Latte Trouble

by Cleo Coyle

  Ricky Flatt, the unfortunate victim on the bottom of the two-person pile, remained motionless. The unconscious boyfriend was still gasping for air, his labored rattle barely audible against the pounding, insistent rhythm of the synth-pop beat.

  Someone bumped past my shoulder, suddenly shaking me from my paralyzed stupor. It was Esther, the house emergency First Aid kit clutched in her hands. But she was beaten to the stricken men by a tall figure in black Armani—my ex-husband.

  Matt rolled the gasping man off his still partner, opened his gaping jaw even wider to peer inside, then carefully probed the victim’s mouth with two fingers.

  “No obstructions,” he announced.

  Esther was still holding the First Aid kit, unsure what to do next. It was Tucker who snatched the kit and dropped to his knees beside Ricky, checked his ex-boyfriend’s mouth and throat, tilted his head back to open the airway, then unwrapped a plastic CPR mask, placed it over Ricky’s bright pink face, and began the first stages of cardiopulmonary resuscitation.

  So what was I doing during all this? You would think after everything I’d been through—enduring a harrowing attack on a Greenwich Village rooftop, braving the business end of a loaded gun in this very coffeehouse, raising a teenaged daughter at the dawn of the twenty-first century—that I would instantly spring into some sort of competent action.

  But you’d be wrong.

  Like an idiot, I stood there, silently gawking, along with everyone else in the room. That is, until I heard someone urge—

  “Clare? Clare? Shouldn’t you do something?”

  It was Esther, and she was addressing me as Clare. Not “boss” in that urbane, near-sarcastic tone she typically used. She called me “Clare”—a word that only came out of Esther’s mouth when things were bad.

  “Call 911,” I heard myself say.

  Esther pointed to the crowd around us. “I think that ship’s already sailed.” Dozens of beautiful people were whipping out color-coordinated cell phones from designer bags or secret hidden pockets in their skin-tight rags. A few standing close to us were definitely talking to 911 operators—others, unfortunately, were calling their limo drivers and car services to arrange hasty retreats.

  Within minutes, the front door opened and two NYPD officers came through, dark blue uniforms, nickel-plated badges, squawking radios. I recognized the pair at once—Officers Demetrios and Langley from the nearby Sixth Precinct. The Village Blend wasn’t just part of their regular beat, they were also regular customers (Turkish coffee and House Blend drinkers, respectively.)

  Tucker was still giving CPR to Ricky. Matteo looked up at the two policemen. “We have a medical emergency here,” he informed them.

  “Help’s coming,” said Langley, raising his radio.

  And it arrived soon after. An ambulance pulled up to the curb, siren’s blaring, red lights rippling through our tall front windows. Two paramedics hurried into the coffeehouse, both laden with medical equipment.

  Officer Demetrios touched my arm. I jumped, startled out of my entranced disbelief that something like this could have happened tonight of all nights. “Choking victim, Ms. Cosi?” asked the young, raven-haired Greek cop.

  I stammered an unintelligible reply.

  Esther quickly translated. “Choking seems really unlikely. The odds against two people choking at the same table are phenomenal—and I’d say the odds are just as high against double heart attacks…unless of course they were both smoking crack cocaine and simultaneously OD’d or something like that.”

  Demetrios frowned. He turned from Esther to face me. “I’m sorry, Ms. Cosi, but if this was the result of a crime, or criminal activity was involved, we’re going to have to secure the area.”

  “What do you mean exactly by ‘secure the area’?” I asked. “Does everyone have to clear out?”

  “No. The reverse. They can’t leave. They’re all suspects.”

  I closed my eyes, not entirely surprised but sick to my stomach nonetheless. “My god, this is a private party…all these people are here by invitation. What will they think?”

  Demetrios glanced around. “They’ll probably think they’ll have another story to tell at their next party.” The Greek officer turned, waved to his tall Irish partner, gestured with his chin toward the front entrance. Already some of the partygoers were attempting to slip out the door. Langley jumped to the exit before a pair of young women could flee the scene.

