by Клео Коул
I wasn’t the one to break off first.
Mike stared into the glowing hearth, put his arm around me, tucked me close against him. “Let’s take it slow,” he said.
“I like the sound of let’s... you know, you and me... plural.”
Mike laughed. “I like the sound of it, too, Clare. But I want it to be right between us... long and slow and beautiful, not here... not like this.”
“You mean not with two unsolved murders on the table and my ex-husband in custody?”
“Yeah...” He exhaled. “You know my personal life’s been in flux. God...” He cursed softly. “Why mince words? It’s been a hell of a mess for a long time. I never wanted to bring you into my mess. I didn’t think it was fair. And now I’m living like a college kid again, out of my old home, into this spare apartment...”
I smiled. “How spare?”
“Nothing I want you to see.”
“Come on, how bad could it be? A mattress on the floor? A bare lightbulb.”
“Close, Cosi. Very close.”
“Well, you could always ask me to help you decorate the place. I’m not bad at it, you know?”
“I don’t want you to be my interior decorator, Clare. I want you...” His voice trailed off. “I just want you.”
“I want you, too, Mike.”
“And it’ll be right between us soon... I promise.”
I couldn’t argue with him. This guy was a romantic. That was okay. So was I.
We closed our eyes then. We were both exhausted, and in a few minutes, we dozed off. When I woke again, about twenty minutes later, Mike was sleeping soundly, and I realized the Blend’s second floor couch was about to become a temporary bed for another lost soul.
I rose, letting his body fall gently into a reclined position. I removed his shoes, went to my office, and looked for the thick wool throw I kept there. Back at the fireplace, I covered Mike’s lanky form, kissed his cheek. Then I wished him sweet dreams and climbed the back stairs to find my own bed.
Twenty-Two
Bleary eyed, I stumbled down the stairs at ten minutes to six to greet the baker’s truck. I didn’t even have time to brew a pot of the Village Breakfast Blend before I heard the delivery bell ring. I unlocked the door and held it open.
“Howya doin’, Ms. Cosi,” announced Joey, the delivery driver.
I inhaled the warm batches of muffins, croissants, bagels, and mini coffee cakes, and wondered what Quinn would like with his Breakfast Blend. I couldn’t ask him yet. When I came down to open the shop, he was still snoring on the couch.
I started the coffee, and was putting the pastries in the case when the bell above the door jingled. I peeked over the counter in confusion. We weren’t open yet, and I thought I’d relocked the door after Joey left.
When I glanced up, I saw Matt standing in the doorway, fumbling to get his keys out of the lock. Shoulders hunched, eyes bloodshot and weary, he seemed to have aged five years since the night before.
“Hey,” he said, noticing me behind the counter. Matt’s ever-present masculine bravado was gone. He seemed baffled and defeated.
“Coffee’s almost ready,” I replied, setting two cups on the counter.
Matt shook his head. “I need sleep. Not coffee.”
“No. You need to tell me what’s going on.”
He exhaled heavily, sat on a stool behind the coffee bar, and leaned his elbows on the marble countertop. The Breakfast Blend was finished and I poured. He took a sip, then two. Finally he swallowed a large gulp and set the half-empty cup on the counter.
I topped off his mug.
“I get it,” he said as I poured. “You’re trying to keep me caffeinated, so you can grill me.”
I smiled. He did, too. But I figured I had a limited amount of time before Matt crashed and burned, so I cut to the chase.
“What happened, Matt?”
He took another gulp. “Ellie’s dead.”
“I know...”
I let him tell me some of the things I already knew from talking to Quinn. Finally I interrupted, “How’s Ric taking Ellie’s death?”
“I only got to talk to Ric for a few minutes, but from what I can see he’s taking it pretty hard.” Matt rubbed his face with both hands. His flesh looked pale and clammy from lack of sleep. “Ric admitted to me that he and Ellie had made love Friday afternoon, to celebrate the rollout at the Beekman. I think he’s still in shock.”
“Do you think Ric was telling the truth?”
