by Cleo Coyle
“I had nothing to do with it. Beyond that I cannot comment.” Lori bit the right arm off another gingerbread man and chewed it up with gusto.
“I talked the incident over with Quinn this morning. He thinks Endicott might be Dick Belcher’s Deep Throat.”
“Quinn’s a smart guy. That’s all I can say.”
“Oh no, it’s not. You’re going to say a lot more before you go. You owe me that. Do you have any solid leads on Moirin’s murder?”
“None that I think will pan out.”
“In other words, Endicott’s got a hunch you think is way off target?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, I got your text message,” I said. “Those orange hairs that Endicott was so excited about? They were dog hairs, weren’t they?”
“A Nova Scotia Duck-Tolling Retriever—mature, in good health, although we don’t yet know what sex.” She shook her head. “How did you guess?”
“I knew they weren’t from Piper Penny. And that park is open to the dog-walking public.”
“Well, thanks to Mr. DNA’s rush to judgment, the precinct’s entire detective squad is in stitches over it.”
“He’s a laughingstock?”
“Someone left a pooper scooper on his in-box.”
“I’m beginning to get the picture. Endicott freaked, am I right? When he found himself humiliated, he leaked Moirin’s case file to Dick Belcher. He’s trying to make M’s murder look like it’s part of the Christmas Stalkings—not because he has any hard evidence, but because his ‘hunch’ connection will make the general public think that he’s on top of the highest profile crime of the holiday season. Am I warm?”
Lori exhaled. “You’re hot as a steam wand.”
“Well, now Endicott’s really stuck, isn’t he? I mean, if a lab technician can’t solve his case for him, what’s he going to do? Interview witnesses? Dig into the victim’s background? Sounds absolutely Victorian.”
“Touché, Cosi.”
I leaned across the tabletop. “I think Moirin knew her killer. Did your forensics team find anything else?”
“The victim’s saliva on the cigarette butt, assorted gum with assorted saliva that doesn’t match the victim, a few drops of dried blood of a type that doesn’t match the victim, either.” Lori shook her head. “Mr. DNA demanded further analysis on everything CSU scooped up, but so far there’s no breakthrough on that front.”
“That’s the second time you called Endicott ‘Mr. DNA.’ Quinn used that nickname, too. Coincidence or something more?”
“You never looked up his books, or you wouldn’t have to ask. Anyway . . .” Lori broke a headless gingerbread man in half, dunked his legs into her coffee, and glanced around. I waited for her to finish her cookie. Instead, her eyes suddenly got wide.
“Dammit,” she whispered.
“Look, I know what you’re thinking,” I said, misinterpreting her angst. “You regret coming here because you’ve got something you want to tell me. Something you feel you should tell me. But you aren’t supposed to tell me, am I right?”
Lori’s voice dropped an octave. “You’re right. And if I tell you, you can’t tell anyone. Now, listen closely to me. If you want to hear more, you have to do as I say.”
“What? You want me to swear an oath or something?”
“When I tell you to laugh, laugh.”
“What?”
“Act like I told you the funniest cop-walks-into-a-bar joke ever.”
“Are you feeling okay?”
“Knock, knock, Cosi . . . come on, laugh.”
“A knock, knock joke? Really? What am I, five years old?”
“No, you’re being watched by the NYPD, and so am I. Now do what I say and chortle, at least.”
I did. Loudly.
“Good,” Lori said, lowering her voice again. “Now I’m only going to say this once. I don’t believe Moirin’s murder has anything to do with the Christmas Stalkings. I agree with you. I don’t think Moirin’s murder was random. I think she knew her killer. Laugh.”
I did, not quite as loudly this time.
“Well, Endicott is the lead investigator, and Mr. DNA has got his own theory. Unfortunately, he does have a shred of evidence to back it up.”
“What theory? What evidence?”
Lori inhaled before she dropped the bomb. “All four of the Christmas Stalker’s assaults are connected to this coffeehouse. That’s an irrefutable fact. Three victims were assaulted shortly after leaving the Village Blend. Moirin worked here, and was murdered at Bryant Park at an event catered by the Village Blend. Now laugh.”
