Dead Cold Brew

by Cleo Coyle

  “Stop telling tales. I’ve had my fill of them tonight.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re not working late. I know about your breakup with Breanne, and I’ve seen your setup in the office. You’ve moved in. You’re living here.” I faced my ex and turned away again.

  “Put some clothes on, will you? We need to talk.”

  Matt snorted. “What’s with the prudery? There’s nothing here you haven’t seen before.”

  “And I shouldn’t be seeing it now!”

  THIRTY

  “THERE,” Matt declared back in his office. “All dressed.”

  He wasn’t, but at least his extremely brief tighty-whities had been replaced by jogging shorts. Matt settled for a towel draped over his broad shoulders in lieu of a shirt, and I did my level best to ignore the water droplets speckling his tanned chest and hard biceps.

  More than twenty years ago, when I first laid eyes on Matteo Allegro—shirtless, in cutoff combat fatigues, playing Frisbee with a black Lab on a Mediterranean beach—I’d found him undeniably attractive.

  I was a nineteen-year-old art student at the time. He was a backpacking vagabond, a few years older, but light-years beyond me in experience, from speaking foreign tongues to sampling exotic cuisines—and exotic girls.

  He’d been away from the States for over a year, and he said I felt like home.

  We became friends at first, not lovers; because, at twenty-two, Matt was not a cynical playboy (not yet, anyway). Joyous and genuine, he was still filled with youthful hope and carefree laughter, along with vivid personal stories from some of the earth’s most glorious and dangerous places.

  He and I might have been a one- or two-night affair, but a spinout on his motorcycle left him with a broken forearm and battered body.

  Like a grounded bird, he seemed sad and lost when I found him reading at a small café. So I cheered him up by showing him—with an art student’s eye—the treasures to be found in the Vatican Museums.

  By the end of it, he said I’d completely charmed him, making him laugh and think and feel. His cast had made him vulnerable. It also slowed him down, preventing him from dashing off to another part of the world, or risking his neck on paragliding, cliff diving, mountaineering, or any of the other extreme sports he loved.

  And so, as the adrenaline junkie healed, we began our relationship.

  When the Italian sun went down on our first night together, I drank him in like a superb espresso, wanting more and more. He wasn’t grabby or pushy. Instead, he gave me time, waiting until I’d warmed to him before using his lips and fingers to relax, excite, and surprise me.

  The result of our many-splendored summer was Joy—an unexpected treasure I’ve cherished with all my heart.

  I still cared deeply about the well-being of my child’s father. And like any straight woman with a heartbeat, I found Matt’s globe-trotting daring and combustible energy hard to resist. But romance with the man was a dangerous rocket. No matter how high he took me, I knew where that magnetic pull would leave me—plummeting down into a world that would consume me completely before burning me alive.

  “Is that why you came here in the middle of the night, Clare?”

  Matt’s tone had dropped an octave—his bedroom voice—and his eyes were melting into dark pools. “You came here just to talk? Or . . . for something else?”

  As the edges of his mouth lifted in a let’s-be-bad smile, he stepped closer.

  I stepped back.

  “I assure you. I am not here for ‘something else.’ If you had returned my calls, I wouldn’t have come out here at all. And your secret would still be safe.”

  He blew out frustrated air. “Who else knows?”

  “Your mother. By the way, she says you always have a home with her.”

  Matt winced. “And give up all this?”

  “So why didn’t you return my calls?”

  “I’m ducking the phone.” He ran the towel through his hair. “Breanne’s secretary keeps harassing me about moving my stuff out of the condo. That or gleefully informing me which privilege was canceled that day: the health club membership, the lease on the BMW, the dry cleaners, the hairdresser—” His fingers snapped. “Gone with the wind.”

  “Tough break, Scarlett. Is the split that bad?”

  “It’s permanent. Breanne and I are over.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  MATT threw the towel into a corner, tugged a Rio Carnivale! tee out of his backpack, and pulled it over his head.

  “What happened?” I asked. “One too many afternoon delights in your many ports of call?”

  “That’s the sort of stuff that bothered you. Breanne was much more Continental about the whole thing. She agreed to an open marriage because she knew that with me, other women were just—”

  “Conquests?”

  “Recreation. On par with a good tennis match. Two consenting adults. Proper precautions. Where’s the harm?”

  I was tempted to give him an hour-long lecture on “the harm,” including “proper precaution” failure; Fatal Attraction attachment; and homicidally jealous boyfriends. But his unchecked libido and haywire moral compass were no longer my problems.

  Still, I was curious enough to ask—

  “If you two were so ‘Continental,’ then why the breakup?”

  “Familiarity breeds contempt.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “When Bree and I were first married, my long-distance coffee-hunting thing was impressive to her and her crowd of sycophants. I was this great guy, helping the developing world bring their crops to market for a fair price, yada yada. Indiana Jones without the whip—or the colonialism. And I was gone weeks at a time, which ratcheted up the mystique.”

  He snorted. “Things changed when I stayed put in Manhattan, covering for you while you were in DC with the flatfoot. Six months of working at the Village Blend every day, and I’m suddenly an embarrassment to my trendsetting wife.”

