by Cleo Coyle
After DeFasio fully recharged Charley’s THORN phone, he found incriminating evidence.
Just as I’d thought, the evidence pointed to Eric’s sister, Eden Thorner.
Eden must have sensed it was over because she’d completely disappeared. She’d ditched her credit cards and deactivated her phone, along with its GPS tracking, leaving no way to trace her movements.
When Eric returned from Brazil, he and Anton Alonzo searched for Eden in her Manhattan apartment, her summer house in the Hamptons, and her country home in Connecticut, but she was gone without a trace.
*
“I WONDER where she went.”
Matt shrugged, gaze glued to his smartphone. “Probably some country without a U.S. extradition treaty.”
We were back at the Village Blend, and things had finally returned to normal—normal for my coffeehouse, anyway.
The morning rush had ended, and I took a break. As I sunk into a stool beside Matt, Esther approached, two espresso cups in hand.
“You’ve got to try this, guys! Don’t ask what it is. Just taste it.”
Esther set the steaming demitasses in front of me and Matt, then stepped back to gauge our reactions.
I sipped, and found the espresso rich, dark, nutty, with hints of walnut and almond, topped by an amazing crema. As it cooled there were notes of raspberries, maple syrup—and was that pancake batter?!
“Brilliant!” I said after my third compulsive gulp.
Matt nodded. “Very nice.”
“This cup tastes like a country breakfast,” I said. “What did you do, Esther? Break into the Red Hook warehouse and roast one of those rare beans Matt imported for Eric?”
“It’s just our own Morning Blend, boss. I’ve been practicing 24/7 with the new Slayer; I can vary the pressure and express time so even those old, familiar coffees we’ve always served have flavors we never knew existed.”
“FEI,” Nancy said. “Weekend business picked up plenty since we started using the Slayer. Dante and I had to close an hour late on Saturday because we had so much last-minute traffic.”
“FEI? Nancy, don’t you mean FYI? As in For Your Information?” Esther asked.
Nancy shrugged. “What I said was for everyone’s information.”
I laughed, Esther slapped her forehead, and Tucker rushed through the front door—accompanied by an early spring breeze and the excited tinkling of our old familiar doorbell, lost after the explosion wrecked our shop but found again by intrepid members of the NYPD.
The Bomb Squad located the dented brass bell in the evidence bin when they retrieved Charley’s phone. Sergeant Spinelli returned it to us and I handed over a double batch of my Baileys fudge—a happy trade for all parties.
“Hot off the presses!” Tuck said, dropping an open New York Times in front of me, Matt, Esther, and Nancy before shedding his coat.
I read the headline and scanned the first few paragraphs, but as an insider, I already knew everything in the report.
Officially Eden Thorner was wanted for embezzlement, because she pilfered millions of corporate dollars in the months before she fled. Unofficially, she was the prime suspect in the murders of Charley and Joseph Polaski, and Darren Engel—her intern.
My theory: the brilliant, young rocketeer had made the car bomb for her and even helped her murder Joe. “Your wish is my command, Milady . . .”
The words I’d heard at THORN’s Appland echoed sadly in my mind.
Darren must have been in love with Eden, and she’d used him to her own ends. Everything was fine with Nate arrested, but when her brother started working in Nate’s defense, she clearly became nervous about how much Darren knew, so she killed her accomplice in an attempt to frame Minnow for all of the murders.
Of course, this whole murderous mess started with the death of the young, gorgeous actress with a drinking problem—Bianca Hyde, the girl who’d gotten bombed before she got bashed, which resulted in the LAPD ruling the death accidental.
I still wasn’t sure why Eric’s sister had killed Bianca. I had my theories, but I didn’t care about espousing them any longer because my personal quest was over.
Little Minnow was off the hook. And all charges against Nate Sumner were dropped. The head of Solar Flare would be released from jail by noon.
Madame was planning to meet Nate at the courthouse, and she was probably going to wear go-go boots, too.
I was very pleased. Madame and Nate had a happy ending and so did Eric and Minnow.
