Murder by Mocha cm-10

by Клео Коул

  “Yum! I’ll have one.”

  “Cappuccino for me,” Daphne said.

  “What size?” Esther asked.

  “Large, I guess, or...” Daphne stared at the board. “What the heck is a King Kong?”

  My cell went off on the counter. I picked it up.

  “How are you, Cosi?” Lori Soles began, sounding upbeat.

  “Good morning, Detective. Thanks for calling back.”

  “I know you’re anxious,” she said. “But I don’t have any news for you.”

  Seeing Daphne and Susan staring at me, I lowered my voice and swiveled the stool. “No physical evidence yet?”

  “No, but thanks to Ruben Salter, we’ve got a new view from another camera, actually from a neighboring building—”

  “Did you get a look at the killer?”

  “The high-angle security cam shows the umbrella moving under the podium’s canopy. Two minutes later Patrice Stone’s body plunges into the pool. I say body because the autopsy found no water in the victim’s lungs, which means Stone was dead before she hit the reflection pool.”

  “It was the blow to the head that killed her?”

  “Two blows. The first from behind, and the second above the left eye when the victim was on the ground.”

  The details were grisly enough to make me cringe.

  “Hang in there. We’ve got a digital expert working on those recordings. Something will turn up. But listen, I have a question for you.”

  “For me?”

  “Yeah, we just sent some Nutrition Nation umbrellas to our CSU. They’ll run tests, try to verify whether the heavy handle could have been used as the murder weapon.”

  “Did you ask Maya about it?”

  “She and her husband admitted to bringing the umbrella, but they couldn’t produce it in the cloakroom. They claimed it was taken.”

  Exactly what I thought. Alicia is trying to frame her!

  “Anyway,” Lori continued, “you were very helpful with that umbrella angle, and my lieutenant thought you might have some ideas on that note we found in the raincoat pocket—do you remember the word on the note?”

  “Laeta?”

  “Yes. Have you heard anyone mention it?”

  “No. Not yet, but I’ll be sure to let you know if I do.”

  “Thanks, Cosi. Got to run now. Talk to you again,” Lori promised, right before the line went dead.

  “Are you okay, Ms. Cosi?” Daphne asked as she sipped her cappuccino. “You look kind of pale. Did you get bad news or something?”

  “It was a private call.”

  “From the police?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Daphne shrugged. “Sorry to be so nosy, but my boss, Sherri Sellars—she asked me to find out.” She lowered her voice. “At the Mocha Magic party, she saw you come back with those two lady detectives. She said you were pointing people out for the police to speak with, that you were working with them.”

  “Well, if you remember, I was the one who found Ms. Stone’s body, so they asked me to help. And I’m pretty sure the police spoke to everyone who attended the party, not just the ones I pointed out—”

  “Ms. Bower told us you’re some kind of investigator,” Susan cut in. “And your boyfriend has some kind of big-deal special position with the New York Police Department?”

  “Don’t believe every piece of gossip you hear, ladies. I’m just a coffeehouse manager—”

  “Boss!” Tuck called from behind the register.

  “What?”

  He pointed to the front window and sang. “You’ve got company.”

  I swiveled around again to find two unmarked police cars pulling up fast in front of our shop. Both had red bubble lights going on their dashes.

  Mike walked in, radio in hand, dressed in his usual brown suit. In lock step behind him were two young detectives—a man and a woman. Both moved to an empty table and sat.

  Like the Fish Squad, I’d served these two detectives many times. They worked at the Sixth, but today they weren’t wearing blazers and pressed slacks. They were dressed like neighborhood regulars in jeans and light Windbreakers.

  “I need to speak with you,” Mike said, grim faced. “Privately.”

  As I excused myself, Daphne displayed a smirk. Told you!

  Thirty-One

  “What’s with all the little people?” Mike asked when we reached my tiny office on the second floor.

  “Return to Munchkin Land flash mob,” I said. “Short people need caffeine, too.”

