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
Espresso Shot (8 page)
Tucked into the exposed brick wall, the split logs were crackling, their high flames flashing like tangerine lightning in the antique coffeepots above the mantel. Fog-gray shadows moved across the old tin signs on the exposed brick walls. The effect was creepy, as if the ghosts of dead customers had come back for some kind of grim midnight party.
Since Matt had taken the trouble to set the fire, I expected to see him in front of it, his muscled frame sunk into an overstuffed couch, his shoes off, his feet up. Instead, I found him standing next to the tall front windows, his body angled tensely for a better view of the activity around the emergency vehicles a block away.
Enough light spilled in from the streetlamps for me to make out a closed laptop computer on the table closest to him, along with a cluster of small porcelain espresso cups, all of which were empty.
“How many have you had?” I asked, walking up to him.
“Four.”
“Then you aren’t going to want this double
macchiato
, right?”
macchiato
, right?”
Matt grabbed the paper cup out of my hand, flipped off the lid, and bolted it.
I blinked. “Guess I was wrong.”
“I’m trying to sober up. Not that tonight’s events weren’t sobering enough already.” He crushed the cup in his hand and tossed it onto the table.
I nodded, closed my eyes, and sipped my own
macchiato
, pulling the richly caramelized coffee through the little island of frothed milk. It was profound, in a way, how the tiniest kiss of something sweet and white could transform the heavy impact of something so much darker. The drink’s caffeine was energizing, too, and my weary body wanted the stimulation as badly as Matt had wanted his—only not as fast, which, when you got right down to it, pretty much defined our differences.
macchiato
, pulling the richly caramelized coffee through the little island of frothed milk. It was profound, in a way, how the tiniest kiss of something sweet and white could transform the heavy impact of something so much darker. The drink’s caffeine was energizing, too, and my weary body wanted the stimulation as badly as Matt had wanted his—only not as fast, which, when you got right down to it, pretty much defined our differences.
“Listen,” I said, after opening my eyes, “I’m not scheduled for any more hours today, but Dante and Gardner have been dealing with the mob down there alone, so I told them I’d come back on. Do you think you could pitch in, too?”
Matt nodded. “I’ll help.”
Two simple words, an oasis in the desert. “Great.”
The father of my child stared at me for a long moment after that, his jaw working silently; then he peered out the window again. Obviously, the man was agitated. But I got the distinct impression it had nothing to do with the amount of caffeine he’d just consumed.
“Is something wrong? I mean other than the obvious—” I gestured in the general direction of the crime scene, where emergency lights were still flashing red against the century-old town houses.
“Yes, Clare. I think something’s
very
wrong, but I don’t know how to go about . . .” As Matt’s voice trailed off, he shook his head. “Can I talk to you?”
very
wrong, but I don’t know how to go about . . .” As Matt’s voice trailed off, he shook his head. “Can I talk to you?”
“Of course.”
He walked back to the table, but he didn’t sit down. Instead, he began to pace to the window and back again. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve got some ideas about tonight’s murder.”
“What do you mean
ideas
?”
ideas
?”
“I mean . . .” Matt stopped pacing and faced me, his chiseled features half in shadow. “I’m not so sure the killer was that motorcycle-jacketed asshole back at the White Horse Tavern.”
“I agree with you.”
“You do?”
I told Matt what I’d just learned from Barry downstairs.
“The man’s apartment faces Hudson,” I said, “and he swears he heard the shot from right below his window, which means the weapon was fired a block and a half away from the victim.”
“Yes, but . . .” Matt scratched his head. “I’m sorry,
why
is that important?”
why
is that important?”
“It’s important because the jerk you threatened at the tavern was
drunk
. The man was slurring his words and unsteady on his feet. How the heck could a guy like that bull’s-eye the target of a woman’s head from that far away? And in one shot?”
drunk
. The man was slurring his words and unsteady on his feet. How the heck could a guy like that bull’s-eye the target of a woman’s head from that far away? And in one shot?”
Matt stared at me for a good ten seconds. The half of his face I could see had gone completely pale.
“Matt? Are you okay? Maybe you better sit down . . .”
My ex-husband nodded and took a seat at the table. “You’re right, Clare . . . You’re absolutely right. And it backs up my own ideas.”
“
What
ideas? I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”
What
ideas? I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t think that bullet was meant for the stripper. I think that bullet was meant for Breanne.”
“Breanne?” Now I needed to sit down. “You want to explain your theory?”
