by Cleo Coyle
“When are we landing?” I asked.
“São Paulo–Guarulhos International is only about an hour away now. Brazil, here we come.”
“Great,” I muttered. A four-day detour to South America certainly wasn’t on my schedule. All I’d wanted was a ride back to my coffeehouse.
“What’s eating you?”
“I should have hopped a commercial flight back to New York. I don’t know why Eric insisted I join Minnow. She knows much more than I do. She was the one spying on Braddock and Donny Chu. All I did was avoid an ugly lesson in Gray’s Anatomy.”
Matt shot me a look. “You know why Eric wanted you aboard: ‘propinquity and intensity.’ That’s his philosophy on romance, isn’t it? He still thinks if you spend enough time with him, you’ll fall in love.”
“Well, he’s got to get over it.”
Matt smirked. “I don’t know, Clare, play your cards right and you could be the most famous cougar since Demi Moore.”
“What if I don’t want to play cards or be a cougar?”
“Consider your options before you try to survive on a flatfoot’s salary.”
“Let’s not go there. I’ll only get cranky.”
“Don’t you mean crankier?”
“Give me a break. A mere eight hours ago, I was fending off an Australian octopus and nearly drowned after a beaning by a nearsighted beach bimbo.”
“Sounds like intensity to me. Too bad for Thorner he wasn’t there to save you instead of Minnow.”
I glanced at wide-eyed Wilhelmina Tork—the only completely contented passenger aboard this aircraft. She was basking in Eric’s undivided attention. It didn’t matter what they were talking about, Minnow was just happy to be with the man she adored.
“It’s a tragedy,” I whispered. “Eric wants me, but I’m in love with Mike. Meanwhile Minnow is obsessed with Eric, and has been for years.”
“Yeah, sure.” Matt rolled his eyes. “It’s a recipe for misery.”
“Your tone is heartless.”
“You expect me to shed tears over a boy billionaire’s love life?”
“What about poor Minnow? Oh, Matt, she’s the perfect girl for him, if only he could see it. She can be difficult on the surface, but down deep she’s so brave and beautiful. She reminds me of our daughter. I wish there was something we could do.”
Matt glanced at Minnow and fell silent for a minute. “You know what?”
“What?”
A devious little smile crossed his face. “Eric Thorner’s not the only guy on this flying RV who can grant your wishes.” He pulled out his smartphone. “Maybe we can do something . . .”
*
THAT afternoon, the four of us piled into a rented Land Rover and headed out of the city and into the Brazilian countryside. Our destination: Terra Perfeita, the notorious “forbidden” coffee plantation.
I admit, I was a little nervous as we pulled up to the farm’s chained front gate. The plantation had been put on lockdown by the government for its recent role in assisting traffickers of oxidado (aka Brazilian crack)—and I wasn’t sure how Matt planned to get us in.
After shutting off the engine (and the air conditioning), Matt warned me, Minnow, and Eric to stay put in the vehicle. He got out and approached two of the four police officers guarding the farm’s entrance with fairly serious-looking automatic weapons. For a good fifteen minutes, Matt spoke to them (in fluent Brazilian Portuguese).
I rolled down my window. It was summer in this hemisphere, and the afternoon sun baked the dusty dirt road, but the cool breeze flowing down from the green hills brought relief, and a riot of fragrances. I closed my eyes, inhaling blossoming flowers and ripening pineapples, bananas, mangoes, and the exotic local jabuticaba.
“What are they talking about?” Eric whispered.
“I’m sure they’re haggling over the price of admission,” I said.
Minnow’s eyes widened. “A bribe?”
I nodded. “They might be speaking Portuguese, but discussions of money are universal.”
Matt was all smiles when he finally climbed back in the Land Rover. “We have the plantation to ourselves for the rest of the day.”
“What did that big guard say to you?” Eric asked.
“He warned me about the drug gangs. They’re still prowling the area.”