  “Just hang out awhile, ladies,” Langley told them. “Once we get names, addresses, and statements, everyone can go home.”

  “Statements? Why in the world do you need statements?” whined the short, white fedora-wearing, Truman Capote wannabe, standing near me. “Those young men were poisoned. Surely you can see that for yourself.”

  “Just take it easy,” Demetrios replied. “It’s not our job to rush to judgement. The docs will rule on that.”

  I frantically scanned the room for Lottie, finally catching sight of her on the edge of the crowd. The sponsor of the party seemed worried, but not overly distraught. Thank goodness, I thought, because I felt horrible. Seeing these two men collapse made me feel bad enough—but poor Lottie had chosen the Village Blend as the perfect location for her preview party. Now the entire event was ruined. I could only pray the negative publicity (which, with this catty crowd, was as sure a thing as the rising sun) would not ultimately ruin her runway debut with Fen at the end of the week. And, of course, I was worried about the Blend’s reputation.

  While I pondered a possible rocky future, most everyone else watched with varying levels of interest as the two paramedics checked vital signs on the two stricken men. For Ricky Flatt, things looked bad. The medical technician hovering over him lifted a stethoscope from Ricky’s stiffened chest and shook his head. I felt sick to my stomach as I watched both paramedics abandon Ricky as gone, then move to the man who was still breathing. They checked his pulse, blood pressure, and the dilation of his eyes, and they snapped on an oxygen mask.

  Finally the paramedic with the stethoscope looked up—addressing the crowd in general. “What happened here? This isn’t a heart attack, and it’s not a choking incident either.”

  “That man said he was poisoned!” cried a young woman in a metallic gold minidress and matching stiletto ankle boots. She pointed to the gasping victim. “His face turned so pink, he looked like an ad for Juicy Couture!”

  “Juicy Couture?” I whispered to Rena, who was standing behind me.

  She shrugged. “West coast designers. A few seasons ago they made pink the new black.”

  As the two paramedics continued to work on Ricky’s date, I noticed Matteo standing by, watching. Behind his eyes, I saw that something was upsetting him—that is, beyond the level of distress anyone would feel over two strangers possibly dropping dead right in front of you. I simply knew Matt too well not to recognize when he was personally disturbed, but I also knew now was not the time to ask him what was wrong.

  At Matt’s side stood Tucker, face flushed, hands trembling as he stared in disbelief at Ricky’s corpse. The paramedics primed a needle and shoved it into a vein on the other man’s arm, then attached it to a bottle of intravenous fluid of some kind.

  At the front doors, officer Langley stepped aside to admit a third paramedic who entered rolling a stretcher in front of him. He joined the other two and the trio quickly laid Ricky’s still-alive boyfriend on the gurney. Then they pushed through the crowd, out the door, and across the sidewalk. While the boyfriend was loaded into the ambulance, a second ambulance rolled up. Its siren cut out and the brakes squealed as it bounced onto the sidewalk and stopped just outside the Blend’s front entrance.

  After a short conversation with the first group of paramedics, the second pair opened the rear doors of their vehicle and wrestled a gurney to the sidewalk. As the first vehicle pulled away, the two paramedics from the second ambulance hustled inside. The pair, a young Hispanic man and a middle-aged Asian woman, wore patches on their shoulders that i
ndicated they worked for St. Vincent’s, a hospital not far from the Blend (whose sleepless interns also happened to be excellent triple espresso customers). But when this pair tried to move Ricky, Officer Demetrios prevented them from touching the man.

  “This is a possible crime scene,” he said. “The victim isn’t going to be moved until the detectives clear it. I don’t want the area contaminated.”

  The young paramedic exploded. “What?! Who do you think you are, man? The freaking coroner? This guy ain’t officially dead yet, which means we’re taking him to St. Vincent’s.”

  Demetrios stared at the paramedic. “He looks dead to me.”

  The female paramedic sighed. She examined the body. “He looks dead to me, too.”

  The obviously overwrought male paramedic shot daggers at Officer Demetrios but finally stepped away from the body.