“About Ellie? Yes.”
“So the police let you go...”
“For now... Quinn believed me about Ellie. Or, at least, he pretended to. I told him what I knew about her relationships. And after your boyfriend was done with me, I thought I was free to go.” Matt sighed in disgust. “Man, was I wrong. Instead of being released, I was handed off to some blueblood flatfoot, if you can believe it, a detective named Fletcher Endicott. What a piece of work. I’ve decided the only thing worse than a street cop with an attitude is an Ivy League cop with an attitude.”
I remembered seeing the nattily-dressed detective in charge at the Beekman, the one with the glasses and the three-piece banker’s suit, though at the time I didn’t know his name. I was interrogated by his partner, a Detective Fox. He seemed fixated on the time of Hernandez’s death, kept trying to pinpoint the minute. I felt terrible for not knowing, but the moment a body lands on the sidewalk right in front of you, checking your watch is not the first thing that occurs to you.
“Endicott hauled me all the way up to Midtown East, so he could ‘interrogate me on his own turf’ as he put it, and I spent the rest of the wee hours denying I threw Hernandez off the balcony. Then they kicked me out.”
“So in the end, Detective Endicott let you go, too?”
“Believe me, he didn’t want to. I’m sure he’s looking for more evidence to officially charge me. Apparently, they’re going with Hernandez’s broken wristwatch as the time of death, and the girl in the Beekman’s kitchen was helping me find some aspirin around that time—so, for now, it looks like I might have an alibi. But I’ve been warned not to leave the country, so clearly I’m still on their ‘persons of interest’ list.”
I wasn’t surprised. “You did threaten the man publicly.”
Matt didn’t argue. He took another noisy gulp, draining his cup. “Detective Endicott’s still looking at Ric, too. I’m pretty sure they’re checking over his business visa and paperwork.”
It was the perfect segue, and I took it. “You said Ric was being honest about Ellie. You also hinted that there was something he wasn’t being honest about. Fill me in on that...”
“I heard things. Maybe it’s nothing,” Matt replied.
I could tell he was hedging. “Please, Matt. You have to be straight with me now. That’s the only way I can help.”
Matt looked down, sighed heavily. Finally he nodded.
“There’s a guy I know. Roger Mbele, a West African coffee broker. Last month I ran into him at Kennedy Airport and we got to talking. He already knew about Ric’s hybrid coffee plant and congratulated me on the exclusive deal. Then, yesterday afternoon, he calls me out of the blue to tell me that Dutch International just cancelled its order for three hundred bags of his green beans. Roger was stuck holding the bags—so to speak—and he wasn’t happy.”
“I don’t understand. Why did he call you?”
“Roger wanted to know why his deal collapsed, so he called the buyer at Dutch International’s corporate headquarters in Amsterdam. The buyer told Roger that the company would normally purchase his beans for decaf processing, but they didn’t need Roger’s green beans any longer because they’d just made a deal to sell beans that were already botanically decaffeinated, and they were expecting their first shipment in the next few weeks. That’s when he called me.”
“Is it possible that someone else came up with a similar product and beat Ric to the market?”
Matt stared down at his empty cup. “I think it migh
t be worse than that.”
I didn’t get much sleep the night before. Maybe that was the reason, but I didn’t make the connection until Matt mentioned her name.
“Monika Van Doorn was with Ric at—”
“That woman!” I cried. “I saw her at the party, pawing up Ric!”
Matt nodded. “Now that her father’s passed away, she’s the head of Dutch International. That’s the first thing I thought of after I got Roger’s call.”
“So you think Ric made a deal with her?” I asked. “I thought the Village Blend had an exclusive distribution deal for the initial rollout?”
“So did I.”
“Is that what all those cell phone calls were about at the tasting last night? You think Ric is cheating you?”
“Not me, Clare. I have the hybrid beans in my warehouse. Enough to last six to eight months. Ric told me I had practically his entire harvest and I believed him. I still do...” Matt’s voice trailed off.
