Decaffeinated Corpse cm-5

by Клео Коул

Thus began my master’s program in ignoring and pretending, tolerating and rationalizing: Matt’s not cheating. I buy his explanations... okay, Matt is cheating, but he says the sex means nothing, a physical experience with no more meaning than his mountain biking or rock climbing... Matt’s drug use is no big deal. He has the cocaine under control...

  It would take me a decade to douse my burning infatuation for my larger-than-life husband, corral my runaway fears. At twenty-nine, I would finally build up the courage to quit the job I’d loved, managing the Blend for Madame, and move to New Jersey with Joy. A shaky collection of part-time employment followed, which led to a viable career as a freelance writer—first with a regular culinary column in a local paper, then trade magazine pieces, and even one article in the New York Times.

  It would take me another ten years to forgive my child’s father, decide and admit what I really wanted (this partnership in the Blend), and stop making my life about hiding and withdrawing, worrying and retreating, even when things looked dubious or dangerous... like now.

  As I continued to move through the shadows of my alley, I became more and more concerned about the slumped-over man. Was he just passed out? Knocked out? Or worse?

  Within a few feet of him, I finally saw that he was too well dressed to be homeless. His gorgeous tan jacket was butter-soft suede; his fine brown slacks, the caramelized color of espresso crema. Neither appeared worn or ripped. He was propped in a sitting position against our back wall, his arms and legs limp.

  I remembered Madame’s stories—the poets and painters of ye olde hipster Village. But things had changed too much since the days of the beat generation. Today’s West Villagers didn’t get falling down drunk on a nightly basis. The residents of this era were all about civilized, progressive attitudes and sophisticated tastes. And it just wasn’t sophisticated to get so blotto you peed in St. Luke’s churchyard and vomited on your obscenely expensive Bruno Magli shoes.

  The unconscious man appeared to be attractive, too, not just well dressed. His sturdy, clean-shaven chin rested on a solid chest. The stranger’s head was bowed, his black hair cut just like Matt’s, in a neat, masculine Caesar. In fact, if I hadn’t seen Matt inside the Blend, I might have mistaken this man for my ex.

  “Hello?” I called softly. “Are you all right?”

  Brilliant, Clare, of course he’s not all right.

  Was he even breathing? I bent over the body, peered into his face and gasped. The man on the ground wasn’t a stranger. It took me a few seconds, but the memory came back to me... the man in my alley was Federico Gostwick.

  Matt was right, I realized. Ric looked as if he’d hardly aged one year, let alone ten. I could see he was breathing; and, thank goodness, he wasn’t dead, but he obviously needed help.

  My hand slipped under my apron. I felt around for the small, hard rectangle in my jeans pocket, but it wasn’t there. My cell phone was missing. I couldn’t call 911 because I’d left it behind the counter!

  I was ready to dash back inside when I heard footsteps on the nearby sidewalk, crisp and quick, aggressive, purposeful. I turned my head toward the approaching passerby, and that’s when I felt the shove—hard and deliberate.

  I was half crouched over Ric, off balance already, and the violent push propelled me forward, into the old bricks. For a split second, I think I was out. I remember the slamming connection to the cold wall, then nothing for a moment. I blinked and realized I was down on the ground.

  My hands moved under me, wet pebbles scratching my palms. My apron felt heavy, restrictive. I struggled to rise, but the ground seemed to tilt dramatically, like those old Batman TV shows when the villain was cackling with evil glee. I fell back again. The icy drizzle stung my face and hands, the nearby Dumpster smelled rank. I heard the distant scream of a police siren, glimpsed a navy blue baseball hat, the trademark NY logo embroidered above the bill.

  For a split second the Yankee cap was there, resting near me on the concrete. Then it was gone, snatched away. I sat up quickly but saw no one close by—except Ric’s body, still slumped against the wall.

  The top of my forehead was throbbing as I scrambled to my feet. My breathing was fast and shallow. I was disturbed, angry, and yes, finally, I was scared. Still, I had to risk a look. Stepping carefully, I moved beyond the alley, hoping to catch the glimpse of a figure running away on the sidewalk or lurking in a nearby townhouse doorway.

