by Cleo Coyle
I didn’t respond. What was there to say? Quinn was in no shape to be argued with. I simply gritted my teeth and headed for my duplex apartment above the Blend, quietly determined to find out what had really happened here last night—with or without the help of Homicide Detective Lieutenant Quinn.
SEVEN
“O KAY , Java, I’m breaking you out.”
On hold with St. Vincent’s, I swung open the cage door of the PetLove carrier. A pink nose and white whiskers emerged, then four coffee bean–colored paws. Java excitedly sniffed every inch of the intricately patterned area rug that covered a large square of the parquet floor.
A nurse came on the line. Anabelle had been admitted to the intensive care unit, but the nurse couldn’t tell me anything more. I sighed, hung up, and said a short prayer as Java’s soft brown fur rubbed against my leg. I bent to stroke her. She stretched, arching her back, then continued to sniff out the place.
“So what do you think of your new home?”
The mrrrrow sounded like an approval to me, but then Java always did have good taste. Madame had lived here long before real estate values in the West Village had pushed the price tag on a duplex like this one into the million-dollar range.
The gorgeous apartment was one of the big reasons I’d agreed to manage the Blend again. That and being closer to Joy. At the thought of her, I automatically dialed her cell. It rang four times and then: “You’ve reached Joy. I’m probably sautéing something right now, so leave a message!”
“Hi, Cookie, it’s me—” I tried hard to keep my voice from shaking. “Something’s happened this morning at the Blend…and…oh, you know, I just wanted to see you tonight. If you’re free, come on over for dinner. Otherwise, maybe you can stop by for a cup of java—”
“Mrrrow.”
“Not you, Java,” I said as I hung up, immediately feeling guilty. Joy was busy with culinary school in Soho and a new Manhattan social life. The last thing she needed was Mommy butting in. But after seeing Anabelle lying motionless on that cold basement floor, I knew I wouldn’t sleep tonight until I saw my daughter again.
Sighing, I took in the room. “It is something, isn’t it, Java?”
Madame had decorated the place with her romantic setting on high. The main room—with its carved rosewood and silk sofa and chairs; its Persian prayer rug in muted shades of blue, green, and coral; its cream-marble fireplace, and its French doors opening to a narrow wrought-iron balcony of flower boxes—felt more like something you’d find in a Montmartre courtyard than a Federal-style walk-up.
The walls were muted peach, the draperies ivory silk, and from the fleur-de-lys molding in the center of the ceiling hung a charming bronze pulley chandelier holding six peach-tinted globes of faceted crystal. A lyre-back antique chair stood against one wall, and in a nod to the Colonial, the cozy dining room, adjacent to the living area, had a Chippendale table with four claw-footed chairs and a mahogany and satinwood English sideboard. The upstairs had a bedroom even more worthy of sighs, along with a large luxurious marble bath and a spacious dressing room.
“Now remember, Java, no using the Persian to sharpen your claws.”
“Mrrrow!”
Tail held high, she turned her back, seemingly offended—but then she always did like to pour on the guilt. Just her way of controlling her hapless owner.
I wasn’t really worried about the rug. I kept Java’s claws pretty well trimmed as a rule, and I’d already brought over her favorite catnip-laced scratching post, which stood at the edge of the Persian to lure her away like a kitty beacon.
With lures on my mind, I headed for the kitchen to prepare the pot of coffee for Lieutenant Quinn. There were several methods to choose from. I narrowed them down to percolator, electric drip, or Melitta.
If the man was used to that awful bodega coffee, then I didn’t want to choose a method too foreign. It might turn him off. My eye caught sight of the French press on an open shelf, and I inhaled, almost painfully. Unbidden, an image came to mind of serving Quinn’s lanky form fresh-pressed Kona first thing in the morning.
“Geez, Clare, get a grip.”
Quinn was an appealing man, but he was also married, with children. And I was an absolute philistine for thinking of such a thing when Anabelle was lying in a hospital bed.
