Decaffeinated Corpse (28 page)
Read Decaffeinated Corpse Online
Authors: Cleo Coyle
Tags: #Mystery And Suspense Fiction, #General, #Fiction, #Detective, #Mystery, #Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, #Fashion, #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction - Mystery, #Mystery & Detective - General, #Coffeehouses, #Suspense, #Women Sleuths, #Cosi; Clare (Fictitious character), #Mystery fiction, #Restaurants - Employees
Matt processed the information. “I’m going with you, Quinn.”
“No you’re not. I’m the one going with him,” I said. “One look at me and the head of the agency won’t be able to deny anything. I sat right there in his office two days ago, asking about Ellie.”
“And if he does deny it. We’ll get a warrant,” Mike assured me.
“You’re staying here,” I told Matt. “There’s more important things to be done, and only you can do them.”
“What things?” Matt’s tone was belligerent, but I couldn’t blame him. The man hadn’t exactly been partying all night.
“I want you to call every coffee broker you know. Try to find out if Ric is buying beans.”
Comprehension dawned on Matt’s exhausted face. “I understand where you’re going. Okay, I’m on it.”
As Matt poured himself another mug of coffee, I grabbed my jacket. His “I’m on it” echoed through my head, and before I headed out the door with Mike, I almost told Matt that he was finally beginning to sound like his mother. But then I bit my tongue.
As Matt began talking on his cell in a rough approximation of French, I decided that if anything could put Matt in a fouler mood than he was now, it was pointing out to him that he’d finally climbed aboard my Nancy Drew train.
TWENTY-THREE
WHEN I returned to the Blend, a throbbing sonic wall smacked me in the face at the front door. Someone had replaced the subtle sounds of Gardner’s smooth jazz program with the sort of thumping electro-synth fusion found in Euro-urban clubs. Not only was the music inappropriate, the volume was pumped to the limit. I approached Tucker at the espresso machine.
“What’s this stuff coming out of the speakers?”
Tucker directed his eyes to the ceiling, then rolled them. “There’s a man in the house.”
“Matt?”
Tuck nodded. “He’s taken over the upstairs lounge. I’m sending up an espresso shot every twenty minutes, and he’s getting more manic. The music started about half an hour ago. Thank god it’s not too busy. I think some of our regular customers would complain.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake . . . you don’t have to wait for a customer. I’m complaining. Right now. Put Gardner’s CD back on.”
“But Matt told me—”
“I’ll handle Matt.”
With two espressos in hand, I climbed the stairs. I found Matt slumped in an armchair, surrounded by a half dozen espresso cups. His shoes were off, and a fire roared in the hearth. His laptop computer was open on the table. Matt nodded when I entered, ended his call to someone on the Commodities Exchange.
“You’re recovering nicely,” I said.
Matt frowned. “So, did you and the flatfoot get the goods on Jerry Lassiter?”
I handed Matt the cup. With jittery hands, he added a large amount of sugar before he swallowed the demitasse in a single gulp.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “You never add sugar.”
“I do when I need to stay awake. Now tell me what happened.”
“Well . . . Mike was in rare form. By the time he was finished talking, Mr. Kapoor was only too happy to cooperate with the NYPD. The bad news is that Jerry Lassiter didn’t employ the detectives. It was Carlos Hernandez.”
Matt sat up. “Hernandez? Why?”
“Apparently, Hernandez hired the agency to dig up evidence of biopiracy for a possible lawsuit against Ric and the Gostwick Estate.”
Matt rubbed his eyes. “Then it must have been Hernandez who had Ellie killed. She was helping Ric file for the legal protection of his hybrid. That has to be what happened.”
“Mike thinks so, too. They’re going to look for a blood type and DNA match with the crime scene evidence. But . . .”
“But what?”
“But what if Hernandez didn’t kill Ellie?”
“Come on, Clare. It’s the only scenario that makes sense.”
“Not so fast,” I said—an admittedly useless thing to say to someone as wired as Matt. “Isn’t the whole point of a civil lawsuit to be awarded monetary damages? Why would Hernandez want to mess up the progress of getting the hybrid to market? Wouldn’t it make more sense to let the decaffeinated plant be a success, then sue for a share of it? And if Hernandez killed Ellie, then who killed Hernandez?”