I did as Lori commanded, but I felt more like crying. The Christmas Stalker was attacking my customers? The fact that innocent women were being preyed upon was bad enough, but hearing that my coffeehouse was involved? It was almost too horrible to contemplate.
I ended my laughing act with a desperate gulp of my Americano. It had gone cold.
“There’s an undercover cop watching us right now, isn’t there?” I asked.
Lori nodded. “She walked in and spotted us immediately. I thought I had a window before . . . But I guess I should have called you instead.”
“We can go upstairs for more privacy.”
“That would look even worse, Cosi. And there’s no reason to panic. Everyone I know comes here for coffee, so keep pretending we’re simply having a casual conversation. Smile, okay? Good.”
“Does Endicott have any suspects?” I asked, a silly grin plastered across my face.
“Yes. And that suspect is under surveillance, twenty-four/seven. The undercover cops are just waiting for him to make the wrong move, so they can scoop him up for interrogation.”
“Who is he?”
“One of your employees, Clare. Endicott believes the Christmas Stalker works right here, at your Village Blend.”
Twenty-nine
ONE of my baristas was the lead suspect in the case of the Christmas Stalkings. My reaction to this news?
I spilled my cold Americano all over the table.
I dabbed frantically at the mess with a paper napkin, then gave up and fetched a roll of paper towels from behind the counter. Lori rose to help me tidy up the area.
“Is Endicott crazy?” I whispered. “What evidence does he have?”
“Not much,” Lori confided. “The barista in question phoned Moirin three times in the past week. No messages were left and none of those calls were ever returned by the victim, indicating to me that she didn’t want to speak with him. The fourth and final call came at five fifty-five yesterday afternoon—”
“At that time, we were at the Cookie Swap inside the Bryant Park Grill, waiting for the doors to open.”
“This time Moirin spoke with the caller. The call lasted for six and a half minutes.”
“I already told you that Moirin also received a call yesterday afternoon, here at the Blend—”
“Dead end,” Lori replied. “We traced it to a disposable phone, bought with cash, first activated in midtown Manhattan.”
“I heard Moirin talk with the caller, set up a rendezvous. Can’t this information clear my barista?”
“Not by a long shot, and you know it.”
My knees felt wobbly and I sank back into my chair. Lori sat again, too, and we kept up the happy-talk act.
I tried to flag Nancy down to bring us more coffee, but my young barista was having a lively conversation with a middle-aged male customer. I recognized him as Eddie Rayburn, the man Tucker called “Evil Eyes” at the last Cookie Swap. A tough guy with a violent reputation, Eddie was also the husband of reality star Danni Rayburn.
Oh man, what does he want? I’d have to ask her about their conversation, but now I had more important things to discuss, like—
“Who is Endicott’s suspect?” My face had the silly grin again, but my tone carried very little patience. “Which of my baristas has he put a tail on?”
Lori’s grin was more like a tigress baring her sharp white teeth.
“I’m very sorry, Cosi, but I can’t tell you.”
“Then at least tell me what you found in Moirin’s apartment. I spoke with Dave, her landlord. He told me you were there.”
“Endicott sent me out to Park Slope alone. He can’t be bothered with ‘grunt work,’ as he puts it. Between transcribing the man’s notes and going through Moirin’s mail, I feel like a glorified secretary.”
“What did you find?”
“A lot of CD-Rs with Moirin singing. We confiscated her tablet computer, too. I spent the better part of this afternoon going through her digital diary.”
“Diary!” I leaned forward. “Go on.”
“Moirin called it ‘My American Journey.’ She talks about coming to New York City, finding a place in Brooklyn with an ex–rock star. Her daily travails—pretty banal stuff. There’s a lot of poetry, music lyrics, I guess. The tenor of her diary changed three months ago. That’s when Moirin received a letter, probably in the mail because we couldn’t find anything in her e-mail account of any importance.”
