Decaffeinated Corpse

by Cleo Coyle

  Matt offered an arm. “Take it easy,” he said as he helped his friend negotiate the close-quartered sea of cafe tables.

  As usual, our sparse gathering of patrons, barely looked up from their seats. Mike Quinn, on the other hand, tracked the two zigzagging males as if he were a fixed bird of prey. “What happened to Matt’s friend?” he asked, his gaze never wavering from the pair until the two men left the building.

  I didn’t want to lie, but I didn’t intend to break my word either. “Oh, you can guess, can’t you?”

  Quinn turned back to me. “One too many decafs?”

  I laughed—in an unnaturally high pitch. Since it was time to aerate the top of the milk anyway, I let the steam wand’s gurgle drown out my disturbing impression of an overexcited munchkin from the land of Oz.

  Now Quinn’s gaze was fixed on me as I pulled two espresso shots and dumped both into a double-tall glass mug. Then I tilted the pitcher of steamed milk. Using a spoon, I held back the froth at the top, letting the velvety white warmth splash into the liquid ebony.

  The Blend had a tasty variety of latte flavors—vanilla, mocha, caramel, hazelnut, cinnamon-spice, and so on—but Quinn was a purist. I finished the drink with a few spoonfuls of frothy light foam and slid it to him. He took a few long sips of his no-frills latte, wiped away the slight traces of foam on his upper lip with two fingers, and sighed like a junkie getting his fix.

  I loved seeing the man’s stone face crack, relaxed pleasure shining out like sun rays through a storm cloud. I noticed the shadow of a beard on his jaw line. The dark brown scruff made him look a little dangerous. Not for the first time, I wondered what it would be like to wake up next to him first thing in the morning. He caught me looking. I turned away.

  For well over a year now, Mike Quinn had been a loyal friend. He was someone I’d trusted and confided in, someone who’d helped me get through difficult situations, a few of which had involved murder.

  Mike had confided in me, too . . . often about his case-loadand sometimes about the crumbling state of his thirteen-year marriage. He had two young children, a boy and a girl, and he’d wanted to stick it out for their sakes, but the last few years had been the worst. He’d tried marriage counseling, group therapy, and “couples’ exploration” weekends. Finally, he decided to grit his teeth and just bear it until his kids were older, but his wife didn’t feel the same. She was the one who made the final cut.

  About a month ago, she announced that she wanted a divorce. She intended to marry the “new” man in her life— which translated to the latest guy in a string of affairs. And since New York State requires couples to live apart for one year before a divorce can be granted, she insisted their jointly-owned Brooklyn brownstone be put on the market immediately.

  Mike’s wife and kids were now preparing to move into the guest house on the new man’s Long Island estate (the new man apparently pulled down in a month what a veteran detective made in a year), and Mike was living alone in Alphabet City. He’d taken a one bedroom rental, not that I’d seen it.

  Did I want to? was the real question.

  Yes! was my resounding answer.

  I’d had a brief summer fling with Jim Rand, but we’d parted ways at the start of September. Now he was scuba diving thousands of miles away, although it might as well have been millions. Jim was the kind of peripatetic lover of adventure who couldn’t stay in one place long enough to let a tomato plant take root, let alone a relationship, and I’d had his number from the moment I’d met him.

  The attraction between me and Mike was something else, something more. Over the past year, we’d flirted regularly, laughed at each other’s jokes, and shared many a long, quiet conversation. But as long as Mike was trying to make his marriage work, there was no way I was going to allow us to cross that platonic line.

  Things were different now . . . and yet they still weren’t right . . .

  My ex-husband’s little prediction about the man “making moves” on me was quaint, but I didn’t believe it for a second. Mike Quinn had “gun shy” written all over him—and it had nothing to do with the .45 peeking out of his shoulder holster.

  Although he was separated, he wasn’t legally divorced, and he was obviously still stressed and disturbed about the end of his marriage. When would he be ready to move on? I didn’t know. I couldn’t even be sure he’d want me when he was ready . . .

