by Клео Коул
Mike’s gaze didn’t waver. “Be careful, Clare.”
“Of what?”
“A man who doesn’t want to report a crime is usually a criminal himself.”
I folded my arms. “Ric’s the victim here, not the criminal.”
Mike didn’t try to argue; he simply continued drinking his coffee.
“We’re going into business with this man, you see? He’s the one who made that breakthrough with the decaffeinated plant I mentioned....” I was trying to project confidence, but I could tell I was coming off defensive. “It’s really an amazing thing, you know, for the trade? And Matt’s known Ric for almost his entire life.”
Mike glanced away. “Matt’s not exactly pure as the driven snow.”
“That’s not fair. I mean, okay... I wouldn’t call him an innocent lamb, but Matt’s definitely no criminal. And I don’t appreciate the snow crack.” I closed my eyes and held up my hand. “Don’t say it. I already know... crack is also a term for cocaine.”
Mike drank more latte. “So what do you think happened?”
“I’m not supposed to discuss it with you.”
“Solve a few homicides and you’re flying solo, huh?”
“I made a deal with Matt. He agreed to take Ric to St. Vincent’s ER now and tell me everything later—”
“—as long as you keep the details from me.”
“What are you, a mind reader?”
“Some people are an open book.”
“Meaning me? Now you sound like my ex-husband.”
“Ouch.”
“Listen,” I leaned on the coffee bar, closing the distance between us. “Since you already know the basics, I don’t see any harm in talking hypothetically.”
“Hypothetical is my middle name.”
“I thought it was Ryan.”
“Aw, Clare... you remembered.”
“Have you ever heard of a mugger using a prerecorded message?”
The detective put down his nearly empty latte glass. “You’re not kidding, are you?”
I shook my head.
“I’ve had voices mechanically distorted in extortion cases, but never a street mugger. Not in my experience.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Mike’s lips twitched. “What else do you think?”
“If the mugger didn’t want his or her voice recognized, then Ric might have recognized it, right? Which means—”
“Ric already knows this person.”
“Or...” I murmured, “he’s about to know this person.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Ric’s in town for the ICGE—it’s an international trade show for the coffee industry. Later this week he’s announcinghis horticulture breakthrough, and it’s going to shake up a lot of people.”
“What does ‘shake up’ translate to? Will it ruin them?”
“No... at least not right away. Ric’s deal is exclusive with the Village Blend, and we’re a premium product. Something like this won’t change the mass market for years. This discovery shouldn’t be a total shock, either.”
“Why not?”
“People have been working on creating a viable decaffeinated plant for a little while now—the interest was negligible at first but the percentage of decaf drinkers has skyrocketed in the last fifty years. It was something like three percent in the sixties, now it’s close to twenty, and—”
“You don’t have to tell me. It’s a very old song, where there’s a market, there’s interest in exploiting it.”
I nodded. “Yeah. Love it or hate it, so goes the capitalist formula for progress.”
“So who’s competing with your friend?”
“Some scientists in Hawaii are doing field tests on a genetically engineered decaffeinated plant. And back in 2004, there were rumors that Brazilian scientists from the Universidade Estadual de Campinas had identified a naturally decaffeinated Ethiopian coffee plant.”
“What happened there? Why wasn’t that a success?”
“Ethiopia supposedly raised issues over the ownership and that was the last anyone heard of it—the quality of those beans is still an unknown.”
“Is Ric associated with that discovery?”
“No. Ric’s living in Brazil now, but Matt tells me he did his own experimentation. He’s been interested in botany since he hung out here at the Blend back in college.”
“He went to college here?”
“He came as an exchange student from Costa Gravas for a year or so. He lived in the Village and took classes at NYU and Cornell, I think.”
“I thought you said he was from Brazil.”
“He and his family are living in Brazil now, but he was born and raised on Costa Gravas.”
“Where is that? Central America?”
“It’s a small Caribbean nation, near Jamaica, Spanish and English speaking. It was a British colony, which explains Ric’s surname. His father’s side held land there for generations. But now the island is independent and self-governing. Ric’s family left and went to Brazil. They reestablished their coffee farm there.”
“Don’t you know why his family left?”
“Not really. Matt and I were divorced when it happened, and I lost touch with Ric... until now.”
“What kind of a guy is he, would you say?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is he the kind who makes a lot of enemies? Does he have a temper? A short fuse?”
“No. The man’s as easygoing as they come. Five minutes after the mugging he was telling my daughter how beautifully she grew up.”
“If he’s not one to make personal enemies—”
“I didn’t say that... I don’t know him well enough, and...”
“What?”
“He’s a pretty smooth operator with women. At least he used to be, back in the day.”
Mike nodded. “Would he sleep with a married woman?”
“I don’t know...”
“Crimes of passion are at the top of the charts in my caseload.”
“I know... but it seems more likely that someone’s after Ric’s research.”
“As well as his life?”
“I don’t know that Ric’s life is in danger. The mugger stole his hotel room keycard. But this person might have taken his wallet too—the mugging was interrupted.”
“How?”
“I’m pretty sure a police siren spooked the mugger first, and then when this robber came back, I was there with Ric.”