  I peered east down the dark, quiet street; then west, toward brightly lit Hudson. I searched for any sign—male or female, short or fat, tall or thin. But there was not one human being on the block. Not that I could see. The night’s shadows had cloaked my attacker.

  He... or she... had vanished.

  Four

  “Hand me your cell phone,” I asked Matt five minutes later.

  “Why?”

  “Because I left mine behind the counter, and I’m calling 911!”

  We were back inside the Blend. I’d already sounded the alarm. Matt had followed me outside, Tucker on his heels, and I’d led them to the end of the alleyway.

  By then, Ric’s eyelids had fluttered open, and he was making groggy, incomprehensible noises. Matt and Tucker helped him inside and lowered him into an easy chair by the fireplace so we could take a look at his condition.

  Joy rushed across the wood plank floor when she saw us coming, bumping through our cafe tables, most of them still empty. Those few customers nursing cappuccinos and espressos lifted their heads from their laptops, newspapers, and trade paperbacks. But as we closed ranks around Ric and lowered our voices, they went back to minding their own business—a skill ninety-nine percent of New Yorkers have perfected.

  (I’d once seen a four-hundred-pound man in a purple flowered muumuu belt out the entire first act of Oklahoma between Canal and 116th streets on the Number One train, and every rider in the subway pretended absolutely nothing out of the ordinary was happening. It wasn’t that hard to believe. I’d been one of those riders pretending.)

  As I tore off my wet, dirty apron, I quickly explained to Matt, Tucker, and Joy what had happened in the alley: that Ric was not passed out drunk; he’d been attacked, most likely by the same person who’d shoved me into the Blend’s brick wall. That’s when I asked Matt for his cell phone to call the authorities.

  “Don’t do that,” Ric murmured to me.

  “Don’t do what?”

  “Don’t call 911.”

  I stared in confusion. Those three little numbers represented more than the date of an infamous terrorist attack. Once dialed, the common citizen could immediately summon his own little uniformed army, including a team of battle-hardened paramedics. It was a tax-funded service any medieval duke would have envied, and I was more than ready to take advantage of it. So why the heck wasn’t Ric?

  “Please,” he said, “no police.”

  “But you need to report what happened,” I said, “and get some medical attention—”

  “I’m fine. Really, it’s no big deal.”

  “Of course it’s a big deal!”

  Ric remained adamant, and I considered calling 911 anyway. After all I was assaulted, too, and right in my back alley. But then I stopped to consider... there might be reasons Ric was reluctant to deal with the NYPD.

  “Is it your paperwork?” I asked. “Is your visa expired?”

  Ric shook his head. “No. I’m legally here... I just don’t believe we need to make a large matter of this... May I have something to drink?”

  Everyone nodded, and Joy ran off to get Ric some water, but I refused to budge—physically or mentally.

  Although I hadn’t seen Federico Gostwick in years, I remembered a few things about the man. His striking good looks for one. With a British dad and Caribbean mom, he’d inherited an amazing combination of features: the patrician profile and six feet of height from his father; the olive complexion and thick ebony hair from his mother. Add fluid mastery of Spanish and Portuguese, English spoken with a slight British accent, and a romantic n
ature, and he had a recipe for (quite literally) charming the pants off any woman he met.

  That gave me pause... had Ric known his attacker? Was it a jilted girlfriend perhaps or a jealous husband?

  I lowered my voice. “I won’t call the police,” I told him. “But I want you to tell me every detail of what happened out there.”

  “Sure, love, but there’s not much to tell...” He shrugged. “I was coming down the side street, on the way to your front door on Hudson, when someone approached me from behind. I remembered a sharp poke in my back, like the end of a gun shoving into my ribs. Then bam...”

  Ric fell silent and rubbed the back of his head. There had to be more to this story, but he’d stopped talking. I glanced at Matt.

  C’mon, help me out here.

  I waited for my usually glib ex to ask some questions of his own, argue with his friend about his reluctance to call the police. In the face of my pointed stare, Matt said not a word.