  Grabbing the portafilter handle, I gave it a sharp tug, unlocking the basket from the espresso machine. “So what’s new tonight?” I asked, knocking the cake of used grounds into the under-counter garbage.

  “You tell me.”

  I glanced up at him. Damn those blue eyes. “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “You’re such a terrible liar, Cosi.”

  I looked away, noticed Joy’s pot of decaf, and moved to pour myself a cup.

  “You know . . .” Mike said lazily sipping his drink, “Tucker told me what happened.”

  I froze, midpour.

  When Mike had come in earlier, he’d sat down at the coffee bar and made small talk with Tucker. Until now, I hadn’t considered what they’d been talking about. Obviously, Matt hadn’t either or he never would have made a deal with me.

  I threw out the cup of decaf. For this, I’d need caffeine.

  I dosed grounds into a portafilter, tamped, clamped, and pulled two shots. Then I poured the double into a cup and took it with me to face Mike across the marble bar.

  “What . . . exactly did he tell you?”

  “That someone mugged your ex-husband’s friend in your back alley. Why didn’t you call the police?”

  “You’re the police. And you’re here.”

  “But you didn’t call me.”

  “Matt’s friend . . . he didn’t want to report the incident.”

  “Why?”

  “There are issues.”

  “What issues?”

  I took another hit of caffeine. “I don’t know yet, but Matt promises he’ll tell me later.”

  Mike’s gaze didn’t waver. “Be careful, Clare.”

  “Of what?”

  “A man who doesn’t want to report a crime is usually a criminal himself.”

  I folded my arms. “Ric’s the victim here, not the criminal.”

  Mike didn’t try to argue; he simply continued drinking his coffee.

  “We’re going into business with this man, you see? He’s the one who made that breakthrough with the decaffeinated plant I mentioned. . . .” I was trying to project confidence, but I could tell I was coming off defensive. “It’s really an amazing thing, you know, for the trade? And Matt’s known Ric for almost his entire life.”

  Mike glanced away. “Matt’s not exactly pure as the driven snow.”

  “That’s not fair. I mean, okay . . . I wouldn’t call him an innocent lamb, but Matt’s definitely no criminal. And I don’t appreciate the snow crack.” I closed my eyes and held up my hand. “Don’t say it. I already know . . . crack is also a term for cocaine.”

  Mike drank more latte. “So what do you think happened?”

  “I’m not supposed to discuss it with you.”

  “Solve a few homicides and you’re flying solo, huh?”

  “I made a deal with Matt. He agreed to take Ric to St. Vincent’s ER now and tell me everything later—”

  “—as long as you keep the details from me.”

  “What are you, a mind reader?”

  “Some people are an open book.”

  “Meaning me? Now you sound like my ex-husband.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Listen,” I leaned on the coffee bar, closing the distance between us. “Since you already know the basics, I don’t see any harm in talking hypothetically.”

  “Hypothetical is my middle name.”

  “I thought it was Ryan.”

  “Aw, Clare . . . you remembered.”

  “Have you ever heard of a mugger using a prerecorded
message?”

  The detective put down his nearly empty latte glass. “You’re not kidding, are you?”

  I shook my head.

  “I’ve had voices mechanically distorted in extortion cases, but never a street mugger. Not in my experience.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Mike’s lips twitched. “What else do you think?”

  “If the mugger didn’t want his or her voice recognized, then Ric might have recognized it, right? Which means—”

  “Ric already knows this person.”

  “Or . . .” I murmured, “he’s about to know this person.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Ric’s in town for the ICGE—it’s an international trade show for the coffee industry. Later this week he’s announcinghis horticulture breakthrough, and it’s going to shake up a lot of people.”

  “What does ‘shake up’ translate to? Will it ruin them?”

  “No . . . at least not right away. Ric’s deal is exclusive with the Village Blend, and we’re a premium product. Something like this won’t change the mass market for years. This discovery shouldn’t be a total shock, either.”

  “Why not?”

