A Brew to a Kill (36 page)

But where was Tanya (and her naughty hand)? Not here. Not today. It appeared Helen had now attached herself to a new politician, handsome African-American state assemblyman Wilson Seacliffe.

A former college tennis star turned history professor, Seacliffe was also a mayor wannabe. Like Dominic Chin and Tanya Harmon, he’d just announced his bid to live in Gracie Mansion.

As the VIPs drew closer, I confirmed my passing observations about Helen. She wasn’t just infatuated with Seacliffe. She was wearing his campaign button.

Looks like the sorority sisters had a falling out. But why did Helen dump Tanya? And why now?
My next thought was spoken out loud. “I wonder what happened…”

“Yeah, me too,” Franco growled suspiciously.

“Are you reading my mind?”

“Only if you’re thinking about Billy Li, because he’s missing.”

“What?”

“He disappeared inside the truck while you were talking to that little old man, and I haven’t seen him since. I think maybe Billy slipped out the back.”

I scanned the area. “This is bad, Franco. I know he’s up to something. We can’t lose sight of—”

“There he is!” Franco cried. “He ducked inside the tent with the dragon logo.”

I blinked. “They
all
have dragon logos!”

“The black tent—”

The first bang was loud enough to shock the birds out of the trees, scary enough to cause panic—especially after a bobbing muffin balloon popped right beside my head. People ducked, many hugged the grass. But I didn’t panic, and in fact I’d lied when I told Mike if shots rang out I’d duck, because when Franco jumped through the service window to chase down Billy, I was right behind him.

I landed in the grass and started running just as the second blast echoed across Meadow Lake. No balloons exploded this time, because Billy Li’s plan had been interrupted.

Fleeing a determined Franco, the boy with the dragon tattoo burst out of the tent, clutching what looked like a long tube. Legs pumping, he raced toward the parking lot, knocking people out of the way.

Billy was fast, and he had a great head start. With so much distance to cover, there appeared to be no way Franco could
catch him. I despaired—until a familiar figure stepped into the Billy’s path.
Mr. Hon!

The elderly taxi driver didn’t have a chance. Billy was about to slam right into him. “Out of the way, old maahhh—”

Billy’s shout transformed into a howl as the “old man” upended him with two swift, expertly executed martial arts moves. The boy’s legs danced in the air before he landed on his back in the grass.

Oof!

By the time Franco and I reached them, the wind had been knocked out of Billy, and Hon kept him pinned to the ground with his foot.

“You looking for this boy, Map Lady?”

“Where did you learn that stuff, pops?” Franco asked.

“Shaolin kung fu,” Mr. Hon replied. “Long time now. Black belt.”

“But you’re such a little guy—”

“Little guy, big guy.” He shrugged. “Size not matter. Victor knows how to turn enemy’s strength against him.”

Franco scooped up Billy’s plastic tube and examined it. “Looks like a homemade super slingshot. Pretty cool. And what’s this?” Franco yanked a plastic bag out of Billy’s belt pack. I expected drugs, but I was wrong.

“It’s ice.”

I couldn’t believe it. “Little icicles…”

“Clever,” Franco said with a fellow bad-boy smile. “Pop a balloon with an ice spike and a sling shot. Add some bang, bang noise and distracted crowds think shots were fired. Cops come and there are no bullets or pellets because by then the evidence melted.”

I stood over Billy Li until his gaze met mine. “Kaylie put you up to this, didn’t she? You pulled this same stunt at our party?”

He nodded twice.

“Where did the sound effects come from?”

“Speakers,” Billy gasped, “inside the tent.”

I glanced at Franco, who gripped his phone, ready to summon the park police and have Billy carted off to Rikers. But I met his eyes, shook my head. I shifted my gaze to Mr. Hon, who removed his foot from Billy’s chest, waiting for me to state my piece.

As the boy sat up, moaning, I cleared my throat.

Okay. Here goes…

“Listen up now, Billy. I know all about the black market knockoff business you’re involved in—and I
could
turn you over to this nice police detective right now. Or… you, me, and Kaylie could work something out today. Something that will put an end to our stupid turf war for good. What do you say?”

Billy glanced at Franco, then at Mr. Hon. Finally, he rubbed the back of his neck, shook his head and shrugged.

“Okay, Coffee Lady. Talk.”

I
was feeling pretty good the next day. It’s not often you get to make offers that can’t be refused—but Billy Li and Kaylie Crimini accepted my “egg-tart truce,” and our turf war was over for good.

I would sell Mrs. Li’s delicious egg custard tarts and, with Madame’s help, find her many more vendors uptown, as long as Billy agreed to abandon his part in the knockoff-designer-handbag business and make extra money delivering his grandmother’s pastries instead.

We also agreed that Kaylie would (literally) steer her truck clear of the Village Blend if I would start selling a few of her most popular cupcakes. (Franco convinced me Maple Bacon had to be one of them.)

In return, Kaylie agreed to drop her current coffee supplier and sell mine, after a few lessons on how to properly prepare and serve it. (Freshly brewed, thank you very much.)

One problem solved. A few more to go, and at least one of them involved coffee—Matt’s coffee.

Our Muffin Muse was scheduled to join a select group of food trucks the following evening to help cater an elaborate
Central Park wedding. The bride and groom were longtime Village Blend customers, and earlier in the week I had served them a sample of a very special coffee that I called Ambrosia.