“Drug gangs!” Minnow cried. “But this is the middle of nowhere!”
“Punks from São Paulo and Rio sometimes take over abandoned farms, where they set up oxidado labs,” Matt told her. “The gangs go unchallenged because rural cops aren’t equipped to deal with them.”
The officers removed heavy chains from the front gate and motioned us through.
“Welcome to Terra Perfeita,” Matt declared, “coffee’s Garden of Eden . . .”
He glanced at me and I nodded. (I certainly hoped it would be.)
After bypassing the large plantation house, we headed into the coffee fields, clouds of dust rising in the Rover’s wake.
“The best plots are up that hill.” He pointed. “We can unpack our picnic then scout for plants. After lunch, we’ll head back—”
Sudden gunshots exploded behind us, long bursts of automatic weapons fire followed by a flurry of individual shots.
Matt swerved off the dirt road, into a shallow valley. He drove along the bottom of a bumpy gulch until we reached a small stone building, where he cut the engine. In the distance, more shots rang out, followed by an explosion. Smoke filled the sky in the direction of the front gate and big, main house.
“Grab the food and blankets, get into that little stone building, and stay there!” Matt shouted. “I’ll find out what’s happening.”
Matt disappeared into the thick brush as we emptied the Rover of its supplies and scrambled into the darkened hut. Huddled beside a rustic fieldstone hearth, we listened while the shooting continued.
“Maybe we should have brought our own security,” Minnow moaned.
“You remember what Matt said at the hotel,” I whispered. “Security would have made you a flashy target for kidnappers. Better we look like clueless American tourists than a billionaire and his entourage.”
After another bout of yelling and gunfire, things got ominously quiet.
Minutes passed before Matt burst through the stone hut’s wooden door. He was panting and his khaki vest was covered with blood.
“Oh, my God. You’re shot!” I cried.
“No, no . . . this isn’t my blood. I’m okay. But the two policemen I spoke with aren’t. They’re dead. The drug dealers have taken over the plantation’s big, main house and they’re blocking the road. We’re not getting out of here in the Land Rover.”
Minnow whimpered. Eric paled.
Matt reached into his pocket and held out a gun. “Take this, Eric. I pulled it off one of the dead officers.”
“What the hell!” Eric cried but Matt thrust the weapon into his hand.
“I know this area and I can get us out of here alive,” Matt promised. “You just have to do what I say.”
Eric and Minnow nodded.
“Now listen carefully: I’ll divert the gang away from this building and ditch the Rover. Then I’ll double around on foot and slip past the roadblock. The hike to town will take me a couple of hours, but with luck I’ll hitch a ride, and when I come back it will be with a SWAT team.”
“What do we do in the meantime?” Eric asked, one arm around a now-sobbing Minnow.
“Stay put. This little farmhouse is boarded up and hidden. The gang is using the big, main house. They’re not going to bother with this little hut—unless you make noise or show your faces. And do not use any phones or electronic devices. These drug gangs use scanners to keep tabs on the movement of police. If they see your signal, they will seek you out. Remember, kidnapping and extortion are big business down here.”
Before Matt could leave, I jumped up and threw my arms around my ex. “You’re not going alone, Matteo! You’re the father of my daughter and I’m goi
ng with you! Better we die together than spend our lives apart.”
I kissed Matt hard, and he kissed me back. When we broke the lip lock, I clung desperately to my ex. Eric appeared devastated.
“Sit tight,” Matt said. “Wait it out till morning. You have a blanket, food, water, wine . . . you’re all set.”
As we turned to leave, Eric gripped Matt’s arm. “I appreciate the risk you’re taking to get us out of here safely. Thank you.”
“I’ll do everything I can,” Matt vowed.
With that, my ex took my hand and we slipped through the door. A few moments later, we were in the Rover again, driving away from the farmhouse and toward the drug dealers.
*
“CARE for another drink, Matteo? Clare?”