  Another commotion erupted at the front door. I rushed over to find a fashionista riot brewing. Members of the crowd were voicing their determination to get to the other Fashion Week parties being thrown by designers tonight—a bellini bash at Cipriani, a sushi soiree at Nobu, and a Proseco party at Otto. The only thing keeping them from their appointed rounds was Officer Langley, who stood like an unmovable Irish seawall against the swelling tide.

  “Everyone stay calm!” I cried, downright relieved to have something constructive to do at last. “I’m sure everything will be fine.”

  “Fine?!” a woman exclaimed. “For all I know I’ve been poisoned, just like that poor man dead on the floor.”

  “Nobody’s been poisoned,” Matteo loudly barked.

  I shot my ex a grateful glance, and noticed Breanne Summour sashaying up to stand beside him. He turned and she whispered something into his ear. He nodded. I frowned. Ms. Summour’s high cheekbones and gazelle-like neck were annoying me. Not to mention her forehead, which had to be at least as broad as one of those widescreen TVs at the Twenty-third Street Best Buy.

  “Please, everyone calm down and return to your seats,” Officer Demetrios cried over the increasing din of complaints. The crowd ignored his command and more people pressed for the door, forcing Langley’s body inches from the beveled glass. Unfortunately, Demetrios could do no more than yell orders, since he was left to guard the area immediately around Ricky Flatt’s corpse from “contamination.”

  Good lord, I thought, Demetrios and Langley certainly had come a long way. When I’d first met them, they’d been so green they’d let me traipse all over a crime scene—that is, before Detective Quinn had shown up and chewed them out.

  The thought of Mike Quinn striding through my front door again made me feel a little better, until I heard Esther say, “Maybe everyone would like some coffee?”

  “NO!”

  Suddenly the front door opened from outside, the frame smacking Officer Langley in the back of his head. He stepped to the side as the portal yawned. The mob began to surge forward, sensing a chance for escape. Then, strangely, they all took a step backwards again and parted with biblical soberness.

  A tall, imposing woman in navy blue slacks, a white blouse, and an open gray trenchcoat swept through their ranks. She strode in on three-inch platform heels, an NYPD detective shield dangling from a black strap around her neck. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, her expression hard and sharp as a razor, her blue eyes cold and challenging. She wore no makeup, and her long straw-blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail so tight it seemed to stretch the flesh of her face.

  Coming through the door behind the woman was a far less impressive figure. Well into middle age, the wrinkled Asian man seemed nearly as wide as he was tall. Under a flapping beige overcoat, he wore a dark suit, white shirt with a fraying collar, and a wide striped tie that had been out of fashion since Jimmy Carter was president. His expression was bland, neither tired nor bored—more like he was suffering from a mild but chronic case of irritation.

  Officer Demetrios let out a soft, unhappy moan at the sight of the pair, but he quickly shook off the momentary distress, straightened his uniform, and corrected his posture. The tall blond detective marched by Demetrios, strode directly to the corpse sprawled on the bare wooden floor, and with silent intensity studied the scene.

  Even Esther seemed rattled by the detective’s ominous aura of authority. As the female detective pulled out a pair of latex gloves and snapped them on, Esther appeared to suddenly remember her assigned duty for the night—to keep the coffeehouse as tidy as possible. Worried the detective would reprimand her for allowing debris to clutter up her crime scene, Esther bent down and reached for the crumpled napkins and tall glass mug that had tumbled to the floor when the fashion editor was first stricken.

  “FREEZE!”

  The crowd seemed to gasp simultaneously. The detective’s latex-covered index finger pointed directly at Esther, whose eyes widened larger than the black glasses framing them.

  “Don’t touch anything.”

  As Esther shrunk away, the detective’s blue eyes played across the scene as if memorizing it. Then she knelt down and touched Ricky Flatt’s throat with two fingers.