  He met my eyes. “I read the files this morning.”

  “The cold-case files? That’s what all this is about?”

  “It’s not good, Clare. You better sit down.”

  Crap.

  I settled into my rickety office chair, and Quinn pulled up another.

  “Years ago, your former mother-in-law was brought before a grand jury. She’d been involved romantically with a police detective who frequented the Village Blend. Sound familiar?”

  Oh my God.

  “Are you sure she never mentioned anything like this to you?”

  “Of course, I’m sure! What happened?”

  “This detective, Cormac Murphy ‘Murph’ O’Neil, he was dirty, on the take. Mrs. Dubois probably didn’t know it at the time—at least, I hope she didn’t. Anyway, as it all went down, he and his partner were questioning a major drug dealer in the field when shots were fired. The partner and the dealer were killed, the dealer’s money went missing, and so did your former mother-in-law’s dirty boyfriend.”

  “What do you mean ‘he went missing’?”

  “He disappeared. Mrs. Dubois was called before a grand jury and asked to testify all she knew about her boyfriend. She answered questions about their relationship, explaining how they’d met, how long they’d been involved. They asked her if he’d made any statements about leaving town, if he ever contacted her, what he said, but she refused to answer any questions that might give away his intent or locations. The judge put her in jail.”

  I closed my eyes as a memory came back to me. “That’s when it happened...”

  “What?”

  “That time Tucker had been falsely arrested, accused of murder, Madame mentioned that she’d been arrested herself. She wouldn’t say anymore, but I assumed it was over some war protest or something. Nothing like this!”

  “Clare, if Mrs. Dubois knows anything about her former boyfriend’s whereabouts or anything he may have said about that crime, the money, the shootings, anything, she needs to give it up now. This killer cop, O’Neil—the PD has a source that tells us he’s surfaced again. The theory is he used the money to start a new life, a new family, and now that he’s up in years he doesn’t want to take any chances that his family can be found out. He’s very dangerous, Clare, and he’ll be especially dangerous to your mother-in-law. He’ll most likely want to tie up loose ends.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means, if given the chance, he’ll make sure she stays silent forever.”

  For the next ten minutes, Mike continued to fill me in. As we finished our discussion, he assured me the Village Blend would be watched 24/7. He already knew about “Scarface” following us to the ICE show—Franco had informed him—and when he pulled out a file photo of this killer cop, I must have turned pale.

  “This is the same man, isn’t it?”

  I nodded. “He sat right downstairs at our counter, introduced himself as Bob. He’s much older now, of course. His hair is silver-white instead of brown. And that terrible scar across his cheek is new, but I’m almost certain it’s the same guy.”

  “Well, if you see him again, do not engage him in conversation. Do you hear me? You alert my detectives, or you call me, right away. Okay?”

  “Okay. But what about Madame? If she’s in danger—”

  “Already taken care of. We have detectives watching Mrs. Dubois’ penthouse until we get this cop killer in custody.”

  “Does she know any of thi
s?”

  Mike put a hand on my shoulder. “Only if you want to tell her. That’s your call, sweetheart. I don’t care either way—as long as you get the information.”

  “Mike, I can’t promise you she’ll talk to me!”

  “Look, you and I both know we could pull her into an interview room. First Deputy Commissioner Hawke could have done that himself. But he’s a smart man, a good cop. He knew the case. He knew Mrs. Dubois would likely clam up again. So he put me on the job, hoping I’d figure out an angle—and, sweetheart, you’re it.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. You’re my best bet.” He gave me that Odysseus half smile. “In more ways than one.”

  Mike swept out and, true to his word, left his young undercover team behind. I returned to the coffee bar—more than a little distracted. Daphne had to touch my shoulder to get my attention.

  “Ms. Cosi? Sorry, but I have to go, and I need to give you this.”

  She pulled a manila envelope out of her backpack and placed it on the countertop. It was then I remembered Alicia’s message about Daphne bringing me a note.