“That’s what I get for living like a nun in suburban couple-land for a decade,” I mumbled to Java, disgusted with myself. “First intriguing man near my age who gives me a compliment and I’m spinning French press bedroom scenarios. Bean choice, Clare, focus on the java—”
“Mrrrrow?”
“No, no, not you.”
“Mrrrow!”
Java didn’t give a fig about bean choice, I realized, she just wanted to be fed. I opened a box of Cat Chow, and she crunched happily as I continued my work.
“Light, medium, or dark roast?” I wondered aloud, surveying the array of tightly sealed ceramic containers on my cupboard shelf. Properly storing coffee was serious business in my house—integral to maintaining any coffee’s freshness and flavor.
Whenever I walk into a kitchen and see beans stored in a clear glass jar on the countertop, I shudder. Exposure to light will affect the beans’ freshness and the coffee will lose its flavor.
I shudder twice as violently when I see storage directions on some of those inferior grocery store coffee brands. They actually tell you to “Store your coffee in the refrigerator,” implying you should simply take the bag you just bought at the grocery, open it, and put it in the fridge to be retrieved daily. Big mistake!
When the storage bag or container is removed from a refrigerator or freezer for daily use, it exposes the coffee to moisture in the air. The container then goes back in the freezer or fridge, and the moisture condenses and ruins the coffee.
A refrigerator or freezer should be used for long-term storage only. A vacuum-sealed bag, for example, can be placed in the fridge or freezer and opened only when ready to be used. But once the bag is opened, the beans should be transferred to a proper container, and not returned to the fridge or freezer.
My customers always ask me the best storage method. I’ll tell you what I tell them—
When it comes to storing coffee, just remember these four basic points:
Do keep your beans away from excessive air, moisture, heat, and light.
Do not freeze or refrigerate your daily supply of coffee!
Do store your coffee in an air-tight container and keep it in a dark and cool location.
Do buy freshly roasted coffee often and buy only what you will use in the next one or two weeks since the fresh smell and taste of coffee begin to decline almost immediately after roasting.
So, anyway, there I was, surveying my tightly sealed ceramic coffee containers (color-coded by blend) and thinking about Quinn. How would I impress him, surprise him, yet not turn him off with an experience that was too exotic?
“That’s easy,” I murmured, reaching for the Village Blend’s House Blend, a complex mixture of imported Central and South American beans roasted dark yet with a mellow, nutty finish and rich, earthy overtones. It didn’t have the caffeine of a lighter roast but neither would it have the awful acidity of that stale crap Quinn was used to downing daily. Our house blend made fresh was a beautifully smooth cup.
“Perfect.” If I could hook Quinn on that, then he’d be back for more. And if he came back for more, then no matter what the official ruling was on Anabelle’s fall, he might be willing to help me get to the bottom of what really happened.
I ground the beans fresh, filled the water reservoir of the electric drip coffee maker, dumped the fresh-smelling roast into the gold filter basket, and hit the START button.
While the coffee brewed, I prepared a tray with sugar, fresh cream, and six cups, making the assumption that the people in this “Crime Scene Unit” that Quinn was waiting for might want some, too.
I was just reaching for the vacuum thermos to transport the coffee when I heard something�
�
A thud. Right above my head.
Next came a thump.
Then the upstairs floorboards began to creak.
I froze, cocked an ear, listened as hard as I could.
Clomp, clomp, clomp…
No doubt about it. Someone with heavy feet was walking around upstairs, from the master bedroom to the bath.
How the person had gotten into my duplex I didn’t know, and at the moment, I didn’t care. All I knew was that heavy feet were walking around and then—“Ohmygod!”—it hit me.
If Annabelle had been the victim of foul play, then the perpetrator could be some psycho who’d stuck around for more victims.
The sound of the shower turning on full blast was enough to send me out the door. I pushed the protesting Java back into her carrier and flew down the service staircase, returning to the first floor of the coffeehouse.
“I need your help.”
Quinn was sitting where I’d left him, chatting with Langley and Demetrios. One look at my face and they stopped their conversation cold.