  Throughout the woman’s inspection, Ricky’s unseeing eyes continued to stare up at the Blend’s vintage tin ceiling. Beside the victim, the female detective finally turned her attention to the glass mug near the corpse—the one Esther had nearly disturbed. She drew a pencil from an inside pocket of her trenchcoat, carefully touched the interior of the glass with the tip of the eraser, then lifted the writing implement to her nose and sniffed it. Finally, she rose and faced Officer Demetrios. They spoke softly for a minute or two, too softly for me to hear them over the still pounding music. It looked as if the woman was giving Officer Demetrios instructions, because he nodded occasionally, face nervous. Then the woman turned to address the crowd.

  “Okay, what happened here?”

  FOUR

  A dozen voices spoke at once, mine and Matteo’s among them.

  “Quiet!” the woman barked. “One at a time.”

  Matteo stepped up to her, taking on the police woman directly. I was suddenly afraid my ex-husband’s inbred antagonism toward authority figures in general and members of the law enforcement community in particular was about to assert itself. I was right.

  “Look, lady, I don’t know what you think happened here, but nobody was poisoned.”

  This isn’t the right approach, Matt, I silently wailed. Then I stepped between them—while attempting to push Matteo backward with my elbow. Given that he was over six feet and all muscle, and I was under five-five with zero weight training, the effect was nil.

  “Hello,” I said, extending my hand. “My name is Clare Cosi. I’m the manager of the Village Blend.”

  “Detective Rachel Starkey,” she replied, ignoring my proffered palm. Then she eyed Matteo behind me. “And who’s the big bohunk behind you?”

  Bohunk? Who talks like that?

  “He’s Matteo Allegro, my—”

  “Business partner,” Matteo finished for me with a glance at Breanne Summour.

  “Okay, Mr. Allegro. My partner here will get your statement, while I speak with your partner here, and the rest of her staff.”

  I realized as I was listening to Detective Starkey that she had the very slight but telling signs of a Queens accent—a drawling of vowels and dropping of Rs. The Blend’s private carting company was based in Queens, and I heard that accent at least twice a week because I always invited the sanitation crew in for a coffee break when they stopped by to empty our dumpster.

  Like me, it appeared Detective Starkey had cleaned up well, virtually masking her working-class accent and dressing for a slick presentation of authority.

  Starkey faced the rest of the room. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said loud enough to be heard over the dance music, “the uniformed officers will take statements from everyone else.”

  “Excuse me, Detective,” declared the Truman Capote wannabe. “But I should think you’d want to talk with me. I saw the whole thing. That poor man
was poisoned. His friend said so before he collapsed, too.”

  A middle-aged woman in a silk pantsuit and tinted glasses placed a hand on her hip. “Well, I saw it, too.”

  I couldn’t believe this crowd was so catty they were jockeying for prime positions at a crime scene.

  Detective Starkey seemed unfazed. “Detective Hutawa will take both of your statements,” she said.

  The heavyset detective’s frown deepened as he pulled out a notebook and pen and motioned the short man in the white fedora to follow him to the coffee bar.

  Detective Starkey took my arm. “Get your staff together, Ms. Cosi, and let’s talk behind the counter.”

  I turned, waved for Tucker to come forward. Esther and Moira McNeely were already behind the coffee bar, waiting. We gathered next to the espresso machine, and Starkey pulled us all into a tight circle as she fixed her Ice Station Zebra blue eyes on mine. “What happened here, Ms. Cosi? In your own words.”

  “Well…one minute Mr. Flatt was enjoying himself—”

  “You call him Mr. Flatt?” the detective cut in. “Does that mean you know the victim?”

  “No,” I replied and chose my next words carefully. “His name was…on the guest list.”

  “I see,” Starkey said, eyes unblinking. “Go on.”

  “So,” I continued, “Mr. Flatt seemed fine. Then he just collapsed. A minute later, his friend collapsed, too.”

  “Were they eating? Drinking?”

  Tucker spoke up. “They shared a latte.”

  Her piercing stare shifted from me to Tucker. “A latte? What kind?”

  “Caramel-chocolate,” Tucker replied. “That’s mostly what we’re serving at this party.”