppose it seemed elemental to him, but this was my place, my world, and I couldn’t just automatically start thinking of it as a crime scene.

Besides, Demetrios and Langley had already let me make Greek coffee back here, hadn’t they? I glanced over at them, and they suddenly seemed more than a little uncomfortable with this whole area of conversation. I decided I wouldn’t mention it if they wouldn’t.

The detective examined the register, again with hands behind his back. “Looks untouched,” he said. “Can you open it?”

“Yes, of course. Why do you think I was racing over here and fumbling with my—”

“Open it.”

I slipped the small key into the register lock and turned it. I pressed the
NO SALE
button and the drawer, full of twenties, tens, fives, and ones, slid open. “Looks like a typical evening’s take.”

“Where do you keep the store’s cash?”

“Safe. Upstairs office.”

“Let’s go take another look.”

But the contents of the safe hadn’t been disturbed. Neither had anything in the office. We returned to the first floor.

“Anything else that could be missing?” pressed the detective. “
Really
look.”

I quickly surveyed the room, which displayed an eclectic array of coffee antiques gathered over the last century: from a cast-iron, two-wheeled grinding mill (used in the late 1800s, when the Blend was primarily a wholesale shop) to copper English coffeepots, and Turkish side-handled
ibriks
made of brass.

Behind the coffee bar hung a row of colorful demitasse cups collected from a variety of European cafés and a three-foot-tall bullet-shaped La Victoria Aruino espresso machine. Imported from Italy in the 1920s, and strewn with dials and valves, the machine was for show only and had since been supplanted by a much more efficient, low-slung espresso maker.

Antique tin signs from the early twenties advertising various coffee brands were all accounted for on the walls. And the shelf above the fireplace still held the Russian samovar and French lacquered coffee urn Madame had placed there years ago. Nothing seemed to be disturbed or missing.

Then I remembered. The plaque! I rushed to the front window.

“No. It’s there.”

“What?”

“The famous Village Blend plaque. It’s over one hundred years old, probably the most valuable antique in the store. It had been stolen by the previous manager. I believe your precinct took care of the arrest.”

“Moffat Flaste,” said Demetrios. “I remember. It was us, Ms. Cosi. We were the ones who booked him.”

“You? And Officer Langley?”

“Yeah.”

“You never stopped by for your Kona, did you? At least I haven’t seen you here before.”

The officers shrugged.

“Well, you be sure to. You don’t want to insult Madame. She never speaks idly about free coffee, especially when it comes to Kona—”

“Excuse me.”
The detective looked a tad exasperated. “That’s the sign in the window, right? It’s there, right?”

“Yes.”

“What about Anabelle’s possessions? Was her purse on her when you found her?”

“No. She usually keeps it in the office upstairs, hanging on the coat rack. I didn’t see it up there. Or her jacket, for that matter—”

“Okay,” said Quinn, “we might have a lead here. Missing purse and jacket—”

“But if she was getting ready to close up,” I broke in, “she may have moved it down here.”

I stepped behind the blue marble counter again, remembering not to touch anything—I passed the used
ibrik
pot and amended my thoughts, resolving not to touch anything
more
anyway. Anabelle’s jean jacket and small leather handbag were on an empty spot of shelf behind the counter.

“Here,” I said, pointing. “Here they are.”

The detective came around the counter, put on his latex gloves again, and removed the jacket and small red leather purse. He opened the purse and pulled out the contents. A brush with strands of blond hair, clear lip gloss, a compact, a red leather wallet, and her keys.

“Keys,” he said tonelessly, resolutely, as if it were the final punctuation to a sentence.

“Are these Anabelle Hart’s keys to this shop?” asked Quinn.

I glanced at the thick ring of keys. I recognized the
PETE’S PAINT AND HARDWARE
logo on several of them. We used that shop to make all our duplicate keys—everything from the doors to the supply closets. Seeing the little silver ballet dancer charm dangling from the ring made me absolutely sure. “Yes, these are Anabelle’s keys all right.”

Langley and Demetrios glanced at each other and nodded.

“That’s it, then,” said the detective, putting Anabelle’s things back in her purse and placing it carefully on her jean jacket on the counter.

“What’s it?” I asked. “I don’t understand.”

“Locked shop. No forced entry. No sign of foul play. Keys weren’t stolen to relock the door. They’re right here. The hospital will examine the girl for sexual assault or any other sign of attack, but it looks like a tragic accident,” said the detective. “End of story. I’m sorry.”

