Brewed Awakening

by Cleo Coyle

If I could just hold her again . . .

  Quinn felt a black shadow descending—until he realized Detective DeMarco had been speaking.

  “Sorry, Tony, my mind wandered.”

  “I was saying we’ve got another problem. The DA wants to press homicide charges against the dealers, but there’s a risk.”

  He handed a sheet of paper to Quinn.

  “The teenage victim posted this on social media hours before she overdosed. You’d better read it.”

  Quinn cursed. “This could be construed as a suicide note.”

  “And the defense will happily use that interpretation to pressure the prosecutors into reducing the homicide rap to a lesser charge—manslaughter or crim. neg.”

  Quinn rubbed his tired eyes. “Nobody wants that, but you can’t suppress what you found in discovery.”

  DeMarco sighed. “Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d say.”

  “Just turn the information over to the DA. If they want to take their chances hiding exculpatory evidence during the plea process, it’s on them.”

  “Okay.” DeMarco nodded. “By the way, Lieutenant, may I also say you look like crap.”

  Quinn smiled weakly. “You trying to sweet-talk me? Or just get on my good side?”

  “If you need fuel, Sergeant Perez made a fresh pot of joe. I can grab some for you.”

  “Of Perez’s swill? Thanks, but no, thanks.”

  DeMarco laughed. “Yeah, we all missed Franco this week. Where did that punk learn to make such great coffee?”

  “It’s the company he keeps.”

  Quinn’s phone buzzed. He checked the screen. “I’d better take this.”

  “Already gone,” DeMarco called as he left the office.

  “Quinn speaking.”

  “Lieutenant, we have a problem—” The voice belonged to Detective Lori Soles. Her tone was all business. “It appears your fiancée flew the coop.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  QUINN sat up in his chair. “Clare’s missing?”

  “Relax,” Lori said. “She left the hospital of her own free will, on her own two feet. But we believe she had some help, and we’re about to interview the prime suspects.”

  “Where?”

  “Meet me and my partner at the Village Blend as soon as you can.”

  Quinn shook his head. Leave it to the Blend baristas to break out their beloved boss. Then he tensed. God, I hope Allegro wasn’t part of it. Given Clare’s vulnerable state, the last thing she needs is that operator trying to manipulate her.

  “I’ll see you in twenty,” Quinn said, ending the call.

  After clearing his desk and checking on the last of his people still on duty, he grabbed his coat and walked the short distance from the Sixth Precinct station house to the Village Blend.

  He was surprised to find the front door locked, and the closed sign in the window. But the lights were still on, and Quinn could see people moving around inside. He knocked firmly, and waited. A few moments later, Esther Best practically ripped the door off its hinges.

  Instead of the usual genial greeting, she pushed up her black-framed glasses and regarded Quinn with open suspicion.

  “So, Lieutenant. Are you playing the good cop or the bad cop this evening? I hope you’re the former, because we have an annoying surplus of the latter.”

  Quinn raised an eyebrow, and she jerked her thumb in the direction of two female detectives, sitting stone-faced at a table by the blazing hearth.

  “Grab a chair, Lieutenant. This won’t take long . . .”

  Detective Sue Ellen Bass, dressed in a navy blue suit this evening, her dark hair scraped into a ponytail, spoke in the same faux-friendly tone Quinn liked to use himself when starting an interview with a suspect.

  Her blond partner, Lori Soles, equally tall and similarly dressed, took a sudden interest in her laptop.

  Known in the department as the “Fish Squad,” Soles and Bass were liked and respected by their peers. They were usually on friendly terms with Quinn. Tonight, neither detective would meet his eyes, which instantly set off alarms.

  As much as he wanted to ask questions and demand answers about his fiancée’s whereabouts, Quinn understood that he was on the wrong end of the interview for that.

  Keeping his mouth shut, he took a seat at the table.

