Dead to the Last Drop (7 page)

A
LTHOUGH I lived only a few blocks away, Officer Landry insisted on giving me a ride home.

“It’s late, ma’am. I don’t want you walking the streets alone.”

“That’s very kind of you, young man . . .”

Eesh, I sounded like a little old lady.
But it was certainly how the officer viewed me, and humoring the police was my objective tonight. So I smiled sweetly at him as I filled a disposable cup of French-pressed coffee and locked up the building.

Climbing into the front seat of his Chevy Impala police cruiser, I heard him radio something about a 10-7.

I sat back, happy this was a short trip. I was totally talked out, and I had far too much to ponder to continue chatting up the young cop. For one thing . . .

I couldn’t stop wondering how Mr. Varma had recognized Abby, despite his inebriated state.
A mystery in itself.
Blind drunk, you might recognize a friend or family member, but would you so quickly recognize a seldom-seen First Daughter who took pains to disguise herself?

And what was he trying to tell Abby about her father?

Did “the truth” involve a scandal? A danger? Or some kind of threat? Or was Mr. Varma nothing more than a half-crocked government worker on a sloppy bender?

Officer Landry had advised me to think of this as a company town. Maybe Varma was simply spouting off about his boss, who also happened
to be the President. Maybe “the truth” was nothing more than a workplace grievance.

“Here we are, Ms. Cosi, home sweet home . . .” The police cruiser rolled to a stop in front of my N Street address. Landry craned his neck. “A very nice home, too.”

“Thanks. Unfortunately, it’s not mine. I’m only house-sitting.”

“Really? Must be lonely.”

“Well, I’m always busy, and—”

“You know, you still seem a little shaken up.” He turned off the engine. “I can hear the tension in your voice.”

“You can?”

“How about I escort you to the door, see you inside? Tuck you in?”

Tuck me in?
“That’s nice of you, Officer. But I’m fine.” I waved the idea away with my left hand.

“You’re not married, are you?”

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t see a wedding band on that pretty finger.”

Then he leaned closer, and despite the dimness in the car, I suddenly saw the young man’s “friendly” smile in a whole new light.

“Um, Officer Landry—”

“Call me Tom.”

I blinked. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Don’t be embarrassed, Clare. All night long, you’ve been smiling at me, making small talk about my name, fixing me amazing coffee. A blind man could see you’re interested.” He checked his watch. “Look, I already called in an ‘out of service.’ We have an hour, give or take. What do you say?”

“I say I’m old enough to be your mother!”

“So?”

“So you should find yourself a nice
young
woman, you know, one closer to your
decade
.”

“Aw, girls my age are a pain in the—you know. Whereas older ladies, like yourself . . .” He waggled his eyebrows. “You’re so together, so confident. You go right after what you want. I respect that.”

“Believe me, what I
want
right now is to say
good night
.”

“Oh, I get it. You’re tired.”

“No. I had a nap earlier. I’m wide awake. That’s not the reason.”

“Another time, then?”

I popped the car door and lunged onto the sidewalk. Landry called after me—

“Hey, Clare, I didn’t forget. I’ll be sure to tell them!”

I tensed. “Tell who? Tell them
what
?”

“My friends. I’ll tell them how awesome your Village Blend coffee is.”

“You do that. Now go back to work, Officer!”

I slammed the door and, for the first time in hours, exhaled with relief—but not until the police cruiser disappeared around the corner.

What a horrible night!

F
ourteen

“M
IKE, are you
laughing
?”

“I’m sorry, Clare . . .” Behind the wheel, Mike Quinn shook his head. “It’s just . . .”

“What?”

“Tom Landry made a pass at you. In any other context that sentence would have to involve a football.”

“Please. I’m embarrassed enough.”

“Why? Don’t ‘older ladies like yourself’ have a sense of humor?”

After years of detective work in the NYPD, Quinn had developed a poker-face approach to human interaction. Over time, I’d schooled myself in reading his subtle emotional cues. But this? This wasn’t subtle. The man’s shoulders were shaking.

I punched his arm.

“Ow!”
The squawk came from me. Quinn’s biceps were made of granite. I rubbed my knuckles.