  “That’s overstating it, don’t you think?”

  “She’s the one who said it! According to her, I’d become a glorified waiter, pouring cups of coffee for hipsters and tourists.”

  “But you’ve gone back to coffee hunting. Not that it isn’t beyond superficial of her to break up your marriage over a simple job change—”

  “It’s not just that . . .”

  He dropped onto the couch and reached for that half-empty bottle of Chianti. With a gentle touch, I bent down to stop him.

  “It’s late, Matt, and the wine looks old.”

  Shaking me off, he took a heartbreaking swig.

  “Bree’s magazine is struggling. That’s the reality. It’s underwater and gasping for air. She saw her lifestyle going down with it—so she clawed for a golden life raft before the inevitable, something to get her to the shore in style. She found one in the Hamptons in the form of a seventy-year-old widowed owner of some media company, one she’ll no doubt be in control of one day.”

  I sighed, feeling Matt’s pain and humiliation—but secretly glad he was rid of that awful woman.

  “You know what?” I said.

  “What?”

  “One day, Breanne will discover that in the sea of life, clinging to a warm body is a better way to stay afloat than jumping into a golden life raft. It’s only a matter of time before that rich widower realizes how coldhearted she is and throws her overboard. Then what will she do?”

  Matt shrugged. “Find another golden raft.”

  He took a second swig from the sour bottle. “Marriage is a mistake for people our age. Better to stay loose, free, unencumbered by—”

  As I yanked the bottle from him, he finally saw it.

  “My God, Clare! What is that thing on your finger?”

  THIRTY-TWO

  EYES wide, my ex-husband stared. “Tell me that’s not an eng
agement rock?”

  “That’s exactly what it is. Mike asked me to marry him. I said yes.”

  “Is that why we need to talk?! When did this happen?!”

  “Earlier this evening. Your mother and the baristas threw a surprise party.”

  “And failed to invite me.”

  “I think your mother felt it would be awkward.”

  “Considering my current marital situation, or lack of one?”

  “We didn’t find out about your troubles until after the party, which—as it turned out—pulled double duty as a police operation.”

  “As a what?”

  With a deep breath, I dropped on the couch and told Matt everything. It all poured out—the tense week of thinking Quinn was breaking up with me, followed by the prank engagement arrest, Madame’s gift of coffee diamonds, the party with guests in Kevlar underwear, and finally Sue Ellen’s confirmation that the whole thing was a sting operation designed to draw the cop shooter into the open.

  When I was finally talked out, I expected a wisecrack or three, and a ranted warning not to marry a guy who would do that to me. But on this night full of surprises, it was my ex-husband’s turn to shock me.

  “You shouldn’t be upset by what happened, Clare. You should be flattered.”

  “Flattered?”

  Matt nodded, looking almost defeated. “Tonight your Eagle Scout went all in. He’s decided to make you part of his life. His whole life, including the most important thing to that glorified gumshoe—his law enforcement career.”

  He pointed to my engagement ring.

  “That shiny piece of kitsch says it all. Those coffee diamonds he took the trouble to get from my mother show how much he respects what you care about, your involvement with my family’s business. I hate to admit it, but even I’m touched.”

  Sliding close, he studied the ring. “Maybe he should have put a tiny NYPD shield on there, too, to remind you to accept his life’s work, as well.”

  “I guess you’re right . . . except for the fact that he wasn’t forthcoming, and that really bugs me. He kept me in the dark about the reality behind tonight’s engagement party, and I’m pretty sure he’s keeping another secret, too.”

  “A piece on the side?” Matt cracked—until he saw my glare. “Relax. I’m kidding!” He nudged me with his elbow. “Okay, what secret?”

  “Right before Sully was shot, Quinn twisted the facts about one of the shootings that made the newspapers. He told me a stray bullet hit a female traffic cop.”

  “Yeah, I remember that. The paper said something about it being a neighborhood with lots of gang activity.”

  “Well, tonight I found out that Sergeant Franco—”

  “Stop. I do not ever want to hear that mook’s name again. No joke. Not ever.”

  “Fine. I found out that a young detective on Quinn’s OD Squad was right next to that traffic officer when she was hit. But Quinn failed to tell me the truth about that. Instead, he fed me a large helping of baloney, claiming that with all the cops in New York, the chances of someone I know getting hurt were miniscule.”

  Matt raised an eyebrow. “And?”

  “A minute later, Sully was shot.”

  “So?”

  “Add it up! What are the odds? Two members of Quinn’s small OD Squad are fired on in one week? And I don’t even have all the facts on the other shootings.”

  Matt weighed my words. “You might be right. You might not.”

  “But—”

  “Listen, Clare, I’m no fan of men with badges—”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “—but as cops go, Quinn’s a good one. Maybe the only good one. If anyone can take care of himself, and bring this cop-hunting maniac to justice, your Mikey can. And, hey, if he happens to catch a bullet in the process, remember, I’m always here for you—”

  I burst into tears.

  “Oh, crap, what did I say? Stop, Clare, don’t cry. It kills me when you cry. Come on, I was kidding!”

  “N-no you . . . y-you weren’t . . .”