  To his left sat two members of Clare’s staff: Dante Silva and Esther Best. To his right sat the shop’s venerable owner, Clare’s former mother-in-law, Madame Blanche Allegro Dubois, looking as poker-faced as the pair of detectives. There was no one else in the shop that he could see.

  Lori cleared her throat. “Okay, let’s get started.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  LORI turned her laptop screen to face the group.

  “This is elevator footage shot at the hospital earlier today. That shorter woman in the crowd is Clare Cosi. As you can see, she’s disguised as a member of the hospital staff.”

  The herky-jerky footage of a crowded elevator abruptly switched to lobby-camera footage. The woman in scrubs proceeded out the front door, followed closely by someone in a rain poncho, hood up, face down. A graphic circle had to be drawn around Clare and the other person, because the lobby was so crowded that individuals coming and going were not easy to identify.

  The next jump was to a traffic-cam view of an intersection, the closest one to the hospital entrance. Quinn watched what he surmised was Clare (aka “woman in scrubs”) standing with two other figures (one also in doctor’s scrubs, the other drowning in a large rain poncho with the hood up). They were joined by a fourth person (also well camouflaged by a rain poncho).

  Because the footage was focused on traffic, the lens so far away, and the figures facing away from the camera, no one’s identity was revealed, even when magnified at the end of the video presentation.

  The recording ended after the four figures boarded a black SUV, which proceeded north on the avenue. A different ground-level-camera shot from a few blocks uptown revealed the make, model, and license plate of the fugitive vehicle.

  Lori closed the laptop, and Quinn felt the detectives’ eyes on him.

  “Lieutenant Quinn,” Lori began. “What do you know about this?”

  “Nothing. I’m just learning about it now.”

  Lori and Sue Ellen exchanged glances. Lori spoke next.

  “We made a note of the time stamp on the camera and checked with the desk sergeant at the Sixth. You weren’t in the precinct when this went down.”

  “I had business at the DA’s office.”

  “Coincidental timing, Lieutenant.”

  “They’ll confirm it.” Quinn gave her two names to check with, and she jotted them down.

  It was Sue Ellen’s turn to look skeptical. “And you know nothing about this?”

  Quinn’s instinct was to fold his arms, but he fought it, forcing his body language to remain relaxed and open.

  “Look, I don’t deny I have issues with Clare’s treatment. I don’t believe she’s getting the best medical care, and I’m going to use legal means to change that. There’s also the issue of her involvement in an open case.”

  “You mean the alleged abduction of Annette Brewster?” Lori said.

  “Yes. The department sees no value in Clare’s testimony, given her state of mind, but she is a witness, and I believe she should be in protective custody. That said, I had absolutely nothing to do with her leaving the hospital today.”

  Quinn could feel some of the tension melt away. He could tell the detectives believed him.

  “We’ll follow up with the DA’s people,” Lori muttered. Then she and Sue Ellen both shifted their stares to Madame.

  “We also found out something interesting when we interviewed the nurses on Clare’s floor,” Sue Ellen said. “It seems the staff was distracted from their usual duties by a coffee-and-pastry fe
ast provided by the Village Blend.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  DEAD silence filled the shop. Mike held his breath to keep from groaning. Then Lori leaned in for the kill.

  “A check of the hospital log has you three”—she stabbed her finger at Esther, Dante, and Madame—“along with your colleague Tucker Burton, signed in as visitors.”

  Madame replied with a polite smile. “There is no designation for ‘servers’ on the visitor forms. So, we listed ourselves as ‘visitors,’ even though we weren’t permitted to see Clare.”

  “Why the big spread?” Sue Ellen demanded.

  “The coffee and snacks were simply our way of thanking the staff for the thoughtful care they were giving to our shop’s manager and master roaster.”

  Sue Ellen tossed her dark ponytail. “And while the food was being served, Clare Cosi managed to walk out of the hospital in a disguise and hitch a ride with a passing SUV? That’s one hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “Not at all,” Madame sniffed. “Last year, when my friend Jane Belmore had surgery in that very same hospital, we thanked the nurses for her care with a sumptuous spread of coffee and pastries.”

