Espresso Shot (39 page)
Authors: Cleo Coyle
Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Detective, #Mystery, #Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction - Mystery, #Coffeehouses, #Suspense, #Women Sleuths, #Cosi; Clare (Fictitious character), #Mystery fiction, #Divorced people, #Brides, #Weddings, #New York (N.Y.), #Brides - Crimes against, #Cookery (Coffee), #Attempted murder
I struggled harder.
“Ssshhh, shhh, now. Accept your fate, and it will be easy ...”
Winslow laughed again, and the pressure of the gun against my spine vanished. With one arm still wrapped around my throat, he raised the other. I struggled to turn my head—it wasn’t much, just a fraction—but out of the corner of my eye, I saw a glint of silver in the shadowy light. A long knife was clutched in his hand.
He doesn’t have a gun! He used the handle of the knife to trick me!
The blade was descending toward my right shoulder. And my move was almost instinctual. Winslow himself had given me the idea:
Accept your fate.
Accept your fate.
Instead of resisting, I gave up. My knees sagged, and I let every pound of my small form go limp. I began to slip underneath his curled arm. On my way down, I opened my mouth and sank my teeth into the man’s stringy flesh. The blade came down, striking sparks off the metal bars he’d been pressing me against.
Winslow cursed me with every word ever invented to degrade a woman.
I bit down harder, a pissed-off pit bull.
Winslow cried out. Using the weight of his body, he slammed me against the jungle gym bars. I kicked at his knee with my big platform wedge and jammed my elbow into his belly. Finally, the man released me, stumbling backwards with a howl. He fell to the ground, and I ran toward Fifth Avenue.
I heard a clang, saw the flash of the hurled knife as it bounced off the slide. I stumbled and nearly fell, but I kicked off my shoes and kept going, right into the headlights of an NYPD sector car.
Tires squealed, and a uniform jumped out.
“A man dragged me inside that playground! He had a knife! Tried to stab me!”
The cop drew his gun and raced into the shadows. His partner leaped out of the vehicle and followed, barking into his radio for backup as he ran. I sagged against the police car, knees weak, bare feet scuffed, hands trembling.
The night seemed suddenly darker. I doubled over at the waist, feeling like I couldn’t get enough oxygen. Another sector car rolled up behind the first, and a policewoman hurried to my side. She helped me into the backseat of her vehicle then leaned against the roof.
“Ma’am, we’re going to get you to an ER. Is there anyone you want me to notify?”
I nodded. My neck was sore, my voice shaky, but it didn’t matter. I only had to speak four words: “Mike Quinn, Sixth Precinct.”
THIRTY-THREE
“CLARE? Are you all right? I heard you screaming.”
Mike stood in the bedroom doorway, a steaming mug of hot coffee in each hand. Shirtless, he wore navy-blue pajama bottoms, and his dark-blond hair was still mussed from sleep.
I blinked, rubbed my eyes, tried to banish the phantom images. Then the real memories rushed back, and they were no less nightmarish—Stuart Winslow’s attack outside the Metropolitan Museum, the fight for my life in the dark playground, my escape and rescue by patrolmen from the Twenty-second Precinct. I remembered my trip to the busy ER, then the chilly old horse stables, a renovated building that now housed the Central Park precinct, where I’d answered a series of questions.
Mike had been there for me, every step of the way. The moment he’d heard I’d been attacked, he had rushed to the hospital; and when all the examining and questioning was over, he’d brought me back to his apartment in Alphabet City, where I’d accepted a good hard shot of his Irish whiskey and passed out.
Now he crossed the bedroom in three strides, set the coffee mugs on the nightstand and took me in his arms.
“What scared you, Clare? What did you dream?”
“I was chasing Joy through a playground,” I murmured against his bare, hard shoulder. “She transformed right in front of me, into this beautiful falcon. I tried to catch her, but a photographer jumped in front of me, snapped a flash. I couldn’t see, just heard a gunshot. A woman screamed, and then—oh, God, Mike—I was facedown on a white marble floor, and there was blood, so much blood . . .”
“Hold on to me, Clare. Hold on as long you need to.”
For a few minutes, I did. Then my nose twitched. “Mike?”
“Mmmm?”
“Do I smell fresh coffee?”