  With a frustrated exhale, I turned back to Ric. “What do you mean bam?” I pressed. “Didn’t your attacker speak? Ask for anything?”

  Ric shook his head. “There was only this mechanical-like voice—”

  “Mechanical?” Tucker repeated. He and I exchanged confused glances. “What do you mean?”

  “You know, uh”—Ric’s hand waved, some Spanish phrases followed, and then—“the kind you hear on answering machines?”

  “Answering machines? You mean... a computerized voice like this?” Tucker asked, giving an impression that landed somewhere between Stephen Hawking and the automated teller who answers my bank’s phone.

  Ric nodded. “That’s it, but it wasn’t coming from a person the way you just did it. This voice sounded tinny, like it was being played on a recorder.”

  Tucker’s nose wrinkled up on his angular face. He glanced at me. “That seems odd. A mugger with a prerecorded message?”

  “Yeah, that’s odd, all right,” I said. “So, what did this mechanical voice say?”

  Ric shrugged. “I have a gun in your back. Put your hands up.”

  “Did you?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then what happened?” Joy asked. She’d returned by now and was handing Ric a cup of water.

  As Ric sipped, he regarded Joy for a moment. “You look familiar...” His dark eyebrows came together. “I don’t think we’ve met, have we?”

  “That’s our daughter,” Matt replied.

  “No! Not little Joy!”

  Joy rolled her eyes. “Not little anymore, Uncle Ric.”

  “Madre de dios! You’re a grown woman. It can’t be that long—”

  Matt folded his arms. “Over ten years, bucko.”

  “Look at her! She’s just like her mama... beautiful.”

  “Shut up!” Joy blushed, waved her hand.

  I couldn’t decide if Ric’s sweetness was genuine or a dodge. Joy was my daughter, so of course I thought she was beautiful... just not me.

  “Ric,” I loudly interrupted, “please finish telling us what happened back there. What did that prerecorded, mechanical voice tell you to do?”

  The shrug came again, like a child reluctant to talk. “The voice said to step into the alleyway, that’s all.”

  “And did you?”

  “No,” said Ric. “I stalled a second.”

  “Why?” Tucker asked. “Weren’t you afraid of getting shot?”

  “I thought perhaps I could sprint away, take my chances that there was either no gun or this person was a terrible shot. And that’s when I heard the police siren, right around the corner on Hudson.”

  A few beat cops were regular Blend customers. Officers Langley and Demetrious stopped in almost every day for lattes and doppio espressos respectively, and I wondered if it had been their car. I remembered hearing that siren. It had been startling—instantaneous and close, as if the cruiser had just gotten the call from dispatch and hit the switch in front of the Blend.

  “It must have spooked my mugger,” Ric continued, “because the next thing I remember I was being hit hard on the head—and with something decidedly harder than my head.”

  Tucker tapped his chin. “Sounds like you were pistol-whipped.”

  Ric nodded. “I remember nothing after that, just waking up in the alley...”

  “The mugger must have knocked you out, and then dragged you off the sidewalk.” I turned to face Matt. “He was out cold,” I whispered pointedly. “He could have a concussion.”

  Of course, I could have one, too, but I felt fine—no headache, drowsiness, or disorientation. Ric was another matter. He’d been unconscious a long time, and he’d been incoherent upon waking. It seemed to me he should be checked out ASAP.

  Thank goodness Matt nodded in agreement. “Ric, I’m parked just down the block. Let me drive you over to St. Vincent’s ER—”

  “No, no, no ER! I’d be in there for hours for absolutely no reason. I’m fine. Really.” Ric looked up at our concerned faces. “It’s nice that you all care so much, but I’d really like to forget it happened.” He handed Joy back the cup of water she’d brought him. “Thank you, love. But I’d like to warm up a bit. Perhaps I might trouble you for a hot coffee?”

  Matt laughed. “You certainly came to the right place for that. Regular or decaf?”

  “Decaf,” Ric replied. “You have my beans, I take it? How did the baristas like the samples?”

  Tucker spoke up. “Oh, we liked them. We like them a latte.”

  Ric smiled. “Good, good, excellent. And what is your name?”

