Decaffeinated Corpse

by Cleo Coyle

  Tucker tapped his chin. “Sounds like you were pistol-whipped.”

  Ric nodded. “I remember nothing after that, just waking up in the alley . . .”

  “The mugger must have knocked you out, and then dragged you off the sidewalk.” I turned to face Matt. “He was out cold,” I whispered pointedly. “He could have a concussion.”

  Of course, I could have one, too, but I felt fine—no headache, drowsiness, or disorientation. Ric was another matter. He’d been unconscious a long time, and he’d been incoherent upon waking. It seemed to me he should be checked out ASAP.

  Thank goodness Matt nodded in agreement. “Ric, I’m parked just down the block. Let me drive you over to St. Vincent’s ER—”

  “No, no, no ER! I’d be in there for hours for absolutely no reason. I’m fine. Really.” Ric looked up at our concerned faces. “It’s nice that you all care so much, but I’d really like to forget it happened.” He handed Joy back the cup of water she’d brought him. “Thank you, love. But I’d like to warm up a bit. Perhaps I might trouble you for a hot coffee?”

  Matt laughed. “You certainly came to the right place for that. Regular or decaf?”

  “Decaf,” Ric replied. “You have my beans, I take it? How did the baristas like the samples?”

  Tucker spoke up. “Oh, we liked them. We like them a latte.”

  Ric smiled. “Good, good, excellent. And what is your name?”

  “Tucker Burton.” He gave a little bow, tossing his newly highlighted hair like a Shakespearean troubadour. “At your service.”

  “Ah!” Ric was obviously pleased by his enthusiasm. “I hope that will include coffee service then? Do you have any objection to helping us with our event at the Beekman Hotel at the end of the week?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Tucker assured him. “And my colleagues agreed to help you out, too. Two of them had to beat it before you got here, and the third one was supposed to be here, but he took the night off at the last minute . . .”

  As Tucker continued to converse with Ric, Matt turned to me. “Clare, why don’t you brew some fresh decaf for us?”

  “Joy can do it.” I glanced at my daughter. “Joy? Do you mind? The decaf beans are in the burr grinder marked with the green tape on the lid. Use the eight-cup French press. We’ll all have some.”

  Joy nodded. “Sure, Mom.”

  The second her chestnut ponytail bounced away, I turned back to Ric. I was mystified by the man’s calm. My first year living in New York, I’d been mugged on a subway platform by a skinny punk, who’d taken my purse with fifty dollars, credit cards, and lip gloss. The boy waved a knife, which never touched me, but the only thing I wanted to do after the incident (besides throw up and chug half a bottle of Pepto) was report the little creep’s description to the police.

  Crime is a violation. It’s frightening and humiliating. It shakes your world. And after it makes you scared, it makes you angry—which it should because that’s the way you begin to fight back.

  Ric might have been eager to put this behind him, but I was far from satisfied; and, in my view, the bruise forming beneath my own brunette bangs gave me the right to make a few more inquiries.

  “Ric!” I loudly interrupted for the second time.

  Tucker and Ric halted their conversation. They stared at me as if I’d dropped a large tray at a quiet party.

  “I’m sorry, but I have a few more questions.”

  Ric glanced pleadingly at Matt; and, brother, did I recognize that retro masculine “Can’t you control your ex-wife?” expression.

  Matt answered by showing his palms to the ceiling. By now, of course, he’d grown accustomed to the new me. After solving more than one homicide, I could no longer join my fellow New Yorkers in ignoring the singing four-hundred-pound muumuu-wearing man in the subway car.

  “I don’t believe you’re thinking clearly, Ric,” I said. “Since you were out cold, how do you know that you weren’t ripped off?”

  “Clare, Clare, Clare . . . you know you’ve changed since I last saw you. You’re still just as beautiful, but I guess ten years is a long time. You used to be so easygoing . . .”

  Easygoing? I thought. Or a gullible pushover?

  Ric’s gaze held mine. “How headstrong you’ve become.”

  The man’s eyes were velvet brown, arrestingly intense with long, dark lashes. They were what women’s magazines would call “bedroom eyes,” but we weren’t in a bedroom.