“Then you saw the mugger?”
“No. Before I had the chance, I was introduced to our back wall.” I lifted my bangs, showing Mike my bruised forehead.
“God, Clare...”
I dropped my bangs, but he reached out to lift them again. With one hand, he held back my hair. With the other, he tested the bruise’s discolored edges. The rough pads of his fingers were gentle, but the injury was sore.
I winced.
“Sorry...” he whispered. “Damn that ex-husband of yours. He should have called 911.”
Mike appeared to continue examining the bruise, but the affectionate way he kept stroking my hair was starting to scramble my brains. He just wouldn’t stop touching me, and for a moment I lost my voice along with my train of thought.
“It’s okay,” I finally managed. “Ric was the one who needed the ER. He was pistol-whipped pretty badly. When I first found him, he was unconscious.”
Mike’s hand released my chestnut bangs, but he didn’t pull away. Slowly, gently, he began to curl locks of hair around my ear. As his blue eyes studied my green ones, he seemed to be thinking something over. Then one finger drew a line down my jaw, stopping beneath my chin.
If he had leaned just a little closer, he could have kissed me. But he didn’t lean closer. He leaned back, taking the heat of his touch with him.
“I’ve got news for you, Clare,” he said quietly, “if the mugger hit him that hard, then it’s not a simple robbery.”
“What is it?”
> “Attempted murder.”
Seven
“Is the flatfoot gone?” Matt asked.
It was almost midnight. I’d just climbed the back stairs and entered my duplex to find my ex-husband pacing the living room like a recently caged tiger. His expensive duds were gone. He was back to the sort of clothes I was used to him wearing—an old, knobby fisherman’s sweater and well worn blue jeans.
“Yes, Mike’s gone,” I said, tossing my keys onto the Chippendale end table. I was grubby and hungry, feeling the need for a jasmine bath and a PB and Nutella sandwich, if possible simultaneously. “Since our talk went on for a while, I sent Tucker home and closed myself. Unfortunately, two NYU Law study groups swung in around ten and nearly drank us dry. I had to kick the last of them out to lock up.”
Matt seemed ready to retort with something snippy but stopped himself. After a few seconds of silence, he said, “You look tired...”
“I am.”
“Are you hungry? I warmed up some of my stew for Ric. There’s some left on the stove.”
“Great...” I turned to head into the kitchen. Matt stepped by me, touching my arm. “Take a load off. I’ll get it.”
I wasn’t going to argue. I’d set the bar low with the PB and Nutella simply because I was too tired to do anything more than slather my plain peanut butter sandwich with hazelnut-chocolate spread. I much preferred a hot, meaty snack—as long as I didn’t have to cook it myself. And, it appeared, I didn’t.
I dropped into a rosewood armchair, pulled off my low-heeled boots, and wiggled my sore toes inside my forest green socks. They seemed to disappear against the jewel-toned colors of the Persian area rug.
Madame had done an amazing job decorating this duplex. The richly patterned carpet provided a lovely counterpoint to the lighter motifs in the room’s color scheme. The walls were pale peach, the marble fireplace and sheer draperies a creamy white. The chairs and sofa were upholstered in a finely striped pattern of mandarin silk. Anchored above my head, in the fleur-de-lys ceiling molding, was a pulley chandelier of polished bronze and six blushing globes of faceted crystal.
Whenever Matt was in town, which was rarely more than one week a month, he had the legal right to use this apartment, too. Neither of us owned it outright. Madame had merely granted us equal rights to use this antique-filled West Village duplex rent free.
I’d tried arguing with Matt, but he wasn’t willing to give up his rights to the tasty piece of real estate with two working fireplaces and a newly renovated bath of Italian marble—and neither was I. Given the high cost of living in this neighborhood, and our own anemic savings accounts, we’d agreed on an uneasy truce.
Matt approached me with a warm bowl of his carne con café, a coffee-infused beef stew. He’d adapted the recipe from a traditional Mayan dish, which he’d enjoyed on one of his trips to El Salvador.
“Mmmmm...” I murmured, “smells like sustenance.”
I dug in with gusto, appreciating the tang of the garlicky tomatoes and the brightness of the poblanos against the earthy combination of beef and coffee. Matt had placed a hunk of crusty French bread on top of the bowl. I dipped the bread in the thick, meaty gravy, and tore off a sloppy mouthful.
“How long have you been back?” I mumbled through my less-than-ladylike chomping.
“A little over an hour,” Matt said. “I saw your cop boyfriend through the Blend’s windows, so we came up through the alley entrance.”
“He’s not my boyfriend... and did you just say we?”
“Ric and I.”
“Ric’s here?”
“He’s upstairs, in my bedroom.”
“They didn’t admit him at the hospital?”
“His scan checked out okay. No hemorrhaging. They wanted to admit him for observation, but he refused, and I wouldn’t let him go back to his hotel.”
“So we can keep an eye on him? Or because of the stolen keycard?” I asked.
“Both.”
“Keeping an eye on him is easy. What about the keycard? Can the hotel change the locks?”
“They already have.”