Unfortunately, my detective boyfriend (turned Justice Department G-man) remained out of touch, so I was still waiting for mine.
*
AN HOUR later, I was working behind the counter again when the bell rang over the door. A cheerfully familiar voice called out—
“Hey, Coffee Lady!”
A giddy grin was plastered across Sergeant Emmanuel Franco’s rugged face; his muscular arms were hauling several suitcases and a shoulder bag.
“Manny, what’s going on?” I asked, worried. “Are you leaving town?”
“Wrong conclusion, Madam Detective. I’m here to make a special delivery.”
He set the suitcases down and tugged a pink backpack off his arm. I saw the Hello Kitty logo emblazoned across that bag and my heart stopped.
“That’s not yours! That pack belongs to—”
My daughter’s grinning face peeked around Franco’s muscular shoulder.
“Hi, Mom!”
“Joy!”
We couldn’t rush together fast enough.
“See, Mom, you’re not the only one full of surprises!”
After more hugging and a few tears, Franco cleared his throat.
“I hate to interrupt this sweet reunion, but I have to get back to the precinct.” Then his eyes met Joy’s and he lowered his voice. “Will I see you tonight?”
Joy glanced at me uncertainly. “I don’t know, I just got home and—”
“Of course, Joy will see you tonight,” I said. “If you pick her up after eight, my daughter and I will have the whole afternoon to catch up.”
*
OVER lunch in my duplex above the Blend, I asked Joy The Question—
“When are you coming home for good?”
Her answer was clear—and complicated.
Joy absolutely planned to move back to New York City to settle down. The complicated part was not yet.
As she explained it, her work situation in Paris had improved a great deal. The night she impressed the chef at L’Ambroisie, he offered her an apprenticeship. She didn’t want to take it, but (being Madame’s grandchild) she used the situation to her advantage. She told her current boss at Les Deux Perroquets about the offer, and he hit his vaulted ceiling.
Without Joy and her contributions to his menu, the man knew that Michelin Rising Star might not be so easy to attain. To keep her in the fold, he granted Joy’s requests: her cancelled vacation time was immediately reinstated; her temporary promotion was made permanent; and the owner actually agreed to hire more kitchen help to give his brigade a reasonable chance of keeping up with the customer crush—and having restorative time off.
I did ask Joy why she passed on the chance to apprentice at a Michelin four-star restaurant to stay at one with a lowly Rising Star award.
Her logic was simple. “It will mean much more to me to help earn that Michelin star for everyone at Les Deux Perroquets, and for my adopted home of Montmartre. I’ve made so many friends there . . .”
But I knew Joy needed to earn that star for herself, as well. The victory would prove she’d risen to the challenges of moving to France. Then she could return to her chosen field in her hometown and put her troubled past behind her with her reputation restored.
“I’ll give it a year, Mom. If we earn the star, my standing will be huge, and I will easily find a place in a Manhattan kitchen. If we lose, I’ll come back home and take any job I can find—I’ll even work for you if you’ll have me.” She grinned. “Either way, I promise I’l
l come back in the next twelve months. Believe me, I made the same promise to Manny.”
As I brushed away a tear, Miss Phone’s fembot voice delivered more good news—
“Clare, this your programmed alert. You have received a text message from Michael Quinn.”
With shaky hands, I snatched the phone to call up the message, which I read aloud to Joy.
Out of touch for the rest of the afternoon. Meet me at Dynasty Pier on the West Side at nine o’clock for an intimate dinner cruise. Love, Mike!
There was no stopping my tears now, but they were tears of relief.
“Looks like we both have dates tonight, Mom!”
I nodded and immediately sent a return note to him—
Looking forward to our big date at Dynasty Pier! See you tonight!
“Thank goodness,” I whispered. “Now Mike and I can finally get back on track.”
Seventy
WHEN I exited the cab, Dynasty Pier’s front gate appeared brightly lit and its boathouse glowed cheerfully in the night.