  “People have been working on creating a viable decaffeinated plant for a little while now—the interest was negligible at first but the percentage of decaf drinkers has skyrocketed in the last fifty years. It was something like three percent in the sixties, now it’s close to twenty, and—”

  “You don’t have to tell me. It’s a very old song, where there’s a market, there’s interest in exploiting it.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Love it or hate it, so goes the capitalist formula for progress.”

  “So who’s competing with your friend?”

  “Some scientists in Hawaii are doing field tests on a genetically engineered decaffeinated plant. And back in 2004, there were rumors that Brazilian scientists from the Universidade Estadual de Campinas had identified a naturally decaffeinated Ethiopian coffee plant.”

  “What happened there? Why wasn’t that a success?”

  “Ethiopia supposedly raised issues over the ownership and that was the last anyone heard of it—the quality of those beans is still an unknown.”

  “Is Ric associated with that discovery?”

  “No. Ric’s living in Brazil now, but Matt tells me he did his own experimentation. He’s been interested in botany since he hung out here at the Blend back in college.”

  “He went to college here?”

  “He came as an exchange student from Costa Gravas for a year or so. He lived in the Village and took classes at NYU and Cornell, I think.”

  “I thought you said he was from Brazil.”

  “He and his family are living in Brazil now, but he was born and raised on Costa Gravas.”

  “Where is that? Central America?”

  “It’s a small Caribbean nation, near Jamaica, Spanish and English speaking. It was a British colony, which explains Ric’s surname. His father’s side held land there for generations. But now the island is independent and self-governing. Ric’s family left and went to Brazil. They reestablished their coffee farm there.”

  “Don’t you know why his family left?”

  “Not really. Matt and I were divorced when it happened, and I lost touch with Ric . . . until now.”

  “What kind of a guy is he, would you say?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is he the kind who makes a lot of enemies? Does he have a temper? A short fuse?”

  “No. The man’s as easygoing as they come. Five minutes after the mugging he was telling my daughter how beautifully she grew up.”

  “If he’s not one to make personal enemies—”

  “I didn’t say that . . . I don’t know him well enough, and . . .”

  “What?”

  “He’s a pretty smooth operator with women. At least he used to be, back in the day.”

  Mike nodded. “Would he sleep with a married woman?”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Crimes of passion are at the top of the charts in my caseload.”

  “I know . . . but it seems more likely that someone’s after Ric’s research.”

  “As well as his life?”

  “I don’t know that Ric’s life is in danger. The mugger stole his hotel room keycard. But this person might have taken his wallet too—the mugging was interrupted.”

  “How?”

  “I’m pretty sure a police siren spooked the mugger first, and then when this robber came back, I was there with Ric.”

  “Then you saw the mugger?”

  “No. Before I had the chance, I was introduced to our back wall.” I lifted my bangs, showing Mike my bruised forehead.

  “God, Clare . . .”

  I dropped my bangs, but he reached out to lift them again. With one hand, he held back my hair. With the other, he tested the bruise’s discolored edges. The rough pads of his fingers were gentle, but the injury was sore.

  I winced.

  “Sorry . . .” he whispered. “Damn that ex-husband of yours. He should have called 911.”

  Mike appeared to continue examining the bruise, but the affectionate way he kept stroking my hair was starting to scramble my brains. He just wouldn’t stop touching me, and for a moment I lost my voice along with my train of thought.

  “It’s okay,” I finally managed. “Ric was the one who needed the ER. He was pistol-whipped pretty badly. When I first found him, he was unconscious.”

  Mike’s hand released my chestnut bangs, but he didn’t pull away. Slowly, gently, he began to curl locks of hair around my ear. As his blue eyes studied my green ones, he seemed to be thinking something over. Then one finger drew a line down my jaw, stopping beneath my chin.

  If he had leaned just a little closer, he could have kissed me. But he didn’t lean closer. He leaned back, taking the heat of his touch with him.

  “I’ve got news for you, Clare,” he said quietly, “if the mugger hit him that hard, then it’s not a simple robbery.”

  “What is it?”

  “Attempted murder.”

  SEVEN

  “IS the flatfoot gone?” Matt asked.

  It was almost midnight. I’d just climbed the back stairs and entered my duplex to find my ex-husband pacing the living room like a recently caged tiger. His expensive duds were gone. He was back to the sort of clothes I was used to him wearing—an old, knobby fisherman’s sweater and well worn blue jeans.

  “Yes, Mike’s gone,” I said, tossing my keys onto the Chippendale end table. I was grubby and hungry, feeling the need for a jasmine bath and a PB and Nutella sandwich, if possible simultaneously. “Since our talk went on for a while, I sent Tucker home and closed myself. Unfortunately, two NYU Law study groups swung in around ten and nearly drank us dry. I had to kick the last of them out to lock up.”

  Matt seemed ready to retort with something snippy but stopped himself. After a few seconds of silence, he said, “You look tired . . .”

  “I am.”

  “Are you hungry? I warmed up some of my stew for Ric. There’s some left on the stove.”

  “Great . . .” I turned to head into the kitchen. Matt stepped by me, touching my arm. “Take a load off. I’ll get it.”

  I wasn’t going to argue. I’d set the bar low with the PB and Nutella simply because I was too tired to do anything more than slather my plain peanut butter sandwich with hazelnut-chocolate spread. I much preferred a hot, meaty snack—as long as I didn’t have to cook it myself. And, it appeared, I didn’t.

  I dropped into a rosewood armchair, pulled off my low-heeled boots, and wiggled my sore toes inside my forest green socks. They seemed to disappear against the jewel-toned colors of the Persian area rug.

  Madame had done an amazing job decorating this duplex. The richly patterned carpet provided a lovely counterpoint to the lighter motifs in the room’s color scheme. The walls were pale peach, the marble fireplace and sheer draperies a creamy
white. The chairs and sofa were upholstered in a finely striped pattern of mandarin silk. Anchored above my head, in the fleur-de-lys ceiling molding, was a pulley chandelier of polished bronze and six blushing globes of faceted crystal.

  Whenever Matt was in town, which was rarely more than one week a month, he had the legal right to use this apartment, too. Neither of us owned it outright. Madame had merely granted us equal rights to use this antique-filled West Village duplex rent free.

  I’d tried arguing with Matt, but he wasn’t willing to give up his rights to the tasty piece of real estate with two working fireplaces and a newly renovated bath of Italian marble—and neither was I. Given the high cost of living in this neighborhood, and our own anemic savings accounts, we’d agreed on an uneasy truce.

  Matt approached me with a warm bowl of his carne con café, a coffee-infused beef stew. He’d adapted the recipe from a traditional Mayan dish, which he’d enjoyed on one of his trips to El Salvador.

  “Mmmmm . . .” I murmured, “smells like sustenance.”

  I dug in with gusto, appreciating the tang of the garlicky tomatoes and the brightness of the poblanos against the earthy combination of beef and coffee. Matt had placed a hunk of crusty French bread on top of the bowl. I dipped the bread in the thick, meaty gravy, and tore off a sloppy mouthful.

  “How long have you been back?” I mumbled through my less-than-ladylike chomping.

  “A little over an hour,” Matt said. “I saw your cop boyfriend through the Blend’s windows, so we came up through the alley entrance.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend . . . and did you just say we?”

  “Ric and I.”

  “Ric’s here?”

  “He’s upstairs, in my bedroom.”

  “They didn’t admit him at the hospital?”

  “His scan checked out okay. No hemorrhaging. They wanted to admit him for observation, but he refused, and I wouldn’t let him go back to his hotel.”

  “So we can keep an eye on him? Or because of the stolen keycard?” I asked.

  “Both.”

  “Keeping an eye on him is easy. What about the keycard? Can the hotel change the locks?”

  “They already have.”

  Matt moved to one of the windows, pushed back the sheers. Peering past the flower boxes, he surveyed the shadowy street. “Ric notified the Marriott before we left for the ER—”