by Cleo Coyle
Seventeen
AN hour later, Quinn and I were making our way back down Hudson Street to my wrecked coffeehouse.
We’d hung around the Bomb Squad long enough to watch DeFasio act on my information. First he notified his superiors of Thorner’s itinerary and a possible new bomb target. Then he gathered a team, briefing them while they waited for the final green light to cross state lines and make the run to New Jersey.
The lieutenant refused to take me along—although he did bring the rest of my Baileys fudge. (Note to self: the next time you bribe an NYPD commander with food, plant a bug in the Tupperware.) Consequently, Quinn and I wished the squad luck, waved good-bye to their departing truck, and trudged back out into the cold, January air.
When we finally reached my duplex, the sun was beginning to rise. I thought we’d be dog tired. Instead, we were both wired. I suggested coffee and eggs. Quinn had other ideas for spending our excess adrenaline.
With a half-smile, he guided me away from the kitchen and up the stairs, where he shed his shoulder holster, yanked his tie loose, and kicked shut the bedroom door.
Before I could get a word in, Quinn was dancing me backward. When the back of my knees hit the edge of the mattress, he began tugging off my boots, my pants, my sweater . . .
“You’re sure you don’t want coffee?” I teased.
“Don’t you think I’m stimulated enough?”
“Oh, now I see. This is your way of getting me to brew decaf?”
“Bite your tongue, Cosi,” he said, nuzzling my neck. “Don’t ever try to serve me castrated coffee . . .”
I couldn’t guess what sparked this: The excitement of the case? DeFasio’s continually roving eyes? My Irish Cream fudge?
Whatever the cause, I didn’t care. All that weighty darkness in Quinn was gone. No more anxious need or heaviness of heart. Just electric excitement, a thrilling buoyancy that swept me right along with it.
Soon I was the one lacking patience, and I let my fingers do the walking, unbuttoning Quinn’s button-down, unbuckling his belt . . . then my mouth found his and we got busy.
Thirty minutes later, we were both (finally) as exhausted as Eric Thorner’s smartphone battery. Lying on my side, still catching my breath, I touched Quinn’s stubbly cheek.
His unshaven beard appeared darker than his sandy hair. That morning shadow, along with the intense look in his gaze, gave him a dangerous, almost outlaw air—an aspect of himself he let few people see.
I’d seen it plenty.
To most of the world, Quinn was a straight-laced, do-right guy, but I knew he would break rules, even skirt the law, to protect the people he cared about, me included—and I brushed his lips for that. Then I tried to thank him for his help with the Bomb Squad, but he stopped me.
“It’s me who should be thanking you.”
“For what?”
“It felt good to be back at the Sixth . . .” He brushed back my chestnut bangs. “I’d forgotten what being a cop felt like.”
“As opposed to being a bureaucrat?”
Unlike my own post-lovemaking fuzziness, Quinn’s arcticblue eyes were sharp and clear. “You were right, Cosi. Monday morning, I’m going to have a long sit-down with Sully and my squad. No more e-mails and text messages. This time I’m straightening things out face-to-face.”
“What about your boss in Washington? Won’t Lacey be upset?”
“I’ll take the noon express back to DC. Extenuating circumstances.”
“Which are?”
“You should know. You’re the one who helped DeFasio figure out there might have been another target—Thorner’s server farm.”
“But why should that matter to your supervisor at Justice?”
“Because this car bomb incident is now crossing state lines, which means Federal officers must be a part of this case, and since I was involved in helping a witness come forward with new information—”
“I get it. I gave you a late slip for class.”
Quinn smiled and pulled me across his broad chest. “Thanks, Mom.”
I snuggled down and sighed. “You and I may have helped find the real target, but that’s a far cry from finding the real bomber.”
“No,” Quinn said. “It’s not.”
“It’s not?”
“The real target will help DeFasio and his colleagues deduce the real motive. And real motives are some of the best leads we can follow. As much as facts and evidence, a true motive can reveal a true killer.”