Next door, Chelsea Piers had been docking transatlantic ocean liners and cruise ships for over a century. Dynasty was designed to accommodate much smaller vessels. The pier was little more than a concrete walkway extending a hundred feet into the dark waters of the Hudson River.
As I approached the entrance, I delighted in the sound of the tide slapping against the piles. A frosty spring wind came off the dark river, giving me a slight chill. My new black silk dress was dripping with lace; elegant, innocent, and sexy all at once—but not much for warmth, and I tightened the belt on my wool coat.
I saw no one, but someone must have seen me because a buzz sounded and the steel gate automatically unlocked. I pushed through and the door clanged behind me. I walked eagerly toward the boathouse, my high heels clicking on the concrete.
The boathouse door was locked, so I firmly knocked. When no one answered, I peeked through the slats. I spied a desk and a radio, but the single-room structure seemed deserted, so I approached the only ship at the pier tonight. It wasn’t very large, maybe a forty-footer, and I doubted the vessel could accommodate more than fifteen people.
Mike wasn’t kidding when he said this would be an intimate meal. Did he charter this boat all by himself? More likely it’s a VIP cruise. Maybe his DC colleagues are joining us . . .
With a few more steps forward, I noticed the name on the ship’s bow.
BLUE ROSES.
I stopped dead. On the black water, a lone barge blew its horn as it floated past, and I got a bad feeling. Something’s very wrong here. There was no way Mike would have invited me aboard a ship christened with that name, not after the poem he’d sent.
Roses red and white are best . . .
I quickly turned to leave—and found the Metis Man blocking my retreat.
Wearing a fur-trimmed sealskin parka, high boots, and a bandolier slung over one shoulder, Garth Hendricks looked like an Alaskan native on a bear hunt. The very large gun he clutched in one gloved hand told me he was loaded for bear, too.
With my exit blocked, I had nowhere to go but the water. I was willing to jump, but I never got the chance.
He shot me.
The dart pierced my coat and sunk into my shoulder. The impact of the flying syringe rocked me, and the needle stung, too—but only for a second. Then my right side went numb.
I knocked the dart aside with a clumsy swipe of my left hand and the empty syringe bounced off the concrete.
“You won’t get away with this,” I told him—only it came out sounding more like “Ooop coat way be fist,” because my tongue had stopped working.
I was having trouble breathing, too, and my mouth gaped like a fish out of water. Finally my knees got wobbly and I sank onto the frigid concrete, paralyzed but still conscious.
“I shot you with a tranquilizer gun,” Garth explained, his tone matter-of-fact. “You’ll have some trouble breathing—Etorphine affects the respiratory system—but you probably won’t die. Not from the sedative, anyway.”
Garth nudged me with his boot. Then he placed the barrel of his gun against my forehead.
“Eden used this dart gun to shoot wolves in Wyoming.” He smiled. “She also used it to paralyze Joe Polaski, so that dumb obedient Darren could help me chuck him over the side of the High Line. Joe was just like you, Clare. Conscious, but completely helpless.”
Garth stepped out of view and I heard a rumbling sound. A moment later he wheeled a flatbed dolly into view and parked it beside me. With a grunt, he rolled me onto it.
“You see, Eden ruined a good thing when she acted on her own initiative, and tried to electrocute you with Darren’s help. It’s only a matter of time before OSHA discovers how the electrical system was rigged, but dear dead Darren can take the fall for that. I’ll miss the boy—he was so eager to please—but there are plenty of young, eager interns out there . . .”
Of course. Fits right in with your “fun sweatshop” philosophy!
Garth continued his arrogant babble while he wheeled me up the gangplank and onto the deck.
“Did you know? As soon as Eric inherited his father’s business, he sold it out from under his older sister. There was nothing she could do. Her father left the little freak everything. Then Eric used his stake to make himself a billionaire . . .”
Garth untied the ropes, releasing the ship from its moorings.