  “The mugger could have rifled your clothes,” I pointed out. “Have you checked them? Do you still have your wallet?”

  “I have it, Clare,” he assured me. “I touched my jacket as soon as I came around. My wallet’s still here.”

  To demonstrate, Ric made a show of patting down the left breast pocket of his fine suede jacket. Then he opened it, reached inside, and pulled out his wallet.

  “You see, love, no need to keep worrying that pretty head of yours.”

  “What about your other pockets?” I asked.

  “Clare—” Matt began. I felt the light touch of his hand on my shoulder. I ignored it.

  “It’s all right, Matt,” Ric said. “She’s just being protective. She always was a little mother hen.”

  Which would make Matt what? I wondered. Henpecked?

  “Look, Clare,” Ric continued, “my passport isn’t on me. It’s back in my hotel room. I just have loose change and a handkerchief in my pants, and in this right pocket here the only thing you’ll find is my—”

  Ric was opening up his jacket again, this time on the right side, to show me that all was well, and I shouldn’t worry my “pretty mother hen” head.

  But all wasn’t well.

  “Omigawd!” Tucker pointed. “Your beautiful jacket.”

  The left side of Ric’s jacket may have been fine and his wallet untouched, but the right was in tatters, its lining ripped, and whatever was inside the breast pocket was gone.

  Matt stepped forward, his jovial expression gone, too. “What did you say was in that pocket?”

  “My keycard,” said Ric, locking eyes with Matt. “The key to my hotel room.”

  FIVE

  “A keycard,” Tucker said. “Good lord, that’s a relief.”

  “A relief?” said Ric. “Why?”

  “Those hotel keycards never have room numbers on them.” Tucker waved a hand. “There’s no way your mugger will know which room you were in.”

  My ex-husband remained silent; his expression had gone grim, and I knew he was finished with the laissez-faire attitude. I figured he was trying to decide whether to drive Ric directly over to the Sixth Precinct or summon the police to the scene by phone.

  “Matt,” I said quietly. “You should probably just drive him over—unless you don’t want to lose your parking space, then you should just hail a cab.”

  Matt’s brow wrinkled. “Why would I want to hail a cab?”

  “Don’t be dense. To take Ric to the Sixth Precinct so he can report the theft of his hotel key—”

  “Excuse me,” Matt shifted his gaze from me to Tucker and back to me. “Clare, Tucker, I’d like a word with Ric alone.”

  “Oh,” said Tucker. “Oh, sure! No problem. I’ll just go help Joy with the decaf.”

  Tucker left. I didn’t. “What’s going on?”

  With an audible sigh, Matt took out his cell and handed it to Ric.

  “Thanks,” Ric said, opening the phone.

  As he began to dial, Matt took a firm hold of my elbow, and pulled me away. We stopped far from the warmth of the fireplace, against the exposed brick wall, beneath a collection of antique hand-cranked coffee grinders.

  “Matt, tell me. What is going on? Who’s Ric calling—”

  “Clare, please,” Matt whispered, his eyes glancing around to make sure no one was close enough to hear. “This was just a random robbery. Okay? Let it go.”

  “A random robbery?”

  “Yes.”

  “By a mugger who uses a prerecorded message?”


  “Yes.”

  “And doesn’t take the muggee’s wallet?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s in Ric’s hotel room, Matt?” I tilted my head sharply to see around my ex-husband. Ric was quietly talking into the cell phone. “Is he calling the police?”

  “No. And I don’t want you involved. I know you too well.” Matt gestured to Joy, behind the coffee bar. “Just like your daughter.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know what it means.”

  “No, I don’t—”

  “Do you know why Joy hasn’t been by the Blend in weeks? She’s dating someone new, and she doesn’t want you to know.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why do you think? She knows her mom’s a bigger nose hound than Scooby Doo and she wants her privacy.”

  “Scooby Doo?” I shook my head. “Matt, I realize you missed most of Joy’s upbringing, but in case you haven’t noticed, she no longer watches Saturday morning cartoons—”

  “Come on, Clare. We’ve been over this. I was young and stupid, okay? I was a lousy father and a terrible husband, and, believe me, I know what I’ve lost because of it . . .” Matt paused, his tone softening, his eyes holding mine. “You know, no matter what, I’d do anything for her . . . and you.”

