by Cleo Coyle
I smiled. “Cinnamon, brown sugar, raisins, and buttermilk-soaked oats, all baked up for you in a nice, warm muffin…” I gestured to the cooling treats.
“Mmmm… I love those. They smell just like my mom’s oatmeal cookies.”
“That’s the idea.” He reached for one, but I directed him to the chair. “Those are for your squad meeting. I have another favorite for breakfast.”
Matt leaned against the counter. “I don’t get it, Quinn. I mean, I’ve been thinking this through. You work with some of these DEA people, right? Why didn’t you get some kind of tip about last night’s raid?”
“Simple,” he said, sitting back. “They knew I was involved with Clare. The last thing they would have done is inform me or my squad. And by the way, Blanco’s claim was a load of crap. No ‘paperwork’ was going to cross my desk. Those agents planned to take me down along with you and Clare, once they broke you in the interview. That was the plan, anyway.”
“So you really are in it with us.” Matt said, smirk finally gone.
“We’re a team now, Allegro. The three of us. We sink or swim together.”
“Then answer me something. Do you know how they found out about the drugs? I mean, I didn’t even know until last night.”
“They didn’t tell me, but it’s highly likely some asset tipped them—an informant, just like you two, only in that drug lord’s circle. The Justice Department… that is the NSA, CIA, DEA—”
“All the ‘As’,” said Matt. “We get it.”
“They have informants all over the world. The tip came in and they watched you. I’m sure they would have kept watching you to see where those drugs went. Who picked them up—and where and how they intended to distribute them.”
“And that’s what you want to know?”
“That’s what God wants to know. And we’re going to find out for him.”
“Who is God, anyway?” Matt asked.
I froze, hoping to hear…
“That’s a very personal question. A spiritual matter, really. Not something I can answer for you…”
Before Matt could snap back, I pointed to Quinn’s face. “Mike, you have something on your jawline…” (Like a half-dozen tiny dots of scarlet-speckled white tissue.) “What happened?”
“Well, it seems somebody used all of my Barbasol, which left me with trying to get a lather out of my Irish Spring. And my razor was dull as hell…” He glared at Matt, whose hacked-away black beard, courtesy of Quinn’s shaving kit, was presently reduced to a slight morning stubble.
“Maybe you should keep more than one disposable around,” said Matt. “Even a second can of shaving cream. I mean, I realize on a public servant’s salary, things are tight, but you might consider an occasional backup.”
“Allegro, do me a favor today?”
“What?”
“Resist arrest.”
“Come on, guys. Don’t fight. Eat!”
With that, I set down a napkin-lined basket of my fresh-baked Blueberry Muffin Tops—my healthier and much more convenient alternative to pancakes.
(While flapjacks were fab, they were time-consuming to cook, only a few at a time on a stovetop griddle with a spatula-wielder forced to stand by and flip. My muffin tops, on the other hand, could be dropped on a sheet pan and baked all at once.)
The batter was your basic quick bread, plus the slight tanginess of a good quality yogurt. For the fat, I chose healthy canola oil. For flavor, I found the tartness of lemon zest was a must—though I balanced its smart mouth with a sweet kiss of vanilla.
An affectionate hug of ovenly heat seduced my plump farmer’s market blueberries to relax inside their little cake pillows. Some of them, I was delighted to see, became so overwhelmed that they oozed their sweet bluey goodness into the crumb.
With my two-dozen cakelets all baked and cooled, breakfast was ready. Well, almost. Using my still-sore wrist, I finished the pastries with a back-and-forth dusting of powdered sugar. Then I brought three empty cups to the table and filled them with the bright, nutty flavor of my fresh-brewed Morning Sunshine Blend. (Okay, so it was early afternoon, but we all needed the caffeine hit from the light roast.)
The men dug in and for a few minutes I enjoyed blissful silence—save the chewing of warm little blueberry cakes, slurping of hot coffee, and occasional guttural male noises of gustatory pleasure.
“So what are your plans today?” Quinn finally asked Matt.
“Oh, some partying in the Hamptons. Then clubbing in Soho.”
At Quinn’s dead-cold stare, Matt shrugged. “Or not. I have work. Clients in Japan and Germany are expecting updates on shipments, and I have to reply to e-mails and messages.”
“How are you going to do that without a working PDA?” I asked.
“I’ll have to use your computer later, okay? Tomorrow I’ll buy a new smart phone.”
“What about your address book?”
“I use the Cloud for backup.”
“The what?” I asked. First Quinn’s talking to God, now Matt’s getting data from the heavens?
“The Cloud is a backup service, Clare. It saves computer data. I’ll download my files from their server later and—”
Quinn cut him off. “Before you do any of that, you’re coming downtown with me.”
“I am?”
“Yes, I want you to debrief with my squad and some people above my pay grade down at 1PP.”