“Eric made up for his lost youth, too, by serially dating bimbo models and starlets. He even wanted to marry one of those tramps. She didn’t like me much or Eden—and Eric actually started listening to her and cutting us out. We couldn’t let that happen, so Eden and I made a plan—and a pact. She and I would control Eric through his women. That’s why we dangled Bianca Hyde in front of Eric—and like a good fish, he took the bait. Bianca might have been sleeping with Eric, but Bianca was working for us . . .”
I tried to muster my voice, but all I could manage was a rasp.
“What’s that, Clare? Oh, no, we didn’t have to use the tranquilizer gun on Bianca. That stupid little whore managed to kill herself right in front of Eden. I wasn’t there at the time, but it turned out to be a lesson for both of us. Murder could be the solution to any problem—the Occam’s Razor that would cut through human tangles with elegant finality.”
Garth rolled the dolly through a narrow door, into a room off the boat’s main cabin. With a sharp kick to my ribs, he knocked me off the flatbed and onto the carpeted floor.
“Bianca didn’t love Eric. She barely liked him, but she was a very good actress, and she figured the act would pay off—if she did exactly what Eden and I told her . . .”
Garth stepped out of range, and I heard the rasp of a zipper.
“With a few carefully planted surveillance devices, we gained access to Eric’s secret bank accounts and began to siphon money. A few million here, a few there. You’d be surprised how fast it all added up. Once we had access, losing Bianca didn’t matter so much. Then Charley came snooping, and she had to go, too.”
Garth dropped a heavy object on the floor. Then he stood over me, a hypodermic needle in hand.
“And now here you are, another nosy snoop. Oh, yes, Clare. I read Eric’s file on you, and I know all about your little hobby. I don’t know if you’re working for the police, the Feds, or some private individual, and I don’t care. You can’t be around Eric any longer, watching his back, asking questions. In time, I’ll take care of his new little infatuation with Minnow. But right now, it’s time for you to go—”
I felt a slight sting as the needle bit into my arm. Then Garth’s smirking face disappeared and my world faded to black.
Seventy-one
CONSCIOUSNESS crashed down on me like a hammer and I awoke to the sound of my own scream.
I sat upright, felt spiderwebs tickling my arm, and hastily slapped them away. Garth’s syringe, marked Diprenorphine, dropped to the carpet beside me.
I didn’t have a clue what diprenorphine was meant to do, but
I was happy the needle didn’t contain arsenic or strychnine. I had a disquieting feeling Garth wanted me awake and alert.
My mouth was papery and I felt hazy from the drugs. Standing was an issue, too. The boat rocked under my high heels, and the gentle motion was enough to throw me off balance, so I kicked off my high heels and gripped the carpet with my toes. Garth had already pulled off my coat and scarf, so I added my footwear to the pile.
Illuminated by the dim glow of scarlet emergency lights, the cabin was free of furniture. I peeked through the only portal (too small to crawl through, alas). Nothing was visible beyond dark skies and black water.
Crossing to the exit, my foot brushed a large bundle on the floor. Ignoring it, I continued to the door, which was, of course, locked.
I pounded on the door and yelled for Garth, but the silent response was eerily complete. Not even the rumble of the engine could be heard above the muted sound of slapping water.
I had the sudden, sickening realization that I was alone.
I stumbled back to my coat, desperate to find my purse. But my bag was missing along with my wallet, keys, my IDs and credit cards, and my THORN phone.
That damn phone!
I thought back to my day at Appland and how Darren Engle had “fixed” my phone for me. Sure, he’d unblocked calls from Mike Quinn, but he’d obviously added an alternate phone number under Mike’s listing in my address book.
Garth must have used that number to send the fake text message as Mike—and I fell for it!
I was so angry (and freaked out and groggy) that I didn’t notice the steady, ominous sound of a ticking clock. Not right away. But when I did . . .
Oh, no.
I crawled to the bundle I’d nearly tripped over—it was a worn canvas knapsack plastered with airport stickers and comic book superheroes. The name Darren was embroidered on the flap.
My hands were trembling from the double-dose of drugs, and the zipper was stubborn. When I finally got to peek inside, my worst fears were confirmed.