The man asking was Jorge, the man in charge of the Brazilian police officers who were supposedly “killed” by drug dealers in the firefight.
Of course, nobody was killed.
What they were, however, was happily paid off (with a relatively small sum in U.S. dollars). For that “performance fee,” the rest of Jorge’s pals agreed to remain back at the plantation, shooting off guns every hour or so to make Eric and Minnow believe they were surrounded by deadly gangsters.
I yawned and stretched on my poolside lounge chair, smiling my thanks to Jorge. “No more alcohol or I’ll pass out. I’m going for another dip; then I’ll dress for the restaurant.”
I was treading blue water when Matt appeared. He sat down on the edge of the pool. I swam up to him.
“How do you think they’re doing?” I asked.
Matt shrugged. “We’ll find out in the morning. Right now we have another problem. This little hotel is short on space. We’ll have to share a room.”
I slicked back my wet hair. “Nice try.”
“I mean it, there’s only one bed in this whole joint.”
“Listen, Allegro, this cupid setup is for one couple, not two. If there’s only one bed, then you take it. I’m fine on an inflatable pool raft.”
My ex frowned, defeated. “Fine. You’ll get your own room.”
“Don’t sulk, Matt, it’ll give you wrinkles.”
*
THE next morning we pulled up to the farm’s little stone house and peeked through two loose boards in a front window. Minnow and Eric were under a blanket beside the hearth, wrapped in each other’s arms.
“Nice job,” I whispered in Matt’s ear.
“Thanks, but I have to credit my mother for this one.”
“Madame is a real player, I’ll grant you that. But I didn’t know you called her for advice.”
“Didn’t have to. I’m her son. I grew up with her sayings.”
“What?” I cocked my head. “Love comes from ‘propinquity with intensity’? She said that?”
“No.” He smiled. “‘Turn up the right heat at the right time and you can brew up almost anything.’”
Sixty-eight
ON the plane trip home that evening, Matt spoke excitedly to Eric about the Ambrosia cuttings he’d bagged from Terra Perfeita, but the billionaire was only half listening. It was clear he was more interested in refocusing his attention on his newly discovered passion—for Wilhelmina Tork.
The next morning, when the two emerged from the privacy of the bedroom area, I made fresh coffee.
“We should be back in New York in another hour,” Matt declared, checking his watch.
“And back to work,” Minnow added with a beaming grin for Eric. “I’d better check my in-box.”
When Wilhelmina pulled her THORN, Inc., smartphone out of her backpack, I did a double take.
“Minnow, did you have that phone with you in Florida?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“You didn’t leave another phone in your Manhattan apartment?”
“This is my only phone,” Minnow replied. “Thank goodness it’s waterproof and shockproof, because I jumped off Braddock’s yacht with it in my pocket!”
Waterproof! Shockproof!
Rocked by the double shocks, I fell into one of the plane’s recliners.
My first shock: Eric’s sister, Eden Thorner, was a liar!
When I’d called from Florida, Eden assured me Minnow was in New York. But why lie?
“Oh, my God!” Minnow cried.
“What?”
“It’s Darren . . . Darren Engle. My alerts for THORN, Inc., sent me to the news story. They found his body in my apartment with his head bashed in. They say there was no forced entry. He was murdered by multiple blows to the head from my dragon slayer resin statue. I’m wanted for questioning!”
*
TWO hours later, we were back on the ground and Eric was driving Minnow straight to his lawyers’ downtown offices.
The billionaire was bringing an army of high-priced suits to One Police Plaza to help untangle the web that had ensnared his brand-new beloved.
My goal was the same: to free Minnow of any charges and throw a net over the true guilty party. But I had no patience for untangling. I was going to cut straight through this mess, and I couldn’t do that picking apart legal threads at police headquarters.
My destination was the West Village—and not my Village Blend, even though (regardless of the early hour), I really needed one of Matt’s double espressotinis.
What I needed even more was face time with my favorite NYPD Bomb Squad commander, Dennis “the Menace” DeFasio.