“There’s an intruder in my apartment—”
Quinn got to his feet, the drooping lids of his tired blue eyes lifting fast.
“Are you sure it’s an intruder?” he asked.
“Yes. I don’t have any roommates or guests. My daughter doesn’t even have a key yet.”
“Okay,” said Quinn, removing his trenchcoat and tweedy brown jacket and throwing them over the back of a chair. The discarded layers revealed a dark brown leather holster strapped over a white dress shirt. Quinn unsnapped the small leather strip holding the gun in place under his left arm, then he turned to Demetrios.
“Watch the back alley.”
“Sure, Lieutenant.” Demetrios headed out the front entrance and toward the back of the building.
“That’s the only other exit, right?” asked Quinn. “You mentioned an outside set of stairs, leading up to your place—you can only get to them through the back alley, right?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Okay. Langley, follow me.”
Technically, Quinn hadn’t told me to follow, too. But he hadn’t told me to stay put, either, so I set Java’s carrier on a table and quietly followed the two men up the back stairs.
“Stay behind us,” Quinn warned when he saw me.
They entered the place carefully, checking the living room, small dining area, and kitchen.
Quinn eyed the only other way into or out of the duplex—it was the door off the kitchen, which led to an outside staircase. That second door was solidly bolted and chained. Obviously no one had broken in through there.
“Are you sure you saw someone in here, Ms. Cosi?” asked Quinn.
“Heard someone. Upstairs.” I pointed to the short flight of carpeted wooden stairs tucked beside a large closet next to the kitchen.
All three of us stilled and listened.
The creek of floorboards was unmistakable. Someone was walking around.
“Stand back,” Quinn whispered to me.
His hand dipped into the leather holster strapped beneath his shoulder and he pulled his weapon free—
(I’d really only seen guns on NYPD Blue and in the occasional noir movie on the Turner Classic Movie channel. This real-life one seemed awfully darned big, and I found myself consciously swallowing a spontaneous gasp.)
He pointed the barrel, which looked to me like a small cannon, at the floor and moved to the base of the staircase.
Langley followed, his gun—just as big—drawn, too.
“Is that necessary?” I whispered.
“I hope not,” Quinn said softly, then he moved his foot like Java, carefully, slowly, testing the first step. It gave off a soft creak. He glanced back at Langley and motioned for him to stay.
I held my breath watching Quinn move to the top of the staircase, never guessing a guy so big could move so stealthily. I wondered for a moment why Langley was staying behind, and then I realized Quinn was concerned the intruder might get by him. In that case, he obviously wanted someone at the base of the stairs to prevent the escape. Having someone substantially bigger than me—not to mention armed—was clearly preferred.
Quinn turned the corner and there was a hideous few seconds of absolute silence. Then came a muted voice of surprise—followed by the detective’s: “Police. Hands on your head. Now.”
Langley ran up the stairs.
More muted voices.
Quinn talked to Langley. Then Langley said something to Quinn.
There was a scuffling movement, an oof, a string of curse words.
Loud voices.
Silence again.
“Move.”
Langley appeared at the top of the staircase. He moved down, the intruder behind him, hands behind his back. They’d cuffed him, I realized. Good. Another few steps and Langley would be out of the way, and I’d finally get a look at this nervy bastard’s face.
I watched parts of him revealed. The bare feet, the pair of worn buttonfly jeans, an expanse of tanned, sculpted chest—
Oh, God, I thought. I know that chest—and the chiseled chin. The Roman nose. The short black Ceasar cut.
“Matt,” I choked out. “Is that you?”
“Clare?”
Oh, darnit.
“Ms. Cosi, You know this guy?” Quinn asked, bringing up the rear of this morning’s little arrest-the-perp train.
“Yes, she knows me!” Matt stated. “In the biblical sense!”
“Was I talking to you—”
“I know him, Lieutenant,” I quickly broke in. “But I have no idea why he’s here.”