“So what were all those calls about last night? All those numbers you scribbled on pieces of paper?”
“I called a couple of growers, asked for some up to date numbers on Brazilian yields. Then I did a little calculating.”
I was anxious to hear Matt’s conclusions. I knew that coffee yields varied wildly among countries and regions. Factors like soil, weather, and irrigation techniques had as much influence on the quality and quantity of coffee as they had on wine grapes. And yield per acre on robusta farms was generally twice that of farms that produced arabica (one reason, but not the only reason, why arabica beans were generally pricier).
“You know that Brazil is the number one producer of coffee in the world, right?” Matt said.
“Right.”
“The country averages around twenty million bags a year.”
I nodded. “At about one hundred pounds per bag.”
“One hundred and thirty-two,” Matt noted, “but there are problems in Brazil. For one thing, it’s the only high-volume coffee-producing nation subject to frost. And Brazilian estates have some of the lowest yields. In Hawaii they get over two thousand pounds of clean coffee per acre. In Brazil that average is less than nine hundred pounds per acre—which is up substantially from the four hundred pounds in the sixties, but not even close to equaling Hawaii’s output.”
Matt took out a pen and started writing on a napkin.
“The Gostwick Estate is fifty acres, but not all of their trees are mature. At best Ric is harvesting forty thousand pounds of clean hybrid coffee, probably less. So if he’s selling Dutch International three hundred bags, at one hundred thirty-two pounds a bag, that equals nearly twenty tons—Ric’s entire harvest and then some.”
Matt looked up from his scribbles. “These numbers don’t add up, Clare. Either Ric’s got another estate somewhere, which is possible but highly unlikely, or—”
I closed my eyes. “He’s perpetrating a fraud on Dutch International.”
Matt rose and began to pace. “Do you know what that means? I’m in partnership with Ric Gostwick. My reputation and the reputation of the Blend will be ruined along with him if word gets out.”
“What do we do, Matt? I’m in this with you, you know?”
He stopped pacing. “I know... and I have to tell you, Clare, I’m grateful you are.” He squinted. “Not that you’re in trouble, too, but that you’re here for me... here for me to talk to about all this, I mean... it’s a lot to deal with, and I’m...” He moved closer, sat down and took my hand. “I’d never tell anyone this but you,” he whispered, “but I... I’m scared.”
“It’s okay, Matt.” I squeezed his hand. “I’m here for you.”
“I know, and I—”
His words were interrupted by the sound of a man clearing his throat. Matt fell silent, turned abruptly to find Mike Quinn standing at the base of the wrought iron steps. The detective’s suit was rumpled from sleep, jacket slung over his shoulder, tie hanging loose.
“What are you doing here?” Matt stood, his expression furious. “Are you here to take me in again? Why did you come back?”
“What do you mean back?” Quinn replied, glancing momentarily at me. “I never left.”
Matt glared at me in disbelief. I waited for the explosion, but when he opened his mouth to speak, no words came out.
“He fell asleep on the couch, Matt,” I hastily explained. “Mike came here last night to tell me what was going on. He was so exhausted he passed out. That’s all.”
“He passed out on the couch? You expect me to believe that? Well, I don’t, Clare!”
“Matt, please calm—”
“How could you do it?” he went on, clearly strung out beyond reason. “I’m getting a sleep deprivation third degree, and you’re... you’re entertaining the man who put me there—”
“That’s enough, Allegro!” Mike finally roared. “Sit down and shut up!”
Matt blinked, opened his mouth, then shut it again. With an exhausted exhale, he collapsed on a stool.
“Why can’t I control him like that?” I muttered.
“Listen to me, Allegro,” said Quinn. “I personally don’t believe you killed Ellie Lassiter or Carlos Hernandez. But others don’t share my opinion. That means I’m one of the few friends you’ve got, and you better take advantage of that fact, as soon as possible.”
“Yeah? How?” Matt replied. “What exactly are you saying?”
“I’m saying we should all work together to clear this mess up—for all of our sakes.”