*
“WELL, if it isn’t the Queen of Coffee!” DeFasio’s greeting was one of wary cheer. We sat in his cluttered office in the Sixth Precinct. “I never thought I’d see you again. Not after we arrested your pal, Nate Sumner.”
“How is that case going for you, Lieutenant?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation.” He lowered his voice. “Off the record: Things have come to a dead stop. Right now the investigating officers are looking at other angles.”
“Other suspects, you mean?”
“No other suspects. Not yet.”
“Then you must be referring to ‘angles’ like Charley Polaski’s heavyset husband, Joe? The guy who fell—or was more likely pushed—off the High Line the other night? Anyone check him out for dart marks from a tranquilizer gun? The kind wildlife enthusiasts shoot wolves with in Wyoming to track their migration patterns?”
DeFasio’s eyebrow rose. “How could you possibly know—”
“I’m guessing the very same kind of dart was just used in a Chelsea apartment to render the very tall Darren Engle unconscious enough for his head to be bashed in by a dragon slayer statue.”
DeFasio went quiet for a long moment. “No wonder Mike Quinn’s so sweet on you. Have you got hard evidence, Cosi?”
“I have a way to get it. Or rather, you might. You just don’t know it yet.”
And this is where my second shock was about to pay off.
When Anton Alonzo had handed me my THORN phone, he described it as fireproof and shockproof. I hadn’t thought much about it until Minnow’s phone had survived a major dip in the Atlantic.
That’s why I asked DeFasio to get his hands on Charley Polaski’s smartphone, the one they’d retrieved from the burned-out remains of Eric’s car.
When Charley’s phone arrived at his desk, we looked it over. As I suspected, it was a THORN phone. It was also scorched and drained of power with a heat-cracked screen.
“What do you want with this, Cosi?” DeFasio challenged. “We already have what was on it . . .”
As he explained it, the e-forensics people hadn’t bothered tinkering with the phone itself because they’d already downloaded a duplicate of its digital files from the backup server at THORN, Inc.
“Please, Lieutenant, humor me. I want to see what’s on this phone.”
“That phone’s not going to start, Cosi, look at its condition.”
“You don’t understand. It’s a THORN phone. It’s built to be indestructible. I’m sure, even with the external damage, the data will be accessibl
e once the device is recharged.”
“Okay, you got me. But how do we recharge the thing? The pin configuration won’t fit a standard—”
“Try this.” I handed him the charger for my own THORN phone.
“You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”
“I try.”
“Then why do you think we’ll find new evidence in the dead chauffeur’s phone?”
“You know Charley was more than a driver, right?”
“Yeah, she was working undercover as a PI.”
That’s when I told DeFasio what Joe Polaski had told me—I finally understood what he meant that night he grabbed me. Charley had a routine. She gathered information, took coded notes, and stored them on her THORN phone. Then she transferred those notes to Joe, who agreed to keep them safe for her.
After the info was safely transferred, she deleted the data before the THORN server performed its daily backup, pulling the day’s data into its archives.
“The backup happens at midnight, according to the instructions for my own phone, so Charley was erasing her phone logs daily to make sure no one at the company, not even Eric, could read her files and find out what she’d learned.”
“I get it . . .” I could feel DeFasio’s excitement. “Charley was killed before she could erase what she’d discovered on the day of her murder.”
“Exactly.”
“You really think that phone is still functional? And the data is still there?”
“Let’s hope.”
“Okay, then. Let’s see . . .”
I thanked DeFasio and he saw me to the door, adding a sheepish request of his own. “Some of the guys wanted me to ask: can we get a few more samples of that Baileys Irish Cream Fudge?”
“Listen, if your squad can help clear Nate Sumner and Minnow Tork, I’ll personally deliver enough to get all of us bombed.”
Sixty-nine
SO much happened over the next two days that my impromptu trip to Brazil felt like ancient history.