He reached over to the nightstand, pushed a warm mug into my hands. I lay back on the bed pillows, took a test sip, and sighed. The man had come a long way from when I’d first met him. Back then, he’d been swilling stale robusta bean crap by the gallon. The hot, fresh java he’d made for me this morning was my own Breakfast Blend roast, brewed nearly to perfection (which, for me, was better than perfect).
“You know, Mike, you’re getting pretty good at this. You should seriously consider barista work.”
“Thanks. I’ll get back to you if the whole law enforcement thing doesn’t pan out.”
I finished my cup and placed it next to his on the faux-mahogany nightstand—part of a set from the Crate and Barrel catalog that I’d helped him pick out. I thought the dark, sober finish suited his rugged personality. Mike thought the faux part made it easy on his public servant-size wallet.
“Anyway, sweetheart, as far as your future nightmares, I think I can ease your worries. I
had
called the precinct to arrange for a plainclothes officer to watch your back—”
had
called the precinct to arrange for a plainclothes officer to watch your back—”
“That’s not necessary—”
“You’re right. But not for the reason you think. The Jersey state police arrested Stuart Winslow at three fifty-five this morning.”
I closed my eyes. “Thank God.”
“And guess what? He had rental papers on him, and keys to a storage space in Wayne, New Jersey. They opened it up as soon as a judge issued the warrant, found the man’s stash of illegally imported narcotics.” Mike smiled like an alley cat who’d just snagged his rat. “Winslow won’t be getting out of jail for a long time. Congratulations, sweetheart, you did it.”
“We did it.” I hugged Mike again, and then we were doing more than hugging. I was wearing the matching top to his navy-blue pajama bottoms, and I seriously considered removing both.
“Damn,” he murmured against my lips. “Some of us have to report to work.”
I sighed. “I have work, too. Matt’s wedding’s tomorrow, and I have so much to do, including a final batch of beans to roast—the trickiest ones yet, and the most expensive. Kopi Luwak sells for three to five hundred a pound—”
“Dollars? You’re kidding?”
“Drop by early this evening, say eight o’clock? I’m brewing samples for my baristas on the Clover.”
“Free coffee? I’m there.”
He rose up off the bed and crossed to his new faux-mahogany bureau. As my eyes watched him dress, my mind strayed back to the Breanne-in-peril case.
“Mike?”
“Yeah?”
“With Winslow in custody, do you think Breanne’s safe now?”
Mike glanced up from buttoning his shirt. “She hired a bodyguard. You know that, right?”
“Right. I spoke with her yesterday.”
“And I spoke with your ex-husband while I was making our coffee, filled him in on everything.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
He shrugged. “Well, like him or not, I guess we’re all in this together.”
“Yeah, that’s basically what I told Breanne on the bathroom floor of Machu Picchu. So you think it was Winslow who hired the hit man? Arranged for that bathroom attack?”
Mike pulled on his pants, tucked in his dress shirt. “It’s the angle that makes the most sense, doesn’t it? Winslow’s scum. He paid off Monica Purcell in drugs to commit a crime. He probably did the same with the man who attacked Breanne in the bathroom. Whether or not Winslow was in custody is beside the point if he already paid the guy to take her out.”
“I’d have to come to the same conclusion—at least based on what we know. I’ve been thinking about Randall Knox, and I can’t make him as a murderer.”
“The gossip guy?” Mike grabbed his wallet, cell phone, and gold shield off the dresser. “You think he’s innocent?”
“I wouldn’t call him innocent, but after sleeping on it, I’m willing to bet his hits are limited to the pen, not the sword.”
“Good bet. After I spoke to you, I ran a background check. No felonies. No outstanding warrants or restraining orders. Just a lot of unpaid parking tickets. Whereas you can see what kind of nut job Winslow is.”
“Exactly. If I had to guess, I’d say Knox and Miriam Perry were toasting something other than Breanne’s demise. Probably whatever smut story Knox is planning to publish on Monday.”
“The one on Breanne?”
I nodded. “He claims Breanne and the dead stripper shared more than a physical resemblance.”
“And what does that mean?”
“It
might
mean they shared Matt, in which case the gossip column will be about a particularly embarrassing episode in my ex-husband’s playboy past.”
might
mean they shared Matt, in which case the gossip column will be about a particularly embarrassing episode in my ex-husband’s playboy past.”
