On What Grounds (Coffeehouse Mysteries, No. 1) (A Coffeehouse Mystery)
Read On What Grounds (Coffeehouse Mysteries, No. 1) (A Coffeehouse Mystery) Online
Authors: Cleo Coyle
“Are you sure you saw someone here, Ms. Cosi?” asked Quinn.
“
Heard
someone. Upstairs.” I pointed to the short flight of carpeted wooden stairs tucked beside a large closet next to the kitchen. All three of us stilled and listened. The creek of floorboards was unmistakable. Someone was up there walking around.
“Stand back, Ms. Cosi,” whispered Quinn.
His hand dipped into the leather holster strapped beneath his shoulder. I swallowed a gasp when he pulled the weapon free. He pointed the barrel, which looked to me like a small cannon, at the floor and moved to the base of the staircase.
Langley followed, his gun—just as big—drawn, too.
“Is that necessary?” I whispered.
“I hope not,” he said softly.
Quinn and Langley climbed the stairs, and there was a hideous few seconds of absolute silence. Then a muted voice of surprise—male. The intruder was male.
“POLICE. Hands on your head. NOW.”
“MOVE.”
Langley appeared at the top of the staircase. He moved down, the intruder behind him, hands behind his back. They’d cuffed him, I’d realized.
Good.
Another few steps and Langley would be out of the way, and I’d finally get a look at this nervy bastard’s face.
Oh, no,
I thought.
“Matt?”
“Carolyn?”
“You know this guy?” asked Quinn.
ON WHAT GROUNDS
THROUGH THE GRINDER
CLEO COYLE
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
ON WHAT GROUNDS
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2003 by The Berkley Publishing Group.
Cover art by Cathy Gendron.
Cover design by Rita Frangie.
Interior text design by Kristen del Rosario.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
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ISBN: 978-1-1012-2070-2
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BERKLEY
®
PRIME CRIME
PRIME CRIME Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
The author wishes to convey sincerest thanks to her excellent editor, Martha Bushko, and her exemplary agent, John Talbot, for having faith in this brew.
“I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.”
—T. S. E
LIOT
,
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
ROLOGUE
S
HE
was a dancer. Young, slender, pretty, but not particularly beautiful. And not special.
From the corner of Hudson Street, the stalker watched her prancing about behind the tall French doors, sweeping, mopping, wiping—the gleaming wood floor, the marble-topped tables, and the silver espresso machine.
The hour was late. The place was closed, but the coffeehouse lights beyond the tall clear windows shone with a disturbing intensity, harsh beacons that burned through the thin layer of fog rolling in off the cold, dismal river just a few blocks away.
With tentative movements, the stalker followed those beacons, descending the curb into the empty street. Wisps of pale mist flowed in waves across the gray cobblestones, sweeping the stalker along in its ethereal current like some passenger on a ferryboat bound for the underworld.
Reaching the other side, the stalker moved onto the wide, clean sidewalk. From above, a faux gaslamp buzzed
and sputtered. How appropriate, thought the stalker, and how typical. The vile little streetlight had the façade of class, but inside it was fake—the forced flickering of a cheap electric light, an inferior imitation of the real thing—
Just like Anabelle.
Nothing special.
The four-story red brick townhouse that held the coffeehouse was no different, the stalker decided. Just one of many in this historic area. Common. Ordinary.
Below the arched front window, an antique wrought-iron bench sat bolted to the sidewalk. Seeing it, the stalker sank to its cold, hard surface.
Breathing became difficult. No longer unconscious but an intentional thing. Purposeful, planned, and premeditated—
IN THEN OUT.
OUT THEN IN.
Deliberate counts. Deliberate breaths. Wave after wave until finally the stalker rose and once again made an approach.
The Village Blend’s door loomed large. Beveled glass in an oak wood frame. Pulsing music leaked through. The intense aroma of roasting coffee.
The stalker’s knuckles rapped: One knock. Two.
Inside, Anabelle spun. A dancer’s turn. The long, blond ponytail swung around the slender neck. Blue eyes widened in the oval face. The pert nose wrinkled; delicate eyebrows drew together, forcing unflattering folds into the high smooth forehead.
When she aged, that’s what she’d look like, thought the stalker. Shriveled and wrinkled and used up—
It was only a matter of years.