“Who is he?” Quinn asked once more.
“My ex-husband.”
EIGHT
T HIS can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.
I knew very well that chanting to myself wasn’t going to make the ludicrous tableau in front of me disappear. But at the time I was desperate enough to try anything. “Detective—”
“Clare, what the hell is going on? Tell me this isn’t about those missed child support payments. I thought we’d agreed! As long as I cover Joy’s tuition—”
“Matteo,” I began, “don’t get upset—”
“Upset? Upset? Clare, you’ve got me in handcuffs here!”
“Calm down! It’s not me who’s got you in handcuffs—and you’re the one who—” I stopped, hearing that embarrassing ex-wife tone in my voice. I closed my eyes, flashing on every domestic disturbance dispute I’d ever seen on those reality cop shows.
“Detective,” I tried again, with excessive calm. “There’s obviously been a mistake.”
Matt turned to Quinn. “You heard her.” He rattled his chain-linked wrists. “So get these damned things off me. Now.”
For a good ten seconds, Quinn didn’t move a corpuscle.
Officer Langley, on the other hand, shifted uneasily. He turned to me. “Ms. Cosi, you say this man is your ex—”
“Husband, yes,” I affirmed.
The young officer glanced at Quinn and scratched his head, clearly unsure whether this was yet another of the detective’s tests. Then Langley moved toward Matt’s wrists. Quinn’s arm blocked the way.
“Detective?” asked Langley.
“I have a few questions first.”
“Jesus H.—” said Matt.
“First of all, Mr. Cosi—” Quinn began.
“It’s Allegro,” snapped Matt.
“Cosi’s my maiden name,” I explained.
“Yes, she took it back—in record time,” Matt announced, as he usually did, with the tone of The Wounded—an indefensible stance in my opinion, considering his behavior during our marriage.
“Mr. Allegro,” Quinn tried again. “I need you to calm down.”
“Don’t patronize me—”
“I need you to calm down,” Quinn repeated.
“Jesus.”
Quinn glanced at Langley. “Let’s find him a seat.”
Langley grasped Matt’s amp
le bicep and paused when Matt tensed. Visiting high-altitude coffee plantations had been Matteo’s occupation for years. The remote regions had fed his passion for hiking, biking, rock-climbing, and cliff diving—all of which had honed a formidable physique.
I wasn’t surprised it had taken two men to cuff my ex-husband. And Langley didn’t appear overjoyed about wrestling him any further. But the moment’s resistance on Matt’s part was only an automatic reflex. A second later he exhaled, snapped out a “Fine, let’s go,” and allowed Langley to lead him into the living room.
Quinn followed, signaling through the back windows to Demetrios that everything was under control. Next he pulled the lyre-backed chair away from the wall and plopped it down in front of the fireplace, right in the center of the Persian prayer rug.
My breath caught a moment. If memory served, Madame once told me that lyre-backed chair was one of only thirty-two in existence. It was originally fashioned for the nearby Saint Luke in the Fields, founded in 1822, when Greenwich Village was still a rural hamlet.
Saint Luke’s, which still had the tidy, cozy feel of a rural parish, was one of the oldest churches in Manhattan. In 1953, Madame had attended poet Dylan Thomas’s funeral there, and in 1981, when the original chapel had been gutted by fire, the church held an auction of basement relics to raise money for the restoration. The Village Blend had provided the coffee and pastries free of charge and also purchased this finely made chair.
Langley led Matt to the chair and I cringed, dreading what another wrestling match would do to the delicate piece.
“Wait!” I cried. “Don’t move!”
The three men froze as I raced into the kitchen, brought back a sturdy Pottery Barn knockoff of a French café cane-backed turn-of-the-century Thonet.
I placed the Thonet down, returned the lyre-back to its place by the wall, and finally announced, “Go ahead, Detective…with your interrogation…or whatever.”
Matt let out a snort at the confused expressions on the other men’s faces. “She used to be sane,” Matt told them. “Back when I first met her. Before my mother got hold of her.”