“Assaulting me will get you nowhere, sweetheart. I’m armed. But I promise to stop laughing—in a minute.”

“You know what, Mike? I think you’re cracking up because you’re cracking up.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re punch-drunk. You’ve been driving these back roads for hours.”

“I’m not risking Baltimore until night falls.”

“Well, we’ve got to stop. You’re tired, hungry, and in need of caffeine—and so am I.”

“Look, I told you. Restaurants, gas stations, and convenience stores have security cameras.”

“Okay, fine . . .”

I banged open the glove compartment. Quinn’s .45 sat beside a pair of sunglasses and on top of a mid-Atlantic travel guide. I grabbed the guide, checked the index, and then the map.

“There’s a mom-and-pop donut shop a few miles from here.”

“Clare, they’ll have a security camera, too. I guarantee it.”

“It’s way off the beaten trail. Warm donuts and hot coffee.
We’re going.
”

Minutes later, Quinn was parking around the corner of the little white clapboard shop. He donned a baseball cap and Windbreaker from his bag, and I handed him the glove-compartment sunglasses.

“Everything go okay?” I asked when he returned to the car.

“They had a security camera, but I kept my head down. And the teenager who rang me up barely noticed me. The line was out the door.”

“Really? Must be good stuff . . .”

We dug into the pastry box and were soon moaning with bliss as we sank our teeth into the pillowy piles of fried yeast dough dipped in delectable honey glaze. The four giant cups of coffee were hot and highly caffeinated. Quinn practically chugged one of them.

“Pretty good for roadside coffee, don’t you think?”

I took a test sip. “Colombian. Large batch. City or city plus . . .”

“Plus what?”

“Sorry, occupational hazard.”

“Don’t apologize. You’re a master roaster. I expect you to have an opinion on the brew.”

“I do, and . . .” A flash of color in my side mirror froze my tongue—and then my bones.

“Clare? What’s wrong?”

I told him.

Pulling up behind us was a local police cruiser. The cop at the wheel was staring right at us and placing a call on his radio.

F
ifteen

“M
IKE, start the engine. What are you waiting for? Get us out of here!”

“Relax, Clare. Sit back and
relax
.”

“Don’t you see the cop behind us? Look in your mirror!”

“I don’t have to. I expected this.”

“Excuse me?”

“The guy’s a good cop. He saw me in the donut shop with the sunglasses and ball cap, trying to avoid the security camera. I figured he and his partner would run our plates. And we’re going to let them. So why don’t you educate me?”

“Educate you? On what?!”

“On the coffee. I want your mind—and eyes—off that mirror. So tell me what a city roast is.”

I cleared my throat and closed my eyes, willing myself not to gawk into the mirror. It wasn’t easy. I couldn’t stop picturing those uniformed men walking up to our SUV, guns drawn.

“Clare, talk to me
now
.”

“Right, okay . . . uh, city roast. You’ve heard me say roasting different coffees is akin to cooking different foods?”

“Sure.”

“Well, a professional roaster chooses what level of cooking best suits a varietal’s profile. Vienna, French, Italian, Spanish, those are . . .” I clenched my fists, trying not to picture Quinn and me in the back of that cruiser wearing handcuffs.

“Keep talking, Clare, what about them?”

“Uh, those are the darker end of the spectrum; they come after the second crack. On the lighter end, you’ve got city, city plus, full city, and full city plus. They come after the first crack and before the second.”

“Crack?”

“The beans make a popping sound as they’re roasted. That’s how we judge the cooking time. We call it
crack
.”

“In my business we call something else crack. But I’d rather get my jolts from caffeine.”

“Then you’re in luck with this donut shop coffee. A light roast like this preserves more caffeine than a darker roast would.” I gulped down half the cup and whispered, “Are they still there?”

“Yes, but now the officer behind the wheel is shaking his head, laughing with his partner. He’s starting his engine, and . . .”

Zoom!
The cruiser rolled by my window and disappeared around the bend.

I slumped back. “They’re gone.”

“Yeah, and I’m not surprised.”

“Why?”