Matt moved to one of the windows, pushed back the sheers. Peering past the flower boxes, he surveyed the shadowy street. “Ric notified the Marriott before we left for the ER—”
“So that’s why you lent him your cell phone?”
Matt nodded. “Tomorrow I’m going with him to his hotel. I’m checking him out of that midtown location and bringing him downtown, closer to us.”
“Where exactly?”
“There are a few hotels I used to use regularly before I moved in here. I’ll find out who has vacancies and check him in under my name.”
“Who’s after him, Matt?”
“I don’t know.”
Matt stalked to the fireplace, grabbed a poker, and adjusted the crackling log. The night was cold, the stairwell downright chilly. I was glad he’d warmed the living room with the modest blaze.
“Not a clue? Come on?”
“Ric’s still pretending this is nothing serious, but he admitted to me in the ER waiting room that he felt as if someone’s been following him.”
“Has he seen anyone? Man, woman, old, young, large, small—”
“Just footsteps behind him, sometimes he’ll catch a shadow. He’s actually been in the city about three weeks, but it wasn’t until this past week that he started receiving a number of strange calls at his hotel.”
I sat up straighter. “What kind of calls? Someone with a mechanical voice again?”
“No. Whoever was calling just hung up when Ric answered.”
“So someone’s been watching him? Waiting for a chance to strike?”
“That’s what I think. Even though he still claims tonight was a random mugging, he’s agreed to stay here, as a precaution. He’s had a pretty rough night. I think he’s already asleep.”
“In your bed?”
“Yes, of course.”
I tensed. “And where were you planning to sleep?”
A year ago, Matt had thought that because we were sharing the same apartment, we would also, when the whim struck us, be sharing the same bed.
“I’ll be sleeping here, Clare, on the couch.”
“Oh... okay.” My relief must have been more than a little obvious because Matt’s brow knitted.
“What did you think I was going to say?”
“Nothing.”
He studied me a moment. “I see... you thought I was going to suggest—”
“Forget it.”
I set down the nearly empty bowl of stew, rubbed the back of my neck. The stress of the last five hours—from those bottomless-cup law students to Mike Quinn’s downright torturous flirtation—had tightened my muscles into hard, angry knots. It was almost unbearable and I closed my eyes, dreaming of that jasmine bath I was too tired to draw.
Matt stepped closer. “You look tense.”
“I am.”
He moved behind me, settling his hands on my shoulders. “Are you sure you didn’t want me to suggest some other sleeping arrangements?”
His voice had gone low and soft, his mood switching from edgy to seductive with the smoothness of a veteran Formula One driver shifting gears on a high-performance sports car. The effect wasn’t aggressive or sleazy. With Matt, it never was. His seductions were always tender and sincere, which is why he always got to me.
He began a slow, expert kneading. I closed my eyes and my tight muscles seemed to sigh. They wanted more, even if I didn’t—not from Matt anyway. It was Detective Quinn I wanted. The flirting wasn’t enough anymore. Now that Mike was separated, I wanted him to cross that invisible fence we’d both been dancing on for over a year.
As my mind recalled Mike’s intense blue gaze, his caring touches, my body became more pliant beneath my ex-husband’s hands. I released a soft moan and shifted, leaning forward to give him more access. Matt was familiar and convenient, his warmth a tempting offering on this cold October night.
His hands
moved lower, down my spine. Gently, he pulled up my shirt, reached beneath it to caress my lower back. But as my ex continued to make my tendons sing, it slowly occurred to me that I was doing exactly what Matt had done during our ten year marriage.
The one-night stands hadn’t meant anything, he’d claimed. They were just physical workouts, temporary warmth on lonely nights, substitutes—apparently—for me.
Wasn’t I contemplating the same thing now, substituting one man for another? Did I really want to cavalierly sleep with an ex-husband who was very publicly involved with another woman?
Wake up, Clare!
I opened my eyes. “No...” I said. “I mean... yes, Matt, I’m sure you should sleep on the couch.”
“But you thought of the other option, right?” Matt mellifluously pointed out, his hands continuing to rub. “It entered your mind.”
The definition for mental health also entered my mind. It did not include walking down the same road and falling into the same hole, over and over again.
I still vividly remembered the last time I’d fallen into the Matt hole. Yes, I’d climbed out quickly enough the next morning, but this time was going to be different. This time, I could actually avoid the hole altogether.
“Matt, don’t.” I turned to meet his eyes, make it clear. “We’re partners in business now, but that’s all we are. I’m sure we shouldn’t be sharing the same bed, okay?”
With a shrug, Matt removed his magic hands from my body. My still-aching muscles immediately cursed me as he turned back to the fireplace, which would definitely be providing him with more warmth than me tonight.
“Let’s get back to Ric, okay?” I said.
“What do you want to know?”
Matt’s tone was even. Good. I quietly exhaled, infinitely relieved there wouldn’t be any residual hostility from my rejection. “I know you’ve known the man a long time, but...”
“But what?”
“Are you certain you can trust him?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well...” How do I put this? “Mike said a man who doesn’t want to report a crime is usually a criminal himself.”
“Mike said.”
I grimaced. One stupid back massage and my guard’s completely down.