Matt stewed silently for a minute. Finally, he said, “What do you propose?”
“For starters, I’m meeting my partner uptown, at the WPI agency office.”
Matt squinted. “What agency office?”
“Worldwide Private Investigations,” I said.
“They’re the private eyes that Clare uncovered,” Quinn explained.
I nodded. “They’re the ones who’ve been following Ellie Lassiter. Don’t you remember my telling you, Matt?”
“Oh, god.” Matt held his head. “I do remember. It seems like ages ago.”
“I think Ellie’s ex-husband hired them,” I said. “Frankly, I think he’s involved in her murder. He either killed her himself, or hired someone to do it for him, maybe the same someone who mugged Ric two nights ago.”
Matt processed the information. “I’m going with you, Quinn.”
“No you’re not. I’m the one going with him,” I said. “One look at me and the head of the agency won’t be able to deny anything. I sat right there in his office two days ago, asking about Ellie.”
“And if he does deny it. We’ll get a warrant,” Mike assured me.
“You’re staying here,” I told Matt. “There’s more important things to be done, and only you can do them.”
“What things?” Matt’s tone was belligerent, but I couldn’t blame him. The man hadn’t exactly been partying all night.
“I want you to call every coffee broker you know. Try to find out if Ric is buying beans.”
Comprehension dawned on Matt’s exhausted face. “I understand where you’re going. Okay, I’m on it.”
As Matt poured himself another mug of coffee, I grabbed my jacket. His “I’m on it” echoed through my head, and before I headed out the door with Mike, I almost told Matt that he was finally beginning to sound like his mother. But then I bit my tongue.
As Matt began talking on his cell in a rough approximation of French, I decided that if anything could put Matt in a fouler mood than he was now, it was pointing out to him that he’d finally climbed aboard my Nancy Drew train.
Twenty-Three
When I returned to the Blend, a throbbing sonic wall smacked me in the face at the front door. Someone had replaced the subtle sounds of Gardner’s smooth jazz program with the sort of thumping electro-synth fusion found in Euro-urban clubs. Not only was the music inappropriate, the volume was pumped to the limit. I approached Tucker at the espresso machine.
“What’s this stuff comin
g out of the speakers?”
Tucker directed his eyes to the ceiling, then rolled them. “There’s a man in the house.”
“Matt?”
Tuck nodded. “He’s taken over the upstairs lounge. I’m sending up an espresso shot every twenty minutes, and he’s getting more manic. The music started about half an hour ago. Thank god it’s not too busy. I think some of our regular customers would complain.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake... you don’t have to wait for a customer. I’m complaining. Right now. Put Gardner’s CD back on.”
“But Matt told me—”
“I’ll handle Matt.”
With two espressos in hand, I climbed the stairs. I found Matt slumped in an armchair, surrounded by a half dozen espresso cups. His shoes were off, and a fire roared in the hearth. His laptop computer was open on the table. Matt nodded when I entered, ended his call to someone on the Commodities Exchange.
“You’re recovering nicely,” I said.
Matt frowned. “So, did you and the flatfoot get the goods on Jerry Lassiter?”
I handed Matt the cup. With jittery hands, he added a large amount of sugar before he swallowed the demitasse in a single gulp.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “You never add sugar.”
“I do when I need to stay awake. Now tell me what happened.”
“Well... Mike was in rare form. By the time he was finished talking, Mr. Kapoor was only too happy to cooperate with the NYPD. The bad news is that Jerry Lassiter didn’t employ the detectives. It was Carlos Hernandez.”
Matt sat up. “Hernandez? Why?”
“Apparently, Hernandez hired the agency to dig up evidence of biopiracy for a possible lawsuit against Ric and the Gostwick Estate.”
Matt rubbed his eyes. “Then it must have been Hernandez who had Ellie killed. She was helping Ric file for the legal protection of his hybrid. That has to be what happened.”
“Mike thinks so, too. They’re going to look for a blood type and DNA match with the crime scene evidence. But...”