“What’s this letter about?”
“Sure you don’t know? Did she ever mention anything like that on the job here—to you or fellow workers?”
“Nothing. I’ll ask my staff, just to be sure . . .”
“The diary never says what’s in this letter or who it’s from, but she writes about how the letter brought ‘terrible news.’ Later she says, ‘the letter changes everything.’ Three weeks ago she wrote about how the Letter—she began to capitalize the word at this point—would help her ‘build a better future for herself, and for others.’”
“No sign of this Letter in her apartment?”
“I searched her place thoroughly, found junk mail, bills, but nothing that seemed out of the ordinary. Oh, and one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Laugh, please. One last time . . .”
I did. Meanwhile, Lori rose and donned her coat. Finally, she stooped low and pretended to peck me on the cheek. “You know most of what I told you is confidential,” she whispered. “None of it came from me, you understand? It could cost me my career.”
I continued my laugh-track imitation until Lori was out the door.
* * *
I sat in silence for a moment, my neck prickling, uncomfortably aware that I was being watched. Finally I rose, bussed the table, and moved behind the counter. I kept walking until I reached the dishwasher. I put the cups and plates inside.
The Village Blend’s time clock was mounted on the wall near our tiny Christmas tree. I snatched the stamped cards and leafed through them, checking the hour and minute every employee reported to work last evening—the night Moirin was murdered.
It didn’t take me long to identify Endicott’s prime suspect.
Shaken by the revelation, I let the cards slip from my hands, and they scattered over the Secret Santa gifts. As I gathered them up, I set off our plastic Bing Crosby, who launched into his battery-powered song.
I replaced the cards, washed my hands, and went up front again. Fingers shaking, I pulled an espresso. When I turned I came face-to-face with a bright green Grinch Peruvian Beanie.
“Aaah!” I cried.
Esther put her hands on her hips. “What’s wrong?”
“That hat of yours! It’s too creepy.”
She grinned. “That’s the effect I was going for.”
I sipped my espresso and closed my eyes. Calm again, I addressed Esther. “What’s up?”
“You’re up, boss. Way up. Boris totally owes you for his job at Janelle’s. And my boyfriend is like an elephant. He never forgets.”
“I’m glad it’s going to work out.”
“For sure! He’s helping at her bakery already, and sometime next week, Boris will start taking M’s old shifts, baking cookies for us.”
“Okay, but no smooching in the back with your boyfriend,” I teased. “You two keep things on a professional level.”
“I’ll try, boss, but you know men. Boris can’t keep his hands off this sweet bod of mine!”
“Listen, on my time, the only sweet thing I want that boy to be heating up is cookie dough!”
Jingle, jingle, jingle . . .
I caught my youngest barista by the arm as she breezed by. “Nancy, I have to ask you something.”
“Sure.”
“You were speaking with Eddie Rayburn a few minutes ago. What were you two talking about?”
“Nice guy, Mr. Rayburn. He just asked me about Tucker’s schedule. He wanted to know when Tuck would be here. I explained that he wasn’t due in until Tuesday. Mr. Rayburn thanked me, and he even gave me a tip!”
“Blood money!” Esther shrieked.
Nancy pouted. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Wrong?!” Esther held her head. “You only told the famously jealous Evil Eyes where and when to find his next victim!”
“I don’t get it,” Nancy said.
“It’s obvious. Evil Eyes must have found Tuck’s card in his wife’s purse and flew into a fit of jealous rage. Now he’s looking to give our Tuck a severe beat down, just for chatting up his wife!”
“Call Tucker,” I told Esther. “Give him fair warning. Then get that ‘sweet bod’ of yours back behind the counter. A new wave of holiday shoppers just came through the door—and they’re headed our way.”
Thirty
LATER that evening, I was dragging a plastic container of marinated chicken out of the lower shelf of the refrigerator when a shadow fell over me. Suddenly a strong hand gently squeezed my rump.
“Mmm, prime . . .” murmured a deep voice.
