by Cleo Coyle
But how in the world did he know Abby was here at this hour? And what did he mean about the President? “The truth . . . I have it. It’s right . . .”
Checking his vital signs again, I knew there was nothing more I could do for him, so I did something for Abby. She wanted to know who this man was, and so did I, so I went through his clothes.
The man’s pockets held little, a half-empty pack of cigarettes, a few after-dinner chocolate mints (from J., an excellent local chocolatier), and a fine leather wallet, which contained loose bills, credit cards, and a U.S. State Department ID.
I found nothing else on him—no “truth” as far as I could see.
That’s when I heard the siren in the distance.
I put everything back where I’d found it and waited for the paramedics.
Eleven
THE ambulance came and went, spiriting the unconscious man to MedStar Georgetown. Only two DC Metropolitan policemen remained.
I’d already dealt with Sergeant Reginald Price, a heavyset African American police officer. He took my written statement and then began wandering around the building from the first-floor kitchen to the second-floor club.
I was left in the care of a rookie cop who came after all the others. He was so fresh-faced with his boyish dimples and eager smile that he seemed to have skipped his junior prom to play dress-up in a blue uniform and badge. When he told me his name was Patrolman Tom Landry, I thought my hearing was off.
“Yes, ma’am, that’s my name.”
“Did your parents name you after the coach?”
“What coach?”
“Head coach of the Dallas Cowboys. He led them to Super Bowl victories in 1971 and ’77.”
He shrugged. “Far as I know, I was named after my granddaddy. He mostly played golf.”
“Sorry. My mind makes odd connections when I’m nervous . . .”
I was careful to leave out the fact that I grew up in Western Pennsylvania with a pop who ran a sports booking operation out of the back of my nonna’s little Italian grocery. Sure, it was Pop who made a living on the wrong side of the law, not me. But why give him a reason to question my veracity?
The truth was—I hated the idea of giving false statements to the police, especially one as sweet and polite as Patrolman Landry. But that’s exactly what I had to do for Abby’s sake.
I said that I was alone in the coffeehouse. False. But nearly everything else I told Landry and his sergeant was the truth, including the man’s drunken rantings about the President and the fact that I went through his pockets, although I fibbed about the reason. (I said I was looking for an asthma inhaler or any type of medication.)
“You know, ma’am, you were lucky you weren’t hurt,” Patrolman Landry said, “I mean, being alone and all.”
Instead of replying, I poured the young officer a cup of coffee—because making coffee is another thing I do when I’m nervous.
After a loud slurp he sighed contentedly. “This sure beats the stuff I get at my regular joint.”
“Is that right . . . ?” (I couldn’t help myself.) “Where do you usually go for coffee?”
Landry named America’s most famous burger-and-fries franchise. Then he blissfully drained his cup.
“Awesome,” he declared.
“That’s our Wake Up Washington blend. And I’m glad you liked it.”
“Liked it? I’m in love.” Landry smiled. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“I’ll be glad to see you. We could use the business.”
He smiled wider. “Then I’ll spread the word.”
“Thanks.”
He nodded. “So . . . you didn’t know Mr. Varma?”
“Afraid not. Until I looked in his pockets, I didn’t even know his name. What is it again?”
“Varma . . . Jeevan Varma,” Landry replied. “Forty-seven years old. Mr. Varma works for the government, according to the IDs in his wallet.”
Not just the government, I thought. He works for the State Department. But what I said was—
“Oh, really?” Then I gave Landry my best “puzzled citizen” look. “Don’t you think it’s odd that a man who works for the government would go crazy like that?”
Landry appeared to stifle a laugh. “You haven’t been in this town long, have you?”
“A few months.”
“Well, ma’am, the District of Columbia is a government town, so people here tend to work for the government—sane and insane alike.”
“I see.”
“Ma’am . . . don’t you have any idea why Mr. Varma pounded on your door and raced up here?”
“He said he knew something was here . . .” The President’s daughter, maybe? But I couldn’t say that. Instead, I muttered: “I assumed he was looking for alcohol.”
“Because . . . ?”
“He smelled of alcohol. He was slurring his words. And when he burst through the door, he ran up the stairs toward our beer and wine bar—”
“Except he didn’t stop at the bar, did he, Ms. Cosi?”
The gravelly voice belonged to Sergeant Price, who seemed to materialize out of the shadows.
“What do you mean, Sergeant?”
“The paramedics found Mr. Varma on the floor in the middle of the club, correct?”
I nodded. “He’d collapsed. That’s where I found him. Then I checked his throat for blockage and monitored his breathing until the paramedics came.”
“Very commendable . . .”
As Sergeant Price’s voice trailed off, he closed his deceptively sleepy-looking eyes and added—
“But I wonder if you realize, Ms. Cosi, that to reach the middle of the club, Mr. Varma had to pass the bar entirely? He never even touched all those bottles lined up behind the counter.”
Now the sergeant’s eyes were wide open and fixed on me.
“Looks like your intruder was running toward the stage, not the bar. But since nobody was here but you, that doesn’t make much sense, does it?”