“Because these plates don’t belong to me. They belong to a federal employee who resides in DC, and that radio call would have confirmed it. He probably figured me for a hotshot agent out here on a fact-finding jaunt, and off he went.”

“Why didn’t he come up to your window and check your driver’s license?”

“Because his coffee was hot, his donuts were warm, and he didn’t feel like dealing with federal arrogance, or . . .”

“Or what?”

Quinn shrugged. “Or he saw me get into this SUV with an attractive woman, miles away from my home and work, and decided the sunglasses served another purpose.”

I was about to ask
what?
when light dawned. “A married man with his mistress wouldn’t want to be recognized.”

“Sorry, sweetheart.”

“Hey, whatever it took for him to leave us alone is fine with me, and—wait a second. If the DC police or federal authorities
are
out looking for me, or you and me, they’re still doing it within the Beltway. That cop wouldn’t have driven off if there was a nationwide APB out describing us.”

“Exactly right. It’s good news. For now.” He regarded me. “So what do you actually think of the coffee?”

“It’s fine.”

Mike raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, it’s one-dimensional and a little flat, but it has a pleasant nuttiness and it’s freshly brewed—an acceptable choice for serving with donuts this good; after all, they’re the star.”

“I’ll say . . .” Quinn garbled, mouth full. By now he was on his third. “Too bad this place is so far from DC.”

“Tell you what, if we actually get out of this mess
alive
, I’ll ask Luther for his recipe and make you a dozen. He makes fantastic glazed donuts for the staff.”

“Positive thinking. I like that. A
reason
to get out of this mess alive.”

“Donuts aren’t the only reason . . .”

As I touched Mike’s cheek, his gaze melted. My fingers were sticky from the honey glaze, but he didn’t care. He turned his face enough to taste the sweetness. Then I reached around his neck to pull his kisses closer, and we held on. We both needed it.

“Baltimore,” he finally murmured against my lips.

“I know . . .”

He started the engine and pulled away from the curb.

By now, night was falling fast. Soon the trees looked black to me, the road ahead unbearably dark—until Quinn flipped on the headlights and asked me to go on with my story.

“Which part?” I asked. “You know the State Department factors into this, right?”

“I know. And a member of the White House staff. And that computer flash drive you told me about, the one you’ve been hiding . . . on your person. But don’t get ahead of yourself, Clare, because most of these early details are new to me. Keep the events in order.”

“Okay. Where did we leave off?”

“With Tom Landry.” Quinn’s eyebrow arched. “I believe he fumbled his pass at you. Or did that slip your mind already?”

“No. Older ladies like myself find caffeine boosts our memories . . .”

And with another hit of hot city roast, I refreshed my boyfriend’s memory on the
second
pass that came at me that night.

S
ixteen

H
UGGING myself against the February chill, I waited for Officer Landry’s cruiser to disappear around the corner. Then I turned to face my temporary home, one of five stately brick structures beautifully situated on a shady section of N Street.

Though I was an art school dropout (by way of an unplanned pregnancy), I was still captivated by distinctive architecture, and this lineup of town houses, known as Cox’s Row, was one of the country’s finest examples of Federal period design. I couldn’t help admiring the solid brick construction, exquisite dormers, and graceful white swags beneath the tall, black-shuttered windows.

The builder, John Cox, was a merchant, importer, and former mayor of Georgetown. He’d even served in the War of 1812, the same war in which Francis Scott Key, his M Street neighbor, wrote our national anthem. Soon after, the building I occupied became part of the Underground Railroad, that network of secret routes and safe houses run by brave abolitionists who’d defied the law to help slaves flee northward to freedom.

That’s what I loved about this DC neighborhood. Like Greenwich Village, every block seemed to have a tale to tell. But there was a difference. In New York those tales were about artists and writers; in Georgetown, the stories filled me with national pride.

Unlike most of the buildings in the area, the Cox’s Row homes were set back from the street, allowing patches of greenery to cheer up the severity of the lines.

In the wee hours of this morning, however, as I walked up the little
dooryard of evergreen boxwood shrubs, I didn’t feel cheered. What I felt was trepidation—as if someone were watching me.