“Hey!” I cried, straightening. “Is that any way to say hello?”
I set the chicken on the counter beside the diced onions, chopped mushrooms, and uncorked bottle of dry Marsala imported from Sicily. Mike Quinn slipped out of his coat and tossed it over a chair.
“I can do better. How’s this . . .” He spun me around and covered my mouth with his. I smiled through his teasing then ardent kisses—until I heard the olive oil sizzle in the skillet.
“You want to burn the place down?” I asked, reaching over to reduce the fire.
“Just trying to warm you up,” he said, holding on to me.
“It’s working. Hungry?”
“For food?”
“Don’t get cute.”
“I’m famished, Cosi. All I’ve had to eat today is popcorn, hot dogs, and Goobers. I need real food.”
As I broke free, Mike affectionately squeezed my wrist. I yelped, and he frowned down at the angry purple bruise that had blossomed on my lower forearm.
“Damn, did I do that?”
“Let’s just say you started the trend.”
He scratched his head, but I didn’t elaborate.
Never a casual dresser, Mike always wore a suit and tie on the job, and since moving to DC for his stint with the Justice Department, he’d been dressing more formally on weekends, too.
Because he’d lost his luggage, he’d thrown on the blue denims and casual sweater that he’d left here after our fall foliage–watching trip in Shenandoah National Park.
For three glorious days in October, we’d driven the thirty-four-mile stretch of Skyline Drive between Thornton Gap and Swift Run Gap, exiting the car now and then to view the fall colors from a mountain trail. We ended our outing in an adorable bed-and-breakfast near the park. Then Mike drove us back to New York City, donned his suit again, and hopped a train back to G-man land.
Mike hadn’t worn those jeans since that weekend—which was a shame because he looked very good in tight denims, maybe because when he wore them, he shed some of his worries and even a few inhibitions, along with the suit and tie.
I was delighted with him looking so relaxed, and told him so. His reply was a remark about relaxing even more, and he stepped around me to rummage the refrigerator. I knew what he was looking for—a bottle of beer—but I slipped him a thermos instead.
“What’s this?”
“A fro
zen eggnog latte,” I said, passing him a frosted glass from the freezer. “Tuck came up with the recipe. It’s delicious.”
Mike poured and sipped, then smacked his cream-moustachioed lips.
“I hope you enjoyed the movie that much.”
He sat at the table and crossed his long legs, ankle over knee. “I wish. I just don’t get holiday movies these days.”
“You liked Elf when we rented it.”
“Until they cast the Central Park Rangers as the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse—that’s where they lost me.”
“Well, I hope you had some fun.”
“Jeremy enjoyed the action. Molly covered her eyes during the scary parts, but she liked the musical numbers.”
“How on earth did they fit song and dance into a movie called Santa Claus, Zombie Hunter?”
“The same way they fit in the zombies. Absurdly.”
“And this film had a plot?”
“Sure, as plots go.”
“Enlighten me, if that’s the right word . . .”
I was finished flouring the chicken. Now I lay the flattened, tenderized, Marsala-and-garlic-marinated fillets in the hot oil. While I sautéed both sides to a golden brown, Mike recapped the film.
“It starts when zombies attack the North Pole, trapping Santa and his elves inside their workshop. Mrs. Claus is bitten by a zombie and infected with zombie-itis.”
“How awful.”
“Don’t worry. These zombies can be cured; all you have to do is rescramble their brains with a successive frequency of specific audio tones—”
“Hence the musical numbers? Christmas carols, no doubt.”
Mike paused. “Did you see this film already?”
“No, but I raised a daughter, which means I have an advanced degree in kiddie film studies.”
“Well, Santa doesn’t know Mrs. Claus can be saved. So he decides to put her out of her misery.”
I’d already removed the chicken and added the onions to the hot oil. Now my eyes were tearing. “God, don’t tell me any more. I’ll have nightmares.”
“It all turns out okay. Thanks to the computer brain inside Rudolph the Red-Nosed Supersonic Robo-Rocket.”