  “Tucker Burton.” He gave a little bow, tossing his newly highlighted hair like a Shakespearean troubadour. “At your service.”

  “Ah!” Ric was obviously pleased by his enthusiasm. “I hope that will include coffee service then? Do you have any objection to helping us with our event at the Beekman Hotel at the end of the week?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Tucker assured him. “And my colleagues agreed to help you out, too. Two of them had to beat it before you got here, and the third one was supposed to be here, but he took the night off at the last minute...”

  As Tucker continued to converse with Ric, Matt turned to me. “Clare, why don’t you brew some fresh decaf for us?”

  “Joy can do it.” I glanced at my daughter. “Joy? Do you mind? The decaf beans are in the burr grinder marked with the green tape on the lid. Use the eight-cup French press. We’ll all have some.”

  Joy nodded. “Sure, Mom.”

  The second her chestnut ponytail bounced away, I turned back to Ric. I was mystified by the man’s calm. My first year living in New York, I’d been mugged on a subway platform by a skinny punk, who’d taken my purse with fifty dollars, credit cards, and lip gloss. The boy waved a knife, which never touched me, but the only thing I wanted to do after the incident (besides throw up and chug half a bottle of Pepto) was report the little creep’s description to the police.

  Crime is a violation. It’s frightening and humiliating. It shakes your world. And after it makes you scared, it makes you angry—which it should because that’s the way you begin to fight back.

  Ric might have been eager to put this behind him, but I was far from satisfied; and, in my view, the bruise forming beneath my own brunette bangs gave me the right to make a few more inquiries.

  “Ric!” I loudly interrupted for the second time.

  Tucker and Ric halted their conversation. They stared at me as if I’d dropped a large tray at a quiet party.

  “I’m sorry, but I have a few more questions.”

  Ric glanced pleadingly at Matt; and, brother, did I recognize that retro masculine “Can’t you control your ex-wife?” expression.

  Matt answered by showing his palms to the ceiling. By now, of course, he’d grown accustomed to the new me. After solving more than one homicide, I could no longer join my fellow New Yorkers in ignoring the singing four-hundred-pound muumuu-wearing man in the subway car.

  “I don’t believe you’re thinking clear
ly, Ric,” I said. “Since you were out cold, how do you know that you weren’t ripped off?”

  “Clare, Clare, Clare... you know you’ve changed since I last saw you. You’re still just as beautiful, but I guess ten years is a long time. You used to be so easygoing...”

  Easygoing? I thought. Or a gullible pushover?

  Ric’s gaze held mine. “How headstrong you’ve become.”

  The man’s eyes were velvet brown, arrestingly intense with long, dark lashes. They were what women’s magazines would call “bedroom eyes,” but we weren’t in a bedroom.

  “The mugger could have rifled your clothes,” I pointed out. “Have you checked them? Do you still have your wallet?”

  “I have it, Clare,” he assured me. “I touched my jacket as soon as I came around. My wallet’s still here.”

  To demonstrate, Ric made a show of patting down the left breast pocket of his fine suede jacket. Then he opened it, reached inside, and pulled out his wallet.

  “You see, love, no need to keep worrying that pretty head of yours.”

  “What about your other pockets?” I asked.

  “Clare—” Matt began. I felt the light touch of his hand on my shoulder. I ignored it.

  “It’s all right, Matt,” Ric said. “She’s just being protective. She always was a little mother hen.”

  Which would make Matt what? I wondered. Henpecked?

  “Look, Clare,” Ric continued, “my passport isn’t on me. It’s back in my hotel room. I just have loose change and a handkerchief in my pants, and in this right pocket here the only thing you’ll find is my—”

  Ric was opening up his jacket again, this time on the right side, to show me that all was well, and I shouldn’t worry my “pretty mother hen” head.

  But all wasn’t well.

  “Omigawd!” Tucker pointed. “Your beautiful jacket.”

  The left side of Ric’s jacket may have been fine and his wallet untouched, but the right was in tatters, its lining ripped, and whatever was inside the breast pocket was gone.

  Matt stepped forward, his jovial expression gone, too. “What did you say was in that pocket?”