  Addressed to me, the label commanded: OPEN IMMEDIATELY. All caps, I thought, just like Alicia’s tone.

  The envelope was unsealed, just loosely fastened. Inside I found a plain folder holding final catering instructions for tonight’s yacht party on the East River. Paper clipped to that folder was a separate typewritten note with one of Alicia’s new business cards attached to it. I instantly recognized the Mocha Magic logo of Alicia’s card—a diner-style coffee cup with rising steam forming a floating heart.

  Clare, Maya Lansing and I have decided to settle our differences. We have agreed to meet in Aphrodite’s big tent at Socrates Sculpture Park this afternoon at three o’clock. We have also agreed that you should mediate our discussion and help us come to terms on the Mocha Magic issues. Present this letter to the guard at the security gate and he will admit you, and only you, so please come alone. Alicia

  Great, I thought. It wasn’t enough that I was supposed to charm an octogenarian clam into giving up her tightly held pearl. Now I was supposed to sit between a platinum-haired Amazon who threatened to beat me up and a business associate whom I was trying to put behind bars—and my job was to help them work out their problems?

  “Daphne,” I said, “this note tells me I’m supposed to go to Socrates Sculpture Park today.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “It’s a long story. Have you been there yet?”

  “No, Ms. Cosi,” she said. “That grand finale setup is top secret. I have to wait until Saturday to see it, just like everyone else. But maybe Susan’s been there.”

  Daphne swung around. “Hey, Susan. Have you seen the big tent yet at Socrates Sculpture Park?”

  “No. I’m not scheduled to work the tent until Saturday morning.”

  “You’ll love that park, Ms. Cosi,” Nancy piped up. “I was just there last week. Dante Silva was helping a friend install some sculptures, and I wanted to check it out.”

  Esther rolled her eyes at me. “More like she wanted to check Dante out.”

  “It’s super easy to get there,” she said, grabbing a napkin. “I’ll draw you a map.”

  “Phone call, Clare,” Tucker announced just then.

  Stepping behind the counter, I picked up the store phone.

  “Clare, this is Gudrun.”

  Gudrun Voss, aka the young Chocolate Nun. I knew at once why she was calling. She’d received the last-minute catering instructions just like I had.

  “I just have one question,” she said.

  Her voice was so small, I could barely hear it. “Speak up, please, Gudrun. I’ve got a shop full of excited Munchkins.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “That’s better.”

  “Listen,” she said, “answer me straight. What’s wrong with my Raspberry-Espresso Flowers?”

  “I’m sorry...” My head was still spinning from everything I’d learned. I tried harder to focus. “I need more.”

  “At the launch party two night ago, you and your servers chose not to put out my Raspberry-Espresso Flowers. Why?”

  I was about to answer, but the question itself struck me as odd. We offered such a lovely variety of treats at the party. It seemed unlikely anyone from Aphrodite’s Village would have complained about missing them.

  “Gudrun, how did you know about that?”

  “I was there.”

  “You were there? At the launch party? Why didn’t you introduce yourself?”

  “I often attend events incognito. That way I can hear what people really think about my chocolate.”

  “Well, there was nothing wrong with your flowers per se. The problem was you grease-penciled REF on the box. Someone in the kitchen threw it in the refrigerator. When they came out, near the warm ovens—”

  “Oh, damn! Sugar bloom?”

  “Yes?”

  “Fine. I’ll mark it differently next time.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Would you answer some questions for me? When did you get there exactly? And when did you leave?”

  “I’m sorry, Clare. I’m very busy today. We have an event tonight on the yacht, you know. I’ll see you there.”

  “You’re coming?”

  “I said, ‘I’ll see you there!’ ”

  I tried to ask again, but on a whooshing noise of exasperation, Gudrun killed the line between us.

  Back at the coffee bar, Daphne and Susan were saying their good-byes.

  “Thanks for the coffee, everyone,” Daphne called.

  “Totally delish,” Susan agreed. “Hey, Daph, you want to meet for dinner?”