Twelve
IT was hard not to flinch as Sergeant Price’s ebony eyes bored into mine, but somehow I managed to keep my cool.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I couldn’t tell you what Mr. Varma was after.” (And that was absolutely true.)
“By the way, I found this on the kitchen floor.” The sergeant dangled a gallon-sized Ziploc bag he’d purloined from our supplies. Inside, a blue and white tie was curled like an exotic snake.
“You didn’t write anything about the intruder losing a tie, so I wasn’t sure if this belonged to Mr. Jeevan Varma. That is, until I saw the monogram—JV.”
“Oh, yes, I’d forgotten about the tie. Sorry about that.”
Price tossed the bag onto the polished coffee bar. “Now, Ms. Cosi, tell me again why you opened the door for this man, whom you didn’t know, in the middle of the night.”
“It’s all right there, in my statement . . .” I pointed to the pages tucked into his dark blue police jacket.
“Tell me again anyway.”
I took a breath. “My executive chef has been known to frequent the kitchen at odd hours, and I understand he entertains acquaintances after closing. I thought the man pounding on the door was there to see Chef Hopkins. I didn’t anticipate trouble.”
Sergeant Price’s eyebrow lifted. “Then why were you holding a meat cleaver?”
I cleared my throat. “Meat cleaver?”
“Your kitchen is spotless, everything in its place. Yet I found this on the floor near the door—” The sergeant produced a second Ziploc bag. Inside was the meat cleaver I’d been clutching. “Now, whose fingerprints are we going to find on the handle, do you think?”
Gritting my teeth, I blinked hard. “You’ll find mine. I admit it. When I heard the pounding on the door, it alarmed me. I grabbed the meat cleaver in case I needed to def
end myself.”
“Why open the door at all?”
“I’ll level with you, okay? I don’t trust my chef. I’m not sure what exactly he’s up to at odd hours, and I was hoping to find some answers on the other side of the door . . .”
My explanation seemed to soften Sergeant Price’s stony expression.
“I think I’m beginning to get the picture. And if what you say is true, then what you did was foolhardy, Ms. Cosi, considering you were alone in the building.”
“You’re right,” I said because I couldn’t admit that I wasn’t alone. Not without landing Abby and Stan, and (at this point) myself, in hot water.
Price offered me his hardest stare. “You seem nervous. Do you find my questions disturbing?”
“Yes, I do, because . . . well, I have questions of my own.”
“Ask away.”
“Not questions for you. For my night manager and my bartender. Until I question them, I won’t know if the poor man who barged in here tonight was a regular customer. I won’t know if he was here earlier this evening, if he’d been drinking, or how much alcohol he was served.” Now it was my turn to stare. “You and I both know this business could be held culpable if one of my employees poured Mr. Varma a few too many.”
“Where is your night manager, Ms. Cosi? You say he lives upstairs, but he’s not there now.”
“I’m sure Gardner and his bandmates are hitting some after-hours spots so they can keep playing. The members of Four on the Floor are passionate about their music, and they don’t usually hit the sack until seven in the morning. That’s why Gard is the night manager.”
Sergeant Price gazed at a poster of our house band, propped on a tripod near the staircase. “I’m going to have to check out Mr. Gardner Evans . . . and his bandmates.”
“Do you think they did something wrong?”
Sergeant Price cracked what passed for a smile, then he shook his head.
“I want to hear them play, that’s all.”
Patrolman Landry had been silent throughout his sergeant’s tricky interview. Now he let out an audible sigh.
“I think that will be all, Ms. Cosi,” Sergeant Price concluded. Then he tucked the meat cleaver and tie into his bag, and slung it over his shoulder. “I’m heading back to the precinct to file the report. If you need the case number, for insurance purposes or any other reason, let me know.”
He laid a card on the counter and wished me a good night.
So it was that easy, I thought. A seasoned law enforcement officer had accepted my obfuscations as truth . . .
Or had he?
Thirteen
ALTHOUGH I lived only a few blocks away, Officer Landry insisted on giving me a ride home.
“It’s late, ma’am. I don’t want you walking the streets alone.”
“That’s very kind of you, young man . . .”
Eesh, I sounded like a little old lady. But it was certainly how the officer viewed me, and humoring the police was my objective tonight. So I smiled sweetly at him as I filled a disposable cup of French-pressed coffee and locked up the building.
Climbing into the front seat of his Chevy Impala police cruiser, I heard him radio something about a 10-7.
I sat back, happy this was a short trip. I was totally talked out, and I had far too much to ponder to continue chatting up the young cop. For one thing . . .
I couldn’t stop wondering how Mr. Varma had recognized Abby, despite his inebriated state. A mystery in itself. Blind drunk, you might recognize a friend or family member, but would you so quickly recognize a seldom-seen First Daughter who took pains to disguise herself?
And what was he trying to tell Abby about her father?
Did “the truth” involve a scandal? A danger? Or some kind of threat? Or was Mr. Varma nothing more than a half-crocked government worker on a sloppy bender?