The questions hung there for a moment. When I decided I’d given Matt enough time to come to the same conclusion I had, I answered my own question.
“Could Ric have done it? Did he somehow find out about Ellie’s murder, and then take revenge on the man who killed her?”
Matt shook his head. “Ric’s a lover, not a fighter. In all the years I’ve known him, I never saw him raise a hand to anyone. Not even guys who tried to provoke him. He always used his wits and charm to get out of a bad situation.”
My memories of Ric validated Matt’s claim. After all, the man hadn’t exactly held his own against the mugger who’d attacked him a few nights ago, though by his own account Ric was taken by surprise and from behind.
“Look,” Matt said. “Hernandez had a lot of enemies. I know about this guy, and he’s a real piece of work. Brawling at New York nightclubs. Hanging out with known drug dealers. Gambling debts. Running out on restaurant and nightclub bills. A guy like that can make a lot of enemies.”
“Then why did he come to the Beekman alone?” I said. “Why wouldn’t a man like that have a bodyguard with him?”
“I don’t know, Clare, but if you ask me, Hernandez had it coming.”
“Don’t talk like that! You’ll get arrested for suspicion again.”
“Even if I had wanted to kill Hernandez, I would have had to get in line—a long one.”
“I suppose it’s possible somebody with a grudge finished Hernandez off,” I said. “But I’d like to know the connection . . .”
Matt had no reply. He was staring at a graph on his laptop screen. “I made a few connections of my own.”
“Good news or bad?”
Matt’s grim expression said it all. “Ric’s buying beans. Colombian beans. A good quality Bogotá. Only I know this little fact, but Ric was going for the taste and complexity of Bogotá beans when he developed his hybrid.”
He paused. “It gets worse. Ric contracted a Mexican firm to decaffeinate the beans he bought. I just talked to a fellow in Chicago who confirmed that a Royal Select Company processing facility in Mexico will take a delivery of Ric’s Bogotá in a couple of days.”
“The cutting!” I realized. “Now it makes sense!”
“What?”
“Remember the little hybrid cutting you helped Ric smuggle into the country?”
“Yes?”
“Well, Ric lied to me. He said he borrowed it from you to show to Ellie. But Ellie assured me that she never saw it. Ric must have borrowed that cutting to show to Monika Van Doorn and her people at Dutch International. I’m sure everyone was impressed, and Dutch International signed the contract. Now Ric is going to deliver beans. Only they’re not going to be from his hybrid decaf plants—”
“They’re going to be Mexican water-processed decaffeinated Bogotá packed in Gostwick Estate Reserve Decaf bags,” Matt said, finishing my thought.
I nodded. “It’s the Kona scandal all over again. Only this time you and I are right in the middle of it.”
“But you didn’t do anything wrong,” Matt assured me. “It’s all my fault. I helped Ric smuggle the cutting, and I’m an accessory to fraud. Not you.”
“I’m in this with you, Matt. Both of our reputations are on the line, not to mention the reputation of this coffeehouse. It’s ugly what Ric is doing, but we have to face it. The Village Blend is about to become a party to fraud.”
Matt stood. “It isn’t fraud if it’s exposed. I’m going to pay a visit to Monika Van Doorn. I’m going to tell her what I know, and what I suspect. After that, it’s between her and Ric.”
“But you don’t even know where the woman is staying.”
“Yes I do. Mother’s invited to the Dutch International Halloween party tonight. The RSVP contact is a number at the Waldorf=Astoria. So I called the hotel and checked with the desk clerk. The Van Doorns have been staying in a suite for over a month.”
I rose to join my ex-husband. “Let’s go.”
The old, original Waldorf=Astoria was located where the Empire State Building now stands. The current structure is a forty-seven story art deco landmark on Park Avenue. The grand hotel has been a temporary home for kings, princes, and the über-wealthy. I was reminded of that fact when we exited the cab on Forty-ninth Street and saw the commemorative plaque affixed to the wall. (Former President Herbert Hoover and retired U.S. General Douglas MacArthur had both lived in Waldorf suites.)