  “Sure. Where are you headed now...”

  The girls separated on Hudson. Then Gardner Evans burst in to start his shift, proudly waving his new CD mix for our sound system. Nancy Kelly waved good-bye, and Tuck waved the phone again.

  “Matt wants to know when he should stop by to discuss the seasonal delivery schedule.”

  “Tell him to be here at two o’clock sharp,” I replied. “And tell him to bring a car.”

  “A car? Why?

  “Because I need to be in Queens at three. And he’s going to be my backup.”

  Thirty-Two

  The sun is strong today. Too strong! Too much light!

  She whipped closed the window curtains, anxious to bring back the cool, shifting shadows of her underworld. Her heart was beating so fast now, her lungs laboring, her skin beading with perspiration.

  Calm down, she counseled herself. You have plenty of time... plenty of time . . .

  She would prepare for this event the way she always did—like a machine. First she selected her clothes. Black again . . . black for mourning, black for death . . .

  Next she found the mask.

  Her masks existed in many forms, but for this performance, she went to a closet and dug out the plastic kind—a copy of the one she’d used on Bay Creek’s bridge, above that snaking canal of water that carried away her old self, which spanned the distance that led to this new one.

  After laying out everything on the bed, she sunk to her knees, smirking with a thought: Years ago, that woman had gone down on her knees in a bedroom, too. But not to pray . . .

  With a deep breath, she lifted the mattress and groped around for the cold steel shaft. Fingers closing on hard metal, she pulled, letting the mattress fall with a muffled thud.

  Feeling the weight of the weapon, she smiled. Here was something better than prayer. Here was power. The power to defend life and exact death. The power to make three women’s lives a living hell.

  The same way they did for my mother . . .

  She stroked the dark trigger, so cool and smooth, recalled the joy of pulling it, only once before—on her mother’s persecutor.

  I showed him what premeditated really was, didn’t I?

  First she’d bought the gun, so easy, just a weekend drive away. Then she’d stalked him, all the way from Long Island, waited for him to
leave the restaurant, then his club, finally the bar. At last, he came back to the Manhattan parking garage, tipsy, distracted . . .

  She’d dressed with perfect irony—a young mother, cradling an infant. Hera breast-feeding Hercules. Only this son of Zeus had a belly full of bullets, and when the gun discharged in the chilly gloom, light flashed like the light from Hera’s breast to create all the stars of the Milky Way.

  She cackled, recalling the man’s shocked face; his fat, falling body; the light of life leaving his eyes. Such a brilliant lawyer! Such a brilliant mind! How dazzling are you now? In your coffin? In your grave?

  The getaway had been easy. No one saw her. No one stopped her. But she learned a valuable lesson the next day, watching those idiot news people report the execution.

  Beware of all-seeing eyes. They record everything: comings and goings, sins and secrets . . .

  The gods of the underworld had been with her that night. The police ignored the security camera’s image of a bundled up mother, her face obscured as she carried her child. Instead, they focused on more promising suspects: a young punk with a mugging rap sheet; a vagrant with mental problems; a worker on parole.

  From then on, she remembered to look out for those all-seeing eyes—or find a way to trick them. All-seeing people were another matter. People like Clare Cosi.

  That woman just wouldn’t stop prodding and probing; pushing and snooping. The stupid Coffee Lady might even be smart enough to unmask her. Which is why she must die this afternoon. And once that nosy barista is gone, I can begin my grand finale . . .

  Thirty-Three

  That afternoon, three impatient horn blasts shattered the tranquillity of my coffeehouse. I glanced out the front window to find a military vehicle idling on Hudson.

  “I think Mr. Boss has arrived,” Esther announced, “unless we’re hosting a reunion for Desert Storm vets.”

  The Hummer was massive; its exterior dabbled in the chocolate-chip brown of army camouflage. When I reached the sidewalk, Matt waved me forward.

  “My God,” I said, “are we going to Queens or invading a small country?”