  “And did this Jane Belmore use the distraction to escape the ward?”

  Madame’s violet eyes flashed. “Of course not!”

  “What about her disguise?” Lori pressed. “Who provided Ms. Cosi with the surgical scrubs and hat?”

  Madame blinked innocently. “It’s a hospital, Detective. Aren’t scrubs part of the milieu? Could she not have grabbed them out of a supply closet or obtained them from a member of the hospital staff?”

  Lori fell silent a moment, then turned her focus to Esther and Dante.

  “Do either of you know who joined Clare on the sidewalk? Any ideas?”

  “Why ask us?” Esther loudly blurted, as if offended by the question. “We were there to serve coffee. How would we have time to help anyone escape? I could barely keep up with demand. Those nurses are fiends for caffeine! And free pastries! You should have seen them gulping our Kona Peaberry and shoveling Pistachio Muffins down their pieholes—”

  Quinn bit his cheek to keep from laughing.

  “What say you, Junior?” Sue Ellen narrowed her eyes on Dante. “You were at the hospital. What did you do after you were done, and before you reported here for work? That’s a couple of hours unaccounted for.”

  “It’s no mystery what I typically do when I’m not pulling espressos. I’m at home painting,” Dante said. Then he folded his tattooed arms and stubbornly refused to utter another word.

  Though Quinn wanted to stay silent, he knew this crew was in deep. The Fish Squad had placed Madame and her people on the scene. It was only a matter of time before they tightened the snare.

  On the other hand, he was willing to bet Lori and Sue Ellen were less interested in slapping cuffs on a couple of baristas than in simply finding Clare Cosi and returning her to the hospital.

  Either way, Quinn decided it was time to divert their attention.

  “Why not focus on the vehicle?” he suggested. “You traced the SUV’s plates, surely?”

  “They’re fake,” Sue Ellen said. “The license number belongs to a retired grade-school teacher in Schenectady. She drives a silver Honda Civic, not a black SUV . . .”

  “What about traffic-cam footage?”

  “We put in the request,” Lori said. “Traffic should have their route traced for us sometime tomorrow.”

  Sue Ellen nodded. “It’s only a matter of time before we catch up to our fugitive.”

  Madame nodded her encouragement. “With you two on the case, I have no doubt. After all, everyone here wants what’s best for our dear Clare.”

  “Then help us find her,” Lori urged. “Whether you like it or not, she is legally in Dr. Lorca’s care. In his statement to us, he characterized her condition as a danger to herself and others. She must be found and hospitalized.”

  Madame took a breath and let it out, giving the impression she was trying to decide whether to share a valuable piece of information. Finally, she said—

  “I do have an idea of what might have occurred.”

  Quinn didn’t doubt it.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  “GO on,” Sue Ellen said. “We’re all ears.”

  Madame shifted uneasily. “While I feel compelled to tell you, I don’t wish to cause trouble for my son.”

  “Say your piece, Mrs. Dubois. Let us decide if anyone is in trouble.”

  “I believe it’s possible that Matteo had something to do with all this. He has plenty of friends around the city, and the globe, for that matter, who are always willing to help him.”

  “Where is your son now?” Sue Ellen asked, eyes brightening.

  Quinn recognized the look—a solid lead was like a shot of caffeine.

  Madame’s reply was hesitant. “I’m not sure exactly where he is at the moment. But . . . if I were you, I’d check his Brooklyn warehouse. It’s certainly a good place to hide someone.”

  Quinn smelled a rat. He knew Madame too well. The members of the Fish Squad were being played. It was obvious to him, but it wasn’t his job to straighten them out.

  Sue Ellen remained wary. “If you really want us to believe Clare isn’t here, then I assume you’ll have no objections to our thorough search of these premises?”

  “None at all,” Madame assured her. “I’ll be happy to show you whatever you like.”