I considered that idea along with Sergeant Franco’s private words to me on Hudson the day before: “. . . the killer . . . must have had a real hate on for his victim . . . because the device wasn’t designed to blow up the car so much as roast the occupants alive . . .”
I lifted my head. “However they catch this bomber, Mike, I hope they do it soon.”
“Me too, sweetheart. Now get some rest.”
I wanted to—I just didn’t know if I could.
Sure, by this time my back was sore, my limbs tired, my eyelids heavy, but what would happen when I closed them?
With a deep breath, I gave it a try. No more airports, clocks, or explosions (thank goodness); the only thing my mind’s eye saw was the perfect peace of blessed black.
Eighteen
MONDAY morning came far too quickly. Before I knew it, Mike was gone and the long, cold day left me with nothing to focus on but the plight of my badly battered coffeehouse.
We still had no electricity or phone service, and I spent far too much time on my cell, trying to untie Con Edison’s and Verizon’s red tape. Then the insurance adjuster arrived.
I gave the man a tour of our shop’s damage—interior and exterior—and strongly suggested his assessment be generous, especially for an institution as longstanding and beloved as the Village Blend.
“I’ll be in touch with the owner,” he said with an effortless poker face.
Meanwhile, my Tucker checked in and (hour after hour) we turned away customers, which made all of us sad.
“So how long are we going to be closed?” Tuck asked near the end of the day.
“Three weeks. And that’s an optimistic estimate.”
Tuck groaned. “What about the staff? How are we going to earn our living?”
“The Village Blend still has catering jobs scheduled.”
“That’s two days a week at most. It’s not enough income.”
“I know.”
“Can’t you afford to give us vacation pay?”
“Not for long. A week is the most the shop can afford.”
Tucker shook his head. “If you put your baristas on unemployment, they’ll start looking for other work at other coffeehouses—and they may never come back.”
“Believe me, Tuck, I don’t want to lose them.”
“And what about the community groups? Our second-floor lounge is booked three nights out of seven. These groups don’t have much money, and they’ve already spent advertising budgets to draw their crowds. Esther had a big poetry slam showdown scheduled for next weekend. What’s she going to do?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to think of something, I’ll just have to . . .”
*
AS WINTER darkness set in, I lit a fire and some candles. Tucker was gone, off to meet his boyfriend, Punch, for dinner. He felt badly about not being able to invite me, but I understood—their host was an off-off-Broadway producer eager to discuss a new project.
On my own, I took a seat at our blue-marble counter and numbly consumed a meal of sweet-and-sour Chinese takeout—which was way too heavy on the MSG. By my last bite, my head was pounding and my heart aching, but not from the MSG. I was badly missing Mike (as I usually did just after his visits), and I dreaded facing my empty duplex.
Unfortunately, there was little comfort to be found down here in the ruins.
On any other Monday, the vacant tables around me would have been filled by neighborhood regulars, students from New York University, newcomers, and tour
ists. My staff would be busy behind the counter; the gurgling of the espresso machine would mingle with the soft jazz from our sound system and the quiet buzz of conversation. There would be light, warmth, comfort—and caffeine—with my brick hearth adding its inviting firelight to the cozy scene.
Tonight, my only companions were a sharp chill and oppressive gloom. With slabs of wood replacing the shop’s French windows, the Village Blend had all the ambiance of a cemetery vault. Even the candles I’d scattered about seemed more funereal than soothing.
And then . . . a light went on! (No thanks to the electric company.)
As I boiled water behind the coffeehouse counter, and added hand-ground beans to my small French press, I found myself studying a framed photograph I’d seen a thousand times before.
Seen, but never understood—until now.
I yanked the photo off the wall and rushed to my cell phone on the counter. The owner of the Village Blend was on speed dial, and she picked up at once.
“I need to see you! When can you come over?”