As I sank, he rose and went right back to pacing.
“Think about it, Clare. My engagement to Breanne is public knowledge. She’s picked me up here in the evenings countless times. I started my evening here earlier, and when we came back from the White Horse, Breanne’s look-alike was on my arm. If someone had been waiting in the night, staking out the Blend to get to Breanne, they would have seen this girl. Do you follow?”
“Yes, but—”
“Hazel Boggs was a dead ringer for my fiancée. From a distance, she fooled both of us. I think she fooled the shooter, too. I think Breanne was the target, not this poor girl from West Virginia. In fact, I don’t think it. I
know
it!”
know
it!”
Matt’s face was flushed, his eyes bright. A vein throbbed visibly in his neck. Despite the guy’s physical-fitness level, I was starting to worry he might have a stroke.
“Okay, Matt, okay. I hear you. Just please calm down.” I pulled a chair out from the table and shook it. “Now would you
sit
already.”
sit
already.”
For a long moment, my ex-husband stared at me (glared, really, since he could obviously tell I was skeptical of his sudden Breanne-in-peril theory). But then with a grunt he sank down beside me again, put his elbows on the table, and dropped his head in his hands.
“I think you’re overwrought,” I told him carefully. “You’ve had a lot of alcohol, then a terrible shock, then enough caffeine to jump-start a Hummer. Forget about helping me and the guys downstairs tonight, okay? You need to go upstairs and get some rest—”
“Don’t talk to me like a psych patient, Clare. I’m not crazy.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“Just hear me out. This theory of mine didn’t come out of nowhere. Something happened last Friday morning that you don’t know about.”
“Oh?”
“An SUV hopped the sidewalk and nearly ran Breanne down. Then it fled the scene.”
“What?!”
“It happened just down the street from her apartment building.”
“You were with her?”
“No.” He massaged his eyes. “I’d finished my workout early, so I’d been walking toward her from the health club up the street. Bree was on her cell phone, totally distracted. But I saw the vehicle jump the curb behind her and come right for her. If I hadn’t lunged for her, slammed her into a doorway, she could have been flattened.”
“Did you tell the police?”
“Of course! But nothing came of it. There are thousands of black SUVs in Manhattan, and this one had mud splattered across its license plate, so I couldn’t give the cops anything more than a pathetically general description. The whole thing happened in seconds, the side windows were darkly tinted, and there was a sunscreen blocking most of the front windshield. I couldn’t even see whether it was a man or woman driving.”
“Weren’t there any other witnesses?”
Matt nodded. “An elderly couple saw the whole thing, but neither could ID the vehicle any better than I could.”
“Mud on the license, huh? That does sound a bit suspicious, like someone planned it.”
“Why do you think I’m bringing it up?! At the time, I thought it was a freak accident, easily forgotten, no actual harm done, you know? Just a scare. But after tonight’s shooting ...”
I got up from the table and walked to the window, out of the shadows and into them again. Thinking it over, I had plenty of doubts. But for Matt’s sake, I was willing to take his theory for a test drive.
“Do you know anyone who might want to hurt Breanne? What about this Randall Knox character you mentioned earlier? Didn’t you tell me he had a history with her?”
“Yeah, but . . .” Matt shook his head, “it’s no big secret how Knox wants to hurt Breanne. He wants to publicly humiliate her, catch her or me in some kind of embarrassing scenario before the wedding to boost his own career. Knox’s assigned stalkers have cameras, not guns.”
“Is there anyone else you can think of who might be angry with her? Someone who’s threatened her lately?”
“
Yes.
I can . . .”
Yes.
I can . . .”
Matt opened his laptop and struck a button to bring the computer out of hibernation.
“What are you doing?”
“I want you to see a Web site.” He logged on to the Internet via the Blend’s wireless connection and began typing into his browser. “Not long ago, Breanne’s magazine did an exposé on a restaurant, and the chef and owner of the place has been posting some pretty disturbing things about Breanne on his blog.”
“What sort of things?”
Matt slid his computer toward me and pointed at its screen. A maroon banner across the top of the Web page read, “The Prodigal Chef.” Standing next to the letters was the caricature of a man with a dark brown goatee on an exaggerated chin. A tall chef’s hat half covered his spiky platinum blond hair. He wore a white chef’s jacket and a ridiculously broad smile. In his left hand was an open bottle of wine, in his right a meat cleaver.