  The two detectives stood up. “Let’s go.”

  Madame led the detectives toward the back staircase, taking them down to the basement. The coffeehouse included a second-floor lounge. The third and fourth floors contained a private duplex apartment, which was where Clare resided. The full tour would take at least twenty minutes.

  Quinn sat back and released a breath.

  Esther observed him. “So? How do you like being on the hot seat for a change?”

  Quinn folded his arms. “It would go down better with a cup of coffee.”

  Dante immediately stood. “What would you like, Lieutenant? I’ll be happy to get it.”

  “Anything, thanks.”

  “How about a red-eye? You look as though you could use a shot in the dark.”

  “I guess I could.”

  Esther leaned forward, presumably to say something else—

  “Don’t,” Quinn advised. “Don’t say anything else to me. Don’t say anything else to them.” He pointed in the direction of the shop’s back stairs.

  “But I was only going to tell you—”

  “I don’t want to hear it. I know it’s hard for you, Esther, but for once in your life, just sit there, twiddle your thumbs, and keep your mouth shut.”

  * * *

  • • •

  WHEN Soles and Bass returned, empty-handed (no surprise), they gathered up their laptop and coats. Madame handed them a card with Matt Allegro’s warehouse address on it.

  “We’re going to Brooklyn,” Lori announced.

  “I’m going with you,” Quinn said, rising.

  “Oh, no, you’re not,” Lori returned. “Let us handle this, Lieutenant.” Then her eyes scanned the rest of the people at the table. “Can I trust you all not to warn Matteo we’re coming?”

  Dante nodded.

  “I won’t tell,” Esther said, crossing her heart.

  Quinn faced the detectives. “Allegro will get no warning from me. I’d rather Clare were in the hands of Dr. Lorca than her lying, cheating, ex-drug-addict ex-husband. If you catch Allegro with Clare, punch him in the eye for me.”

  “We’ll let you know what we find,” Lori promised as Esther unlocked the front door and let them out.

  When the distaff detectives were gone, Madame laid a gentle hand on Quinn’s shoulder. He turned to find her smiling.

  “You played those two
very well, Michael.”

  “Me? You played them like a Stradivarius. Now, stop fiddling around, and tell me what the hell is going on.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  “I broke Clare out,” Madame confessed. “She wanted to go. Clare no longer trusted Dr. Lorca for her treatment—and they were depriving her of coffee!”

  “Do you know where she is now?”

  When Madame nodded, Quinn felt a measure of relief, but only a small one.

  “Look, I’ve got to make a show of leaving the coffeehouse in case Soles and Bass are watching. I’ll walk back to the precinct. Then I’ll double back. Meet me upstairs.”

  It didn’t take long for Quinn to complete the show.

  As he approached the coffeehouse again, he saw that Esther and Dante had reopened for the Friday night crowd. A line was already forming at the espresso bar.

  Good. Everything is back to normal.

  Quinn moved around the building to the alley. Clare had given him a key to the shop’s rear entrance so he could slip in after hours. Once inside, he took the back stairs, two at a time. He had a key to the apartment, as well, but decided to knock.

  The door opened immediately.

  “Come in, come in!”

  Madame waved him into the living room, sat him down on the sofa, and poured him a hot cup of coffee. She had already poured one for herself, and settled into the antique chair near the hearth, where a low fire was burning.

  As he drank and sat back, Java and Frothy hurried into the room, happy to see their favorite male human again. While Java rolled around Quinn’s big shoes, Frothy jumped up next to him on the sofa to take swipes at his loose tie.

  Quinn felt a tug inside him, too, as if Clare should have been here with them, playing with the cats, talking about her day, asking about his.

  “I’m glad you did it,” he said, snatching his tie back from the determined cat’s claws. Frothy looked miffed, until Quinn began making it up to her, rubbing her ears and scratching her chin. Then the purring began and the rolling around—a fluffy white ball, half on his lap.