Madame Blanche Dreyfus Allegro Dubois heard the urgent excitement in my voice, and responded in kind. “Otto and his guests have just finished il secondo at Del Posto, my dear, but I shall skip dessert and see you tout de suite!”
Nineteen
MADAME Dreyfus Allegro Dubois emerged from the yellow cab wrapped in caramel blond suede. I hurried to open the shop’s front door, but she failed to move toward it. Instead, her slender form stood stiff as an ice sculpture in front of her landmark coffeehouse.
I could almost feel her heartache as she scanned the scorched bricks, burned wood, and blistered paint; then took in the rough plywood covering the shattered French windows, the broken hinges that left our hand-crafted shutters hanging askew.
A bitter gust tried (and failed) to ruffle the firm upsweep of Madame’s French twist. She replied with a snap of her fur-lined collar before finally approaching me.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, closing the dented door behind her.
“Don’t be sorry, dear.” She waved a gloved hand. “Sorrow wastes energy.”
“What should I be then?”
“Be resolved. A little face-lift is all she needs. Rather like her owner.” She sent me a little wink. “Now, where shall we sit . . .”
It wasn’t a question. Before I could reply, my octogenarian employer was moving with regal assurance to a table beside the hearth, where she took full advantage of the crackling fire, pulling off her blond-leather gloves and rubbing her gently wrinkled hands in front of the blaze.
I set a flickering candle on the table for added light and brought over a serving tray. Then she unbelted her long, suede coat—and I could see I’d interrupted a special evening.
Beneath her fur-lined outerwear, Madame was swathed in a suit of shimmering winter white, which dramatically complemented her silver gray hair. Draped around her neck was her Starry Night over the Rhone scarf. The Van Gogh’s palette of sapphire, aquamarine, and purple augmented the striking hue of her blue violet eyes, but the art museum print would have been a fitting accessory for any dinner with Otto, the “younger man” in her life. (He’d been barely out of his sixties when she’d snagged his attention.)
As a gallery owner, Otto was often wining and dining clients and artists alike, and Madame’s years of nurturing the latter through the most colorful decades in Greenwich Village history made her a prized dinner companion.
The only thing about Madame’s appearance that seemed off to me was her jewelry—or more accurately, the lack of it.
My former motherin-law was exceedingly proud of her jewelry collection, which spanned decades and continents, and she seldom missed a chance to show it off. Tonight, however, she wore none of her custom-made bracelets, brooches, or rings. Her only adornment was a platinum chain dangling a single teardrop pearl, its setting delicately sculpted to resemble a plumeria, the Hawaiian flower of welcome.
The necklace was a wedding gift from the late Antonio Allegro—Matt’s father and the great love of Madame’s life. He’d given it to his young bride during their honeymoon in the Kona District on the big island. (Matt and I had spent our honeymoon there, as well.)
I was tempted to ask about her sparse accessory display, but tabled it in favor of a cheerier subject—
“Since you skipped dessert, I’m making it up to you . . .”
“Delightful,” Madame announced after a satisfying bite into my Chocolate-Dipped Crunchy Almond Biscotti. (I’d approached my biscotti-making like the gelato makers of Sicily, working on the recipe until it tasted more like a dunkable stick of chocolate-covered almonds than a cookie.)
From the coffee press, I poured her a freshly brewed cup of my new Fireside Blend. She lifted her cup to sample it, a serious expression on her face. (And I held my breath.)
“I see you’re using Matt’s new peaberries from that Thai hill tribe cooperative.”
“Yes, along with his Guatemalan and Colombian Supremo.” (I’d roasted each to bring out their respective best notes and combined them for the blend.)
“I can taste the caramel and macadamia nut . . .” she noted between appraising sips. She waited for the brew to cool a bit more. “Brown sugar . . . graham cracker, green cardamom, cinnamon . . . and chocolate. My compliments to the chef!”