Surprise registered on Anabelle’s face as she stared at the figure beyond the glass. Slight suspicion was evident, but not alarm, and not panic.
Good,
thought the stalker.
Very good.
It took a week for Anabelle to cross the wood-plank floor. A day for her to click-clock the dead bolt. Finally, the framed beveled glass cracked, and the stalker stiffened, swallowing down the upsurge of bile.
THIS GIRL HAS IT COMING.
SHE’S BROUGHT IT ON HERSELF.
For days these thoughts had been repeated and repeated on breath after breath, in wave after wave. An unrelenting force, they became the current that carried away any last surge of sentiment, of creeping conscience, of warning whisper that one day there might be regret.
“Hello?” said Anabelle, warily. “I didn’t expect to see you.”
THIS GIRL HAS IT COMING.
SHE’S BROUGHT IT ON HERSELF.
“Do you want to come in?”
The stalker nodded, forced a smile. Then Anabelle cracked the door wider, the music pulsed louder, and the stalker strode in, vowing—at least for this one brief moment—never to look back.
The author wishes to convey sincerest thanks to her excellent editor, Martha Bushko, and her exemplary agent, John Talbot, for having faith in this brew.
“I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.”
—T. S. E
LIOT
,
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
ROLOGUE
S
HE
was a dancer. Young, slender, pretty, but not particularly beautiful. And not special.
From the corner of Hudson Street, the stalker watched her prancing about behind the tall French doors, sweeping, mopping, wiping—the gleaming wood floor, the marble-topped tables, and the silver espresso machine.
The hour was late. The place was closed, but the coffeehouse lights beyond the tall clear windows shone with a disturbing intensity, harsh beacons that burned through the thin layer of fog rolling in off the cold, dismal river just a few blocks away.
With tentative movements, the stalker followed those beacons, descending the curb into the empty street. Wisps of pale mist flowed in waves across the gray cobblestones, sweeping the stalker along in its ethereal current like some passenger on a ferryboat bound for the underworld.
Reaching the other side, the stalker moved onto the wide, clean sidewalk. From above, a faux gaslamp buzzed
and sputtered. How appropriate, thought the stalker, and how typical. The vile little streetlight had the façade of class, but inside it was fake—the forced flickering of a cheap electric light, an inferior imitation of the real thing—
Just like Anabelle.
Nothing special.
The four-story red brick townhouse that held the coffeehouse was no different, the stalker decided. Just one of many in this historic area. Common. Ordinary.
Below the arched front window, an antique wrought-iron bench sat bolted to the sidewalk. Seeing it, the stalker sank to its cold, hard surface.
Breathing became difficult. No longer unconscious but an intentional thing. Purposeful, planned, and premeditated—
IN THEN OUT.
OUT THEN IN.
Deliberate counts. Deliberate breaths. Wave after wave until finally the stalker rose and once again made an approach.
The Village Blend’s door loomed large. Beveled glass in an oak wood frame. Pulsing music leaked through. The intense aroma of roasting coffee.
The stalker’s knuckles rapped: One knock. Two.
Inside, Anabelle spun. A dancer’s turn. The long, blond ponytail swung around the slender neck. Blue eyes widened in the oval face. The pert nose wrinkled; delicate eyebrows drew together, forcing unflattering folds into the high smooth forehead.
When she aged, that’s what she’d look like, thought the stalker. Shriveled and wrinkled and used up—
It was only a matter of years.
Surprise registered on Anabelle’s face as she stared at the figure beyond the glass. Slight suspicion was evident, but not alarm, and not panic.
Good,
thought the stalker.
Very good.
It took a week for Anabelle to cross the wood-plank floor. A day for her to click-clock the dead bolt. Finally, the framed beveled glass cracked, and the stalker stiffened, swallowing down the upsurge of bile.
THIS GIRL HAS IT COMING.
SHE’S BROUGHT IT ON HERSELF.
For days these thoughts had been repeated and repeated on breath after breath, in wave after wave. An unrelenting force, they became the current that carried away any last surge of sentiment, of creeping conscience, of warning whisper that one day there might be regret.
“Hello?” said Anabelle, warily. “I didn’t expect to see you.”
THIS GIRL HAS IT COMING.
SHE’S BROUGHT IT ON HERSELF.
“Do you want to come in?”
The stalker nodded, forced a smile. Then Anabelle cracked the door wider, the music pulsed