  I looked away. “You’re trying to change the subject. You’re using Joy to make me back off of Ric—”

  “I’m trying to make a point that Joy’s an adult now. It’s natural for her to want some privacy. So don’t push too hard or you’ll end up pushing her away.”

  Matt turned, ready to walk. I grabbed a handful of cashmere sweater. “Wait,” I said. “I can help you. Why don’t you think of it that way?”

  Matt smoothed the wrinkles I’d made. “For one thing because Ric hasn’t seen you in ten years. He’s not going to trust you.”

  “He will if you tell him to.”

  The bell over the front door jingled. After years in the beverage service industry, Matt and I had the same Pavlovian response. We stopped our private conversation and glanced at the new customer. Once we saw who it was, however, our responses weren’t even close to identical.

  “It’s Mike,” I said, my mood immediately lightening.

  Across the room, Detective Mike Quinn nodded in greeting. His usual glacial gaze warmed as it took me in. Then his attention shifted to Matt and the chill returned.

  Matt tensed, a scowl cutting lines in his face that I hadn’t seen before. “Since when did you start calling him Mike?”

  “We’re friends,” I whispered. “You know that.”

  The lanky cop strode to the coffee bar, where he took a load off. Tucker began to make conversation with the detective, but he didn’t bother filling his order. By now, all of my baristas knew the drill. When Mike Quinn came here for his usual, he had no interest in anyone making it but me.

  “Do me a favor, Clare,” Matt said. “Get your ‘friend’ his order and get him the hell out of here tout de suite.”

  Given my ex-husband’s years of dealing with corrupt officials in banana republics, I understood why he distrusted the police. It occurred to me that Ric might feel the same. But Greenwich Village wasn’t exactly a Third World hellhole, and in my experience the NYPD had always lived up to its “New York’s finest” motto, especially Detective Quinn, who’d gone out on a limb for me more than once.

  “But, Matt,” I argued, “this is the perfect opportunity to ask Mike for help. If Ric is in some kind of trouble—”

  “Don’t tell him a thing.”

  Matt’s words sounded resolved, but his brown eyes were filled with uncertainty. He was feeling guilty about something, I realized. He was feeling nervous, too, and that told me I had some bargaining power.

  “Don’t tell Mike a thing?” I put my hands on my hips and arched an eyebrow. “I can’t promise you that.”

  Matt read me just as fast as I’d read him. “What do you want?”

  “I want you and Ric to tell me everything you’re holding back.”

  “Now? We can’t. Quinn will—”

  “Later. Tell me later.”

  Matt glanced back over his shoulder. Mike Quinn was still chatting with Tucker. “Okay . . .” he agreed, “but not a word to Quinn tonight or the deal’s off.”

  “And you have to take Ric to the ER,” I added. “If he was pistol whipped, he could be hemorrhaging. He needs a CT scan or an MRI, but somebody’s got to take a peek inside that thick skull of his.”

  Matt turned to look at his friend. “You’re right. I’ll take him . . . and what about you?”

  “What about me?”

  Matt surprised me by reaching out and brushing back my bangs. His thumb feathered across the darkening bruise.

  “Does it hurt?” he whispered. “Don’t you need to be checked out, too?”

  Matt’s touch was tender, warm, and sweet. I pushed it away.

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  The man’s hands were dangerous. A year ago, they’d gotten me into bed, right upstairs, and I swore it would never happen again. Not ever.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes!” I said, then lowered my voice. “I don’t have a headache. No dizziness or sleepiness—if anything I’m more alert. Besides, I’m scheduled for my annual physical Thursday. I’ll get checked out then.”

  Matt raised his chin in Quinn’s general direction. “And you’ll keep your boyfriend in the dark tonight?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend, Matt. He’s a married man—”

  “Didn’t you mention that he and his wife just separated?”

  “Yes, but they’re not divorced yet. And he’s still pretty raw.”