“No. Wait. That can’t be it—”

“Don’t take it too hard,” said Quinn. “I’m sure the store has insurance, right?”

“For Anabelle’s hospitalization, of course.”

“And for the lawsuit.”

“Lawsuit?”

“Sure. Employees usually sue in these cases. Unsafe workplace.”

“This is
not
an unsafe workplace!”

The detective put his hands on my shoulders. He spoke quietly. “It was for Anabelle.”

I suddenly felt ill again. But this time I wasn’t losing control. The warmth of Quinn’s hands seemed to help; they were large and strong and steadying.

“It wasn’t an accident,” I told him. “Even though every piece of evidence may say it is, I know this coffeehouse better than the back of my hand. It doesn’t add up to an accident.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do. In my gut.”

“There are things our guts know and then there are things we can prove. The proof is what makes cases, Ms. Cosi. Isn’t that right, Langley?” The detective glanced back at the young officer.

Langley nodded. “I’m sorry, Ms. Cosi,” he said gently. “But the lieutenant’s right.”

I broke away and began to pace. “Listen to me: If Anabelle dragged the garbage can from under the counter, then why isn’t there a garbage trail along the floor? And why did I have to turn on the light in the back area when I arrived? If Anabelle’s fall had been an accident, surely the light would have stayed on. Who turned it off?”

“You’re talking about circumstantial evidence, Ms. Cosi,” said Quinn, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “There could be other explanations. Maybe the girl was in a hurry and didn’t turn on the light, then she lost her balance and spilled the can before she misstepped and fell down the stairs.”

“But Anabelle is a dance student, Lieutenant. She has exceptional balance. She’s so light on her feet. If only you could have seen her move around the shop. She’s so beautiful and graceful. She doesn’t walk, she glides, floats.”

I knew I was rationalizing, trying to find a logical justification for the feeling in my gut. I knew that Quinn had a point, that he’d seen a hundred crime scenes to my one. But my guts were never wrong. Well, hardly ever anyway, and it had taken thirty-nine years for me to learn to trust them, so that’s what I was going to do.

“No, no, no!” I shook my head violently. “Something
wrong
happened here. It wasn’t just an accident.”

“Ms. Cosi, you have to have grounds for theories of foul play—other than the ones on your floor.”

“But what if Anabelle wakes up and tells us what those grounds are?” I asked. “What if it turns out that someone tried to harm her? Don’t you need to collect evidence to prove her charges?”

Quinn nodded. “We’ve got a Crime Scene Unit coming down. Demetrios, check in with dispatch on an ETA.”

“Sure. They should have been here by now.”

“It’s been a busy night.”

“That Ivanoff shooting?” asked Langley.

“Yeah,” said the detective.

“You on that, too?” asked Demetrios.

“Jackson and I have been working it since past midnight. Drury’s on leave. Sanchez has the flu, and Turelli and Katz are working a fresh stabbing. So I’m doubling up on this one.” The detective checked his watch. “Guess I’ve been up about twenty-eight hours now.”

“No offense, Detective,” said Langley, “but you look it.”

“Let me make you that coffee,” I said. “I can make it upstairs, in my apartment, and bring it down so I won’t disturb anything more.”

Quinn pulled out a chair and sat down. When he did, his face fell completely and his entire body seemed to finally give in to exhaustion. “Yeah,” he said after a long exhale. “Guess I could use it while I wait for the CSU to get here. Thanks.”

“Of course,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

“Ms. Cosi?” Quinn called.

“Yes?”

“I’ll need a list of employee names and addresses—anyone who’s worked here since Anabelle started.”

“Of course, of course!”

“Look, don’t get your hopes up,” he warned as I picked up Java’s carrier and headed for the back stairs. (She’d managed to cat nap through this morning’s entire
Dragnet
scenario.)

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I mean I’ll pursue this on a limited basis, but chances are it was simply an accident, so prepare yourself. If the medical evidence supports that conclusion, the girl will have a case against the store—and you’d better prepare the owner. If she dies, the family may end up owning this place.”

I didn’t respond. What was there to say? Quinn was in no shape to be argued with. I simply gritted my teeth and headed for my duplex apartment above the Blend, quietly determined to find out what had really happened here last night—with or without the help of Homicide Detective Lieutenant Quinn.