Mike tightened the knot on his tie. “Will something like that hurt his new marriage?”
“I don’t know. Breanne’s one tough fashionista. Something tells me she’ll be able to handle whatever Knox throws at her. As for Matt, I think he may actually care for the woman he’s about to make his new wife.”
“Then maybe they’ll just get their first lesson in making a marriage work.”
I met Mike’s eyes. “Forgiveness?”
He winked. “Got it in one.”
I smiled. “The thing is . . . I found something else out last night, something that makes me think the story has nothing to do with Matt.”
He slipped on his shoulder holster. “I’m listening.”
I climbed out of bed, crossed to the new computer desk, and opened his old laptop.
“What are you doing?”
“You’ll see.”
I logged onto my Internet account and called up Breanne’s official biography on the
Trend
Web site. “It says here that Breanne Summour is a pen name she legally uses to shield her aristocratic family from publicity. They reside in Europe, and Breanne grew up all over the world, studying at the Sorbonne with sons and daughters of royalty. She has an impeccable sense of fashion that she acquired at the knee of an older family friend, a stunning beauty who once modeled for world-renowned Parisian designer Coco Chanel.”
Trend
Web site. “It says here that Breanne Summour is a pen name she legally uses to shield her aristocratic family from publicity. They reside in Europe, and Breanne grew up all over the world, studying at the Sorbonne with sons and daughters of royalty. She has an impeccable sense of fashion that she acquired at the knee of an older family friend, a stunning beauty who once modeled for world-renowned Parisian designer Coco Chanel.”
“So?” Mike said.
“So it doesn’t add up. Breanne was well educated and well connected. It doesn’t exactly fit with what Winslow implied. Or what Nunzio told me last night.”
“Wait. Who’s Nunzio?”
“An Italian sculptor—he’s not important, but what he said is. Breanne’s been wheeling and dealing behind the scenes, making bargains to get herself freebies. It doesn’t sound like the woman in her bio.”
Mike leaned over my shoulder to read the computer screen. “Yeah. There’s a lot of spongy language here.” He pointed. “ ‘Studied at the Sorbonne.’ When? Doesn’t say she actually graduated. And who’s this ‘family friend’? No hard dates, names, facts. She admits in the bio that she’s legally changed her name, which would discourage any cursory background checks; someone would have to spend money and a whole lot of time to dig up a story, if there even is one, on her past. You’re right. Sounds like a scam job. Why don’t you ask Breanne about it?”
“If it’s just résumé enhancement, it’s no big deal, right?”
Mike laughed. “If that were a crime, I’d have to arrest half the city—and
all
the politicians.”
all
the politicians.”
“Maybe it’s nothing,” I said. “But with Knox threatening an exposé, and my own investigation turning up facts about Breanne that don’t add up, I’d really like to know what Matt is marrying into.”
Mike began to massage my shoulders. “Joy’s about to get a stepmother. Is that it?”
“I’d just like to know what Breanne is hiding, what’s behind the cashmere curtain.”
“Will she tell you if you ask?”
“Doubtful. She’s got the brick wall thing down pretty well.”
“You know, Cosi, whenever I hit a brick wall, I go the other direction.”
“What do you mean?”
“You said Randall Knox implied there was some kind of link between Breanne and the stripper Hazel Boggs. They shared more than a physical resemblance, right?”
“Right.”
“So look at
Hazel
to find out what they shared. Call the Fish Squad. Ask them what they dug up on the girl. Maybe you’ll find a connection to Breanne.”
Hazel
to find out what they shared. Call the Fish Squad. Ask them what they dug up on the girl. Maybe you’ll find a connection to Breanne.”
A horn honked outside, and Mike glanced at his watch. “Sorry, sweetheart. I’ve got to go. Sully’s picking me up down on the—”
The horn honked again. Mike poked his head out the window. “Knock if off, Sully!”
“You’re late!”
“I’m coming! Stop disturbing the peace!”
He brought his head back in. “Don’t forget, you have a change of clothes here in the top drawer. Your sneakers are in my closet. Now kiss me good-bye.”
I did (and for a lot longer than was probably prudent, given Sully’s third horn blast). Mike slipped out the door, and I sighed. It was hard to see my man go. I hung out the window, waited for him to hit the street—one last look.
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