The smirk was back. “What’s that you’re saying, Quinn? Something about PP? You have to use the John?”
“One Police Plaza is where the NYPD has its headquarters. And I’d lose the smart mouth. Not every gold shield has the extreme patience that I do.”
“Yes, Matt…” (I know you can’t stand authority, but…) “Please remember. The majority of these men are heavily armed.”
“And, by the way, I need things at my apartment—change of clothes, toiletries, my personal shaving kit.”
“Believe me, Allegro, we all want you to have your personal shaving kit.”
“So I’ll just run up there first—”
“You’re not running anywhere alone. Not for the foreseeable future. I’ll send Sully with you.”
“Who?”
“Finbar Sullivan, one of my men.”
“I do not need some Irish cop to babysit me while I go uptown and back.”
“It’s either him or Franco.”
“Fine.” He stood up, theatrically rewrapped Quinn’s bathrobe, and headed for the kitchen door. “Send the leprechaun.”
Quinn threw me a look, grabbed another muffin top, and opened his phone. Between bites, I heard him instruct Sully to bodyguard Matt to Sutton Place then straight to 1PP. “And I know you, Sully, do not let this operator sweet talk you.”
He hung up, exhaled, and took a long hit of coffee. “I swear, Clare, if those two end up in a Soho bar drinking imported beer, this unhappy leprechaun will be going after more than their lucky charms.”
Note to self, I thought, watching Quinn stew. Work on recipe for Irish Coffee Muffins…double the whiskey.
“I take it you don’t need me down at 1PP?” I said.
“No. All I want you to do, Clare, is resume your normal routine. What’s your schedule this week?”
“I’m here in the Blend for most of it. Wednesday I go out with the Muffin Muse to the Dragon Boat exhibition. Friday we have a food-truck wedding reception in Central Park.”
“That’s fine.” Quinn checked his watch. “Franco should be here any minute. Remember, he’ll be with you wherever you go. Just make sure he looks like he belongs.”
“I know. Barista 101. Crash course. I only hope all the shots in our future come from my espresso machine.”
THIRTY-NINE
AFTER thirty minutes of uneven tamps and poor extractions, sampling espressos that were too flat, too sour, too bitter, or too weak, I watched the muscle-bound Franco attempt another delicate pull.
This time my undercover barista tamped the coffee evenly. I
had high hopes for a nice, syrupy stream and a competent shot—until he mis-attached the portafilter and the grounds that didn’t hit Franco ended up on the floor.
“Whoa! My bad!”
“Don’t sweat it, honey,” Tucker called from the register. “I’ve been pulling espressos since the cows came home, and I made that same mistake last week.”
Tucker Burton had never dropped a portafilter in his life. My lanky, floppy-haired actor-cum-assistant-manager was an exceptional barista. His attempt to save Franco’s pride was just another example of his big heart and team spirit.
“I’ll get the broom,” Nancy sang, flipping a wheat-colored braid.
With patience Tucker had been watching my quest for the impossible—cramming three months of barista training into one afternoon. But the portafilter drop had been the last straw. Grabbing my elbow, he pulled me aside.
“CC, I’m sure you had high hopes this boy would be some kind of espresso idiot savant. But as far as his barista skills go, he’s more of an—”
“Stop right there, because we need a good shot right now, one that has nothing to do with espresso. And Franco’s our man. He’s here to watch our backs after that shooting in Brooklyn yesterday.” (A Quinn-worthy statement, misleading but necessary.)
“But the customers! I can’t believe you’re going to let him—”
“Take it easy. I have no intention of letting Franco pull espressos for customers. I simply want him to be familiar with the process. Be able to act the part.”
“Listen, honey, my directorial skills have been honed on and off-Broadway. Were Franco a competent thespian, I might be able to help him at least look competent behind our machine. But he’s a police detective, not an actor.”
“I have news for you, Tuck. Good detectives are great actors.” Quinn’s performance with the DEA deserved a Golden Globe nomination.
I felt a heavy arm on my shoulder and I was suddenly jerked into a three-way huddle.
“So what are we going to do with me now?” Franco asked.
“How about the register?” Tuck suggested, sinking slightly under the weight of Franco’s limb. “He’s a cop. I think we can trust him not to steal.”
“What a vote of confidence,” Franco said.
I’d already considered the register. “I don’t think that will work.”
“Agreed,” Franco said. “Here’s me, worrying about correct change or else the John Doe in front of me gives me grief—which means I’m not watching for guys I should be watching for. And, sorry, Coffee Lady, burying me behind your overcomplicated coffeemaker won’t be any better. It’ll cut off my line of sight.”
“I only wanted you to understand what we do here,” I explained.
“I get it,” Franco said, squeezing his arms a little tighter around us so we’d get the point. “Now it’s time to try something new.”