This was, of course, Matt’s special Brazilian “crack” coffee, and I asked if they’d like to share this superb find with their wedding guests. They flipped for it, readily agreeing to pay the exorbitant price. (They were loaded,
natch
.) This development landed me in the basement roasting room for much of Thursday.

As sunset came, I crested the service staircase and headed toward the front. Franco immediately moved to check in with me.

“Everything copacetic, Coffee Lady?”

“You tell me.”

He smiled. All was well, he assured me, still no sign of drug dealers or shots—other than singles, doubles, and triples.

Business always picked up during my roasting sessions. The rich, sweet aroma of caramelizing beans acted as an aromatic siren to every caffeine-deprived mariner within smell-range. Consequently, our sidewalk tables were packed, our main floor busy, our counter hopping, and my wonderful Tucker running it all like a perfectly tuned muscle car engine.

Like an audio cue to that very thought, the roaring
vroom
of a vintage GTO prompted half my coffeehouse to search the street.

After the
bang-bang
of Brooklyn gunplay and that lovely interview with the DEA agent from hell, the sound of Mad Max’s Buckmobile actually lifted my spirits.

The glint of cherry red steel and bright silver chrome rolled parallel to our sidewalk. The door popped open, and Buckman emerged. Out of uniform again, he sauntered into the Blend, and I waved him over.

The AIS detective greeted me tersely, glanced around, and stressed one word: “Privacy.”

I nodded, fixed us drinks, and led him up our wrought iron spiral staircase to our much quieter second floor lounge. We sat near a large open window, where the evening breeze entwined the aroma of my freshly roasted Ambrosia with the soft buzz of voices from the coffeehouse below.

“I didn’t know whether to look for you here or in a federal lockup,” Buckman quipped as he sunk into a comfy easy chair. I took the chair opposite.

“I take it you spoke with Quinn?”

“I never reveal my sources. Well, hardly ever. The point is, Cosi, I’m glad you’re okay.” He took a test sip of his Americano, then downed a satisfying swallow. “What did you do to get out of a DEA sweep, anyway? Sweet-talk them?”

“Yeah, I sweet-talked them, Max. And then Quinn sweet-talked them. I think their ears are still ringing from his tender tone.”

Buckman laughed. “No muffins?”

“No muffins.”

“But you finally met ‘Crazy Quinn’?”

“More like Quinn
Unleashed
.”

“I take it you’re an asset now? You don’t slip the grip of the Feds without some kind of deal.”

“No comment.”

“Keep it to yourself then, because I came here to tell you something.”

I leaned forward. “There’s a development in Lilly’s case? You got another lead?”

Buckman bumped his cup against mine. “Here’s to coincidences that aren’t.” After another long swallow, he sat back and crossed his legs.

“The van that struck Lilly Beth—remember I told you it was involved in another hit-and-run two weeks ago?”

“I remember.”

“Well, it was brutal and the victim was a big-shot doctor—”

That grabbed my attention, and I tossed back an educated guess: “Was the man a plastic surgeon, by any chance? I don’t know the guy’s last name, but I’m pretty sure you’re talking about a doctor named Harry who was once married to Gwen Fischer, Councilman Chin’s fiancée.”

Buckman’s leg slipped from his knee. “Man, you are good. No wonder Quinn wants you as his asset.”

“It’s no big deal. I just heard about his death at our party
on Saturday. How many physicians could have been run over in the past two weeks, right? What was the victim’s full name anyway?”

“Dr. Harry Land, he operated the Better You Cosmetic Surgery Center on Seventy-Fifth Street and Broadway.”

“If the van committed hit-and-runs on both Dr. Land and Lilly Beth, I assume you’re looking for a connection?”

“My first thought, too, Inspector. Only trouble is, it didn’t pan out.”

Buckman was eyeing me closely now, and I could guess why. He was angling to use me as
his
asset. That’s why he was sharing all this. He certainly didn’t need my opinion of his theories. He had plenty of colleagues for that.

“Tell me more,” I said.

“We know Lilly worked as a nurse before becoming a dietician. But she didn’t work for this plastic surgeon. According to the Better You employment records, no one named Tanga ever worked there.”

“I take it you checked into Lilly Beth’s employment history anyway?”

A shadow crossed Buckman’s weary face. “According to all the records and databases available to me, the last nursing job Lilly Beth held was the graveyard shift at Beth Israel Hospital, and she quit that job six years ago.”

“Well, Lilly told me herself that she left nursing three years ago. She got her degree, took on freelance consulting work, and then started working with the mayor’s office.”

“What we have here, Cosi, is a black hole in Lilly Beth Tanga’s life. One that needs to be filled,” Buckman said. He tapped the coffee cup with his finger. “I have a strong hunch there’s a connection between Lilly and this Dr. Land. The driver of that white van wanted them both dead. Why? I want to
know
. And since Lilly’s employment records don’t show us a connection, I’m thinking the relationship might have been purely personal.”

“A love affair?”

Buckman nodded. “This doctor was married during those
missing years of Lilly’s life, so it would have been an extramarital affair on his part. But from what I’ve been able to determine, it’s not so farfetched. This Dr. Land was popular with the ladies, and he had a lot of very prominent female clients who went for his healing hands, if you know what I mean.”