Officer Landry had advised me to think of this as a company town. Maybe Varma was simply spouting off about his boss, who also happened to be the President. Maybe “the truth” was nothing more than a workplace grievance.
“Here we are, Ms. Cosi, home sweet home . . .” The police cruiser rolled to a stop in front of my N Street address. Landry craned his neck. “A very nice home, too.”
“Thanks. Unfortunately, it’s not mine. I’m only house-sitting.”
“Really? Must be lonely.”
“Well, I’m always busy, and—”
“You know, you still seem a little shaken up.” He turned off the engine. “I can hear the tension in your voice.”
“You can?”
“How about I escort you to the door, see you inside? Tuck you in?”
Tuck me in? “That’s nice of you, Officer. But I’m fine.” I waved the idea away with my left hand.
“You’re not married, are you?”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t see a wedding band on that pretty finger.”
Then he leaned closer, and despite the dimness in the car, I suddenly saw the young man’s “friendly” smile in a whole new light.
“Um, Officer Landry—”
“Call me Tom.”
I blinked. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Don’t be embarrassed, Clare. All night long, you’ve been smiling at me, making small talk about my name, fixing me amazing coffee. A blind man could see you’re interested.” He checked his watch. “Look, I already called in an ‘out of service.’ We have an hour, give or take. What do you say?”
“I say I’m old enough to be your mother!”
“So?”
“So you should find yourself a nice young woman, you know, one closer to your decade.”
“Aw, girls my age are a pain in the—you know. Whereas older ladies, like yourself . . .” He waggled his eyebrows. “You’re so together, so confident. You go right after what you want. I respect that.”
“Believe me, what I want right now is to say good night.”
“Oh, I get it. You’re tired.”
“No. I had a nap earlier. I’m wide awake. That’s not the reason.”
“Another time, then?”
I popped the car door and lunged onto the sidewalk. Landry called after me—
“Hey, Clare, I didn’t forget. I’ll be sure to tell them!”
I tensed. “Tell who? Tell them what?”
“My friends. I’ll tell them how awesome your Village Blend coffee is.”
“You do that. Now go back to work, Officer!”
I slammed the door and, for the first time in hours, exhaled with relief—but not until the police cruiser disappeared around the corner.
What a horrible night!
Fourteen
“MIKE, are you laughing?”
“I’m sorry, Clare . . .” Behind the wheel, Mike Quinn shook his head. “It’s just . . .”
“What?”
“Tom Landry made a pass at you. In any other context that sentence would have to involve a football.”
“Please. I’m embarrassed enough.”
“Why? Don’t ‘older ladies like yourself’ have a sense of humor?”
After years of detective work in the NYPD, Quinn had developed a poker-face approach to human interaction. Over time, I’d schooled myself in reading his subtle emotional cues. But this? This wasn’t subtle. The man’s shoulders were shaking.
I punched his arm.
“Ow!” The squawk came from me. Quinn’s biceps were made of granite. I rubbed my knuckles.
“Assaulting me will get you nowhere, sweetheart. I’m armed. But I promise to stop laughing—in a minute.”
“You know what, Mike? I think you’re cracking up because you’re cracking up.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re punch-drunk. You’ve been driving these back roads for hours.”
“I’m not risking Baltimore until night falls.”
“Well, we’ve got to stop. You’re tired, hungry, and in need of caffeine—and so am I.”
“Look, I told you. Restaurants, gas stations, and convenience stores have security cameras.”
“Okay, fine . . .”
I banged open the glove compartment. Quinn’s .45 sat beside a pair of sunglasses and on top of a mid-Atlantic travel guide. I grabbed the guide, checked the index, and then the map.
“There’s a mom-and-pop donut shop a few miles from here.”
“Clare, they’ll have a security camera, too. I guarantee it.”
“It’s way off the beaten trail. Warm donuts and hot coffee. We’re going.”
Minutes later, Quinn was parking around the corner of the little white clapboard shop. He donned a baseball cap and Windbreaker from his bag, and I handed him the glove-compartment sunglasses.
“Everything go okay?” I asked when he returned to the car.
“They had a security camera, but I kept my head down. And the teenager who rang me up barely noticed me. The line was out the door.”
“Really? Must be good stuff . . .”
We dug into the pastry box and were soon moaning with bliss as we sank our teeth into the pillowy piles of fried yeast dough dipped in delectable honey glaze. The four giant cups of coffee were hot and highly caffeinated. Quinn practically chugged one of them.
“Pretty good for roadside coffee, don’t you think?”
I took a test sip. “Colombian. Large batch. City or city plus . . .”
“Plus what?”
“Sorry, occupational hazard.”
“Don’t apologize. You’re a master roaster. I expect you to have an opinion on the brew.”
“I do, and . . .” A flash of color in my side mirror froze my tongue—and then my bones.
“Clare? What’s wrong?”
I told him.
Pulling up behind us was a local police cruiser. The cop at the wheel was staring right at us and placing a call on his radio.