“I’m good with something new,” Tuck quickly agreed.
“Fine,” I said, “but what?”
“Ahem, people,” Nancy called to us in an exaggerated whisper. “I have a solution.”
Our youngest barista gestured to me and Tuck. “You two, come here…”
Franco released us so quickly from his powerful half-time huddle, we practically stumbled toward Nancy. She stared at Franco.
“Do me a favor. Go to the men’s room.”
“What?”
“Just do it,” said Nance, “I’ll have a solution by the time you come back.”
Franco shrugged and headed for the back. As he did, Nancy quietly directed me and Tuck to watch a table at the other end of the coffeehouse. A Sunday afternoon gathering of single women suddenly stopped talking. As Franco passed by them, they froze, their gazes tracking my undercover barista like searchlights on a fugitive.
“The boyfriend experience,” Tucker whispered. “Franco can bus, wipe tables, and flirt with customers.”
I tensed, thinking of that Three Stooges huddle. “I’m not sending him out there raw. He’s going to need a crash course in coffeehouse etiquette. Tuck, can you talk to him about the right touch with—”
“Wrong guy,” Tuck said, chucking his thumb to a table on the sidewalk, where his boyfriend Punch had his nose in Variety. “If you want an expert in charming coeds, you better ask Dante…”
“What are you three whispering about?” Franco asked a minute later.
We all jumped.
“We have a new assignment for you,” I replied. “And I think you’re going to enjoy this aspect of the job.”
But when I explained it, his response was a bemused smirk. “Just what are you selling here, Coffee Lady?”
“Java and a smile,” I insisted. “In the Italian tradition, a barista is outgoing, friendly, personable. He or she strives to give each customer a positive, uplifting experience. Take our Dante, for instance. He’s charming and friendly, but he’s especially friendly toward our female clientele.”
“Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge,” Nancy quipped.
“Dante makes eye contact,” I continued, “he engages them in conversation. In a very special way, he makes them feel like more than just a customer. We call this ‘the boyfriend experience.’”
“Using me as a boy toy? I feel so violated.”
“Chill, Sergeant,” Tuck said. “There are no lap dances in this coffeehouse.”
“I can certainly do the first part,” Franco said seriously. “I used to bus tables at a gin mill when I was a kid—”
“Child labor in a tavern?” Tuck said, horrified. “Is that legal?”
“No. But the tips were great.”
“Well, at least you have some food service experience,” Tuck conceded. “Let’s set you up…”
Minutes after Tuck and Franco wandered off, I noticed a familiar couple sitting at a table near the French doors.
John Fairway, the attorney from Two Wheels Good, loosened his tie while casually scanning an e-reader, a half-empty latte at his elbow. Beside the lawyer, Warrior Barbie had curled into a chair, her long legs tucked under her. The lithe young woman had traded silver bike pants and sports bra for pastel blue, and her frizzy blond hair had been freed from its ponytail. She appeared to be watching me between sips of bottled water.
Now what are they doing here? I was about to approach the pair and fish when Dante burst through the door and strode up to me.
“We’re being punk’d on Twitter!” Dante declared, waving his iPad. “Check it out.”
His Twitter account was already up on the screen. The hashtag search was “urban violence,” the tweeter someone named KittyKatKlubette, and in one short tweet this person had fired a broadside at our newly minted food truck.
Shots fired near Muffin Muse. Bad scene. Keep clear. Gansta rap and mealy muffins do not mix.
“Why do I think Kaylie’s behind this?” I said.
“Because she probably is,” Dante replied.
“Is there an e-mail publicly linked to that account?” I asked.
“There should be…”
Dante found it, and I told him to try my little gotcha trick. We plugged the e-mail into Google to search for other references to that address. We got a hit on a cartoon site that featured a glittery pink kitten.
The pink cat was the clue I needed. And when we found a small photo attached to a fan profile, we hit pay dirt. KittyKatKlubette was none other than Mrs. Li’s pretty young granddaughter, the teen in the Chinatown bakery who’d been so smitten with Dante.
“Kaylie or Billy must have put her up to it,” Dante said, “or they’re using her account.”
“Either way, that connection to Kaylie is enough for me.”
“So what do we do?”
“Nothing yet,” I said. “But we’re going to stop Kaylie. I promise you…” I already had the ammo, and I was more than ready to pull the trigger. I just needed the right opportunity.
Tuck tapped my shoulder. “Our boy’s on the job,” he declared. “And you’ll be pleased to know Franco is exceptionally talented at
balancing a full tray of dirty latte cups on his shoulder.”
We watched Franco clear one table and move to the next. He worked with efficiency, but when it came time to flirting, the boy came off a little too friendly.
Coming upon a young woman intensely reading, he brashly interrupted her to convey a joke. It didn’t exactly work like a charm. She nodded nervously then packed up her things and fled.