Below the banner was the headline of the blog’s latest entry:
10 WAYS TO SERVE BREANNE SUMMOUR“Serve Breanne,” I murmured. With a headline like that, I expected the article that followed would be about tastemaker Breanne’s favorite cocktails or finger food, something along the lines of how to make the powerful
Trend
editor-in-chief happy when she visited your nightclub or restaurant.
Trend
editor-in-chief happy when she visited your nightclub or restaurant.
But that’s not what the Prodigal Chef meant by
serving
Breanne.
serving
Breanne.
The first clue was the large picture below the headline. The chef had cut Breanne’s face out of another picture and plastered it to the body of a plucked chicken. Recipes were posted below it, which included methods of frying, broiling, and roasting “the Breanne” over red-hot coals, among other things. Finally, there were instructions for cutting her up so her parts could be used when other tasty recipes called for something especially bitter. “And, don’t forget,” the rambling blog entry finished, “Breanne Summour makes the perfect tart.”
I turned to Matt. “Who is this guy? Sweeney Todd?”
“His name’s Neville Perry. Look . . .”
Matt clicked on a link that read, “About the Prodigal Chef.” A brief bio popped up. “Two years ago, this guy had some sort of short-lived reality show attached to his restaurant. The place was extremely popular. Then
Trend
did an exposé. The World Wide Web spread the word, and Perry’s business never recovered.”
Trend
did an exposé. The World Wide Web spread the word, and Perry’s business never recovered.”
I knew—from my own daughter’s recent experience—how cutthroat the New York restaurant industry could be. Still, I doubted a chef who’d publicly expressed hatred for Breanne would hire a sharpshooter to off her. How dim a bulb would you have to be to do that?
“Look, Matt, if the man was savvy enough to open a New York restaurant, I can’t see him stupid enough to advertise himself as a murder suspect—”
Matt opened his mouth to argue, but I quickly added: “On the other hand, I
do
think we need to tell Soles and Bass about your suspicions. This is pretty disturbing, and we should definitely see what they think.”
do
think we need to tell Soles and Bass about your suspicions. This is pretty disturbing, and we should definitely see what they think.”
“Clare, I’m really freaked about this.”
“I know you are, but
listen
, even if this killer was after Breanne, this person’s not going to know who was shot for a while. I mean, the shooter’s going to stay low for fear of being caught. And the authorities aren’t going to release Hazel Boggs’s name to the press until her family’s been notified. That gives you a few days to work with Soles and Bass. They can pursue leads, see what turns up. And before you know it, your wedding day will be here, and you’ll be getting Bree out of town. You’re flying off to Barcelona for the honeymoon, right?”
listen
, even if this killer was after Breanne, this person’s not going to know who was shot for a while. I mean, the shooter’s going to stay low for fear of being caught. And the authorities aren’t going to release Hazel Boggs’s name to the press until her family’s been notified. That gives you a few days to work with Soles and Bass. They can pursue leads, see what turns up. And before you know it, your wedding day will be here, and you’ll be getting Bree out of town. You’re flying off to Barcelona for the honeymoon, right?”
“Yeah, but . . .” Matt sighed, hung his head. “I’m still freaked.”
I nodded, tried to look supportive. Despite his strong feelings, however, I really doubted he was right. Matt was stressed—and paranoia was never a long trip from that state. After a good night’s sleep, he was bound to see things differently.
By tomorrow, the detectives from the Sixth would probably have Hazel Boggs’s shooter in custody, a murder weapon impounded, and an assistant district attorney drooling over an open-and-shut felony case. Then maybe Matt could rest easy, realize he was wrong, and finally start enjoying his last few days of bachelorhood.
In the hearth across the room, the feverish crackling had slowed. The flames that had been burning so strongly when I’d first come upstairs were now slowly dying. Rising, I gently suggested to Matt that we table this discussion and head downstairs. Then he could help Gardner behind the counter, and Dante and I could begin taking free coffees out to the New York police and fire personnel.
Other books
None of the Regular Rules by Erin Downing
Las muertas by Jorge Ibargüengoitia
An Honorable Surprise by Graham, Sally
Indian Killer by Sherman Alexie
The Forgotten Holocaust (Ben Hope, Book 10) by Scott Mariani
Waiting for You by Susane Colasanti
Last Rites by Neil White
The Vanishing Island by Barry Wolverton
Faceless by Kopman Whidden, Dawn
The Lost Castle by Michael Pryor