  As I swiped at my tears, I reached for that stupid bottle of soured Chianti. Now Matt was pulling it from me. He dropped it in the trash, went to his office fridge, and popped the cork on a demi-sec Moët & Chandon Nectar Impérial.

  Grabbing two empty coffee mugs, he poured out the crisp, cold bubbly, pressed one into my hand, and sat back down.

  “Since I missed the big event, I want to make a toast right now.” He put an arm around my shoulders and squeezed, then clinked our mugs. “To your future with Detective Michael Ryan Flatfoot Quinn.”

  As Matt drained his cup, I took a few sips and felt better, until he added—

  “And if your new fiancé ever fails to satisfy you—including and especially in the bedroom—I am always here for you.”

  “Okay, enough consoling.”

  “But not enough champagne!”

  He refilled his cup, but when he moved to top off mine, I stopped him. “I’m driving, and we still have to talk.”

  “There’s more?” He eyed me. “This isn’t a shotgun wedding, is it? I mean, we won’t be hearing the patter of tiny, flat feet? Please tell me Joy’s not going to have a Quinn-jawed little sister or brother.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” I fished the envelope out of my bag. “I came to talk to you about this.”

  I told Matt about the attorney, who insisted I deliver the letter ASAP.

  “He’s the one who clued us in about your breakup.”

  “I love this guy already.”

  “Quit complaining and open the letter. It’s about a legacy your late father left to you and Joy. It’s probably good news. It might be something valuable.”

  “Now that is ridiculous, Clare. My mother struggled for years after my father died. If he had anything valuable, he would have left it to her.”

  Matt set the bottle aside and tore into the letter. As he read, his bafflement increased.

  “I’m supposed to go to 580 Fifth Avenue, Suite 400, at six PM tomorrow. This Sal Arnold guy is going to open a lockbox that has been sealed for decades. I’m named as a co-trustee with Sophia Campana—”

  “Gus’s younger daughter?”

  Matt lowered the letter and took another swig of the champagne. A long one. “This makes no sense.”

  “Well, in about sixteen hours . . .” I tapped my watch. “Let’s hope it will.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  SIXTEEN hours later, I was back in Manhattan, riding uptown in a yellow cab, Matt’s leg bouncing impatiently next to mine.

  Thankfully, my ex was no longer half naked.

  For this appointment, he’d donned a custom-tailored Italian suit. His longish hair was trimmed and brushed back, his jaw freshly shaved—so freshly that I could still smell the faint scent of jasmine from his imported après-rasage.

  I’d cleaned up, too, but hadn’t fussed as much as he had. A simple skirt, sweater, and low-heeled utility pumps were the extent of my primping. I hadn’t bothered with jewelry, except my exquisite cat’s-eye engagement ring, at which I couldn’t stop staring.

  “At least you quit looking at your phone,” Matt cracked halfway to Midtown.

  “It’s in my skirt pocket, on vibrate. And the second it does vibrate, I’ll be riveted . . .”

  I didn’t bother adding that I was still upset about what happened with Quinn. After leaving Matt the night before, I got back to my duplex to find a red rose on my pillow next to a hastily written note.

  Quinn said he was sorry he’d missed me, but he felt funny staying in my apartment without me there, and since he had to get up early and didn’t know where I could possibly be at this time of night, he returned to his place.

  I put the beautiful rose on the pillow beside me and fell asleep fantasizing what Mike had in mind with its soft petal
s, silently cursing my decision to drive to Brooklyn.

  In the morning, when I failed to reach him by voice, I texted—

  So sorry I missed you!

  Thirty minutes later I received this reply . . .

  Mike: Where were U?

  Me: Urgent business. I went to see Matt in Brooklyn.

  Mike: Till 2 AM?

  Me: Will explain tonight. Dinner?

  Mike: Can’t promise.

  Me: Call me, ok? I love you.

  Mike: U2.

  And that sad excuse for twenty-first-century communication—an echoed love declaration that looked more like the name of an ’80s rock band—was the last I’d heard from him.

  I (stupidly) showed the exchange to Matt, who said—

  “Aw, how sweet. Not even married yet and he’s already neglecting you . . .”

  I bit my tongue on a caustic reply, only because I knew he was still smarting from Breanne’s putting him out like trash. And, I hated to admit, he wasn’t wrong.

  Quinn’s chilly silence grew louder as the day stretched on. I only hoped this Allegro-Campana “legacy letter” would be worth all the trouble.

  Yes, I could have let Matt go to this unveiling alone. But whatever this inheritance turned out to be, it would involve my daughter, and it was seriously upsetting my former mother-in-law, which was why I wasn’t about to learn the details secondhand.

  “Pull up right here,” Matt told the driver at 47th Street.

  Two lampposts drew my attention as I exited the cab. They flanked 47th like Art Deco pillars to the entrance of a royal palace, each metal pole topped by a glowing lamp in a diamond shape.

  That’s when I realized where we were: Manhattan’s Diamond District, one of the largest centers in the world for buying and selling gemstones and precious metals.

  Well over two thousand independent jewelers, appraisers, and precious metal traders worked in this cluttered little plot of Manhattan, and (needless to say) security was tight.