  Matt smirked, glanced at the detective again. This time Quinn glanced back at the same time. The men locked eyes for a moment.

  “He’ll put the moves on you inside of a week,” Matt said, facing me again.

  “Stop it, Matt. I told you, we’re just friends.”

  “A week.”

  I pointed to Ric and glared, making it clear I meant business. “The ER. Or I spill.”

  “All right, we’re going.”

  Then Matt headed one way, and I went the other.

  SIX

  “THE usual?” I asked from behind the coffee bar.

  The detective nodded.

  Mike Quinn was an average-looking Joe with sandy-brown hair, a slightly ruddy complexion, and a square, dependable chin. He had crow’s feet and frown lines, favored beige suits, rust-colored ties, and gave sanctuary to a trench coat that had seen better years. He was also tall and lean with rock-solid shoulders and a working moral compass.

  I couldn’t imagine Mike as being anything but a cop. To me, he was like one of those concrete block warehouses people barely notice on a fair weather day but run screaming to for refuge in a Category Four.

  And then there were his eyes. Nothing average there. Even when the rest of him appeared aloof or exhausted, Mike’s eyes were alert and alive, taking in everything. Intensely blue, they were the shade of a Hampton’s sky— which I had only recently discovered, having just spent my first summer there—and when they were on me, my blood pumped a little faster (even without caffeine).

  Behind the counter, Joy had finished brewing that fresh French press pot of Ric’s new decaffeinated beans.

  “Make Ric’s to go,” I advised her. “He’s heading out.”

  I was tempted to keep yakking. I wanted to ask her about that new boyfriend, the one she’d discussed with Matt and not me. It rankled that she was keeping secrets, but we’d been through some rough patches in the last year, and I could see where she might be sensitive about my meddling in her new “adult” life.

  My ex-husband had been wrong about a lot of things, but I wasn’t going to disregard his advice just because he could be a horse’s ass in other quarters. He loved our daughter. And she loved him. And maybe, for once, Matt knew what was best.

  Biting my tongue, I stopped the dozen grilling q
uestions on the tip of it. Instead, I put an arm around her and thanked her for coming down to say hello.

  “No problem, Mom,” she said. “It’s nice to see you.” She hugged me then. It was unexpected but heartfelt, and it made me feel a thousand times better.

  As she headed off toward Ric and her dad, I turned back to Quinn.

  “We have something new tonight,” I told him. “Beans from a prototype decaffeinated coffee plant. Would you like to try a cup?”

  He arched a sandy eyebrow. “You think I come here for decaffeination?”

  “Now you sound like my baristas.”

  “The usual,” he said, his low gravelly voice like music. “That’ll be fine.”

  It always gave me a kick to make Quinn’s “usual.” Before he’d made detective, he’d been a hardened street cop, and even though he wasn’t the sort of man to wear his machismo on his sleeve, I vowed never to tell him that in Italy his favorite nightly drink was considered a wussy breakfast beverage favored by children and old ladies.

  The latte was also the most popular coffee drink at the Village Blend, as it was in most American gourmet coffee shops, so who was I to judge? Our double-tall version used two shots of espresso, steamed milk, crowned with a thin layer of foamed milk. (In a cappuccino, the foamed milk dominates.) And because we throw away any espresso shot older than fifteen seconds, we always prepare the milk first.

  I cleared the steam wand and dipped it deep into the stainless steel pitcher. One trick for steaming milk (as I tell my new baristas) is to keep your hand on the bottom of the metal container. If it becomes too hot to handle, you’re probably scalding the liquid. That’s one reason I clip a thermometer to every pitcher (150 to 160 degrees Fahrenheit is the optimum range).

  As I worked, I kept one eye on Matt, across the main room. He’d approached Ric, who was still sitting by the fireplace, speaking into the phone. When the man completed his call, Matt quietly spoke to him.

  Without protest, Ric rose to his feet. The top of his head came dead even with Matt’s. The two could have been brothers, I mused, with their perpetual tans, short-cropped raven hair, and womanizing ways. Then Ric swayed in place. The man was obviously still woozy from the blow to his head.