Matt paid the fare while I stepped into the crowd. I glanced up at the MetLife Building looming in the background. Then I glanced at the hotel’s majestic entrance and stopped short.
Matt joined me on the sidewalk. “Let’s go.”
“Wait,” I cried, dragging him off to the side.
Matt resisted, so I pulled harder. “Clare, what’s the matter with you?”
“That man, coming out of the hotel,” I whispered, trying not to point. “That’s Neils Van Doorn, Monika’s husband.”
He followed my gaze. “No way, honey. Look at the way he’s dressed. Van Doorn always looks as if he just posed for a “Fashions of the
Times
” layout. That guy’s either a recent immigrant or a style-challenged tourist.”
Times
” layout. That guy’s either a recent immigrant or a style-challenged tourist.”
Matt was certainly right about the clothes. Neils wore a lime green polyester track suit and matching jacket over an orange sweatshirt. The shiny material was decorated with shoelace trim in chocolate brown. Not even the discount chains would be caught dead selling clothes that tasteless. Neils Van Doorn was wearing the kind of cheap stuff hanging on racks outside outlet stores on Fourteenth Street, right down to the no-name twenty-dollar sneakers on his size twelve feet.
“That’s him!” I insisted, seizing Matt’s hand and tugging him back to the middle of the sidewalk again. “He’s waiting at the light. Look at his face when he turns . . . There.”
Matt nodded. “You’re right. I don’t get the clothes, though. Maybe that’s his Halloween costume. Superior Dutchman dresses as typical American hip-hop mook.”
“Too subtle for an elitist’s Halloween costume,” I replied, still dragging Matt by the hand. “Men like Van Doorn dress up as Julius Caesar or Napoléon Bonaparte. I think he’s wearing a disguise.”
Matt touched his forehead. “So now we’re going to follow him, right?”
“From a distance. We don’t want to spook him.”
“Don’t you need a license to do detective work in this state?” Matt shot back. “I have an idea. Why don’t you follow him, and I’ll go talk to his wife.”
“No!” I cried, dragging my ex-husband across the street. “There’s plenty of time to corner Monika later. Anyway, I’m too nervous to follow Van Doorn alone. In that disguise, who knows what kind of dive or dump he’s heading for.”
Matt rolled his eyes. “Clare. This is gentrified Manhattan in the twenty-first century. There are very few dives or dumps left.”
TWENTY-FOUR
“THERE’S no way I’m going in there.” Matt folded his arms over his chest and stood his ground.
“I don’t want you to go in
now
,” I said. “Wait until after Van Doorn leaves. Otherwise he’ll see you.”
now
,” I said. “Wait until after Van Doorn leaves. Otherwise he’ll see you.”
But Matt shook his head. “Not now. Not ever,” he replied.
Here we go again.
My ex would—and did—travel through the most primitive underbelly of the Third World in search of specialty coffee beans. But a few years back, during another crisis, he’d refused to enter the men’s room in a gay bar that we had staked out. Now he refused to enter an admittedly seedy pawnshop on Manhattan’s West Side.
We’d followed Neils Van Doorn on a long trek to this disreputable looking shop on the ground floor of a decrepit warehouse, a half block away from the Hudson River.
“What do you think he’s doing in there?” I asked.
“Why don’t you go in and find out,” Matt replied. “Van Doorn doesn’t even know who you are. You might pull it off.”
“Maybe I will,” I declared.
From the recessed service door we’d ducked into, Matt watched with disbelief as I approached the pawnshop’s front window. I paused, perusing the array of stuff on the other side of the grimy glass.
While pretending to examine the old microwave ovens, cheap stereo systems, and kitsch jewelry from the 1960s, ’70s, and ’80s, I watched Neil Van Doorn inside the shop. He spoke with a three-hundred-pound bald man sitting on a tall stool behind steel bars. Neils slipped the watch off his left wrist, handed it up to the fat man, who examined it closely. I moved to the next window, still pretending to shop. I found myself gazing at old military gear—web belts, rusty helmets, bayonets, a compass, and an old, olive green box with U.S. ARMY stenciled on its side in bold white letters.
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