For the first time since arriving, she actually smiled, and I sat back in relief. I also prayed she’d keep smiling after I made my pitch. Clearing my throat, I presented the framed photo . . .
“Madame, do you remember this?”
“Is this a memory test, dear?”
“Not exactly . . .”
I handed over the frame. The scene depicted appeared to be a Village street festival at night. The shaggy hairstyles, bell-bottom jeans, and polyester prints suggested the seventies. A guitarist played cross-legged on a blanket. Young people were gathered around him, singing and laughing.
I pointed to the edge of the photo. “Aren’t those our Village Blend’s French doors?”
“Indeed they are,” Madame said with a wistful look, then a little smile crossed her face and she moved her hand down the photo frame in an almost tender gesture. “This is one of Nathan’s—”
“Nate Sumner?” I assumed the former New York photojournalist and activist was just one of the renowned artists, actors, and writers who’d frequented our shop. Nate was a professor at the New School now, still a regular customer. But the way she said his name . . .
“Was there something between you two back then?”
“A little something, yes, you could say that. Nathan took this during the blackout of seventy-seven.”
“July nineteen seventy-seven?”
“That’s right. Everything went dark around nine thirty.” She pursed her lips. “Those were dark times for this city, as well, and I don’t just mean the blackout.”
“You’re referring to the recession?”
“And the Son of Sam murders—those insane shootings had terrorized everyone that summer, six dead and seven wounded.” She shook her head. “On top of that, corruption and incompetence were being exposed at all levels of our government. Too many people stopped believing in a civil society. What happened that night was the result.”
“What do you mean?”
“Many of the city’s neighborhoods exploded with violence. Stores were ransacked and destroyed. Buildings were set ablaze. There was so much looting and chaos that the police were helpless.”
“But there’s nothing like that in this photo,” I noted, tapping the glass. “Tell me what went on here . . .”
“After the blackout hit, I was planning to close. It was Nate who came in with this family—a mother, father, and three adolescent children. He’d found them stumbling through the streets in abject fear. They were tourists from a small town in the Midwest who’d taken the subway to the Village so the kids could see ‘where the hippies lived.’ Now they were lost, stranded, and frightened, with no train, bus, or taxi to take them back to thei
r hotel.”
“So you stayed open for them?”
“Yes, and that’s when Nate made me realize more people were wandering around our neighborhood with no way to get home. Most of the businesses around our shop—the restaurants, delis, even the bars—had locked up shortly after they lost power.”
Madame sighed. “Our neighborhood needed us, and I couldn’t say no. Within an hour, our shop was filled to capacity. I didn’t want to turn anyone away, so I came up with a solution.”
“Your catering tent.” I pointed. “That’s it in the photo’s background, right?”
“Yes, Nate and his friends erected it over the alley beside the coffeehouse. They put Chinese lanterns on poles and our regulars showed up with folding chairs and milk crates.”
“Looks like you were the hub of the Village that night.”
“Yes; young people spread blankets, played guitars, read poetry—but the blackout made us more than an improvised party, Clare. Those who needed serious help came to us, too: victims of crimes; people with medical conditions. Police officers began stopping by every thirty minutes to pick up new cases.”
“What you did was wonderful.”
“We did it together, our staff, my Nathan, and his ‘hippie’ friends—” She gave me a little wink. “Many of the stores that closed were looted, but not ours. Instead of shutting ourselves off in fear, becoming victims—part of the problem—we became a solution.”
“A solution! This is exactly”—I tapped the photo—“what we should do.”
“What do you mean?”
“This shop is blacked out again, but our staff and community need us to reopen. I say we do it, the very same way you did back then.”
“My dear, have you been drinking something other than coffee? This is January, not July. It’s positively freezing out there.”
“I phoned Matt already. I’m borrowing one of his emergency generators from the Red Hook warehouse. We can erect our catering tent over the alley, bring out tables and chairs, warm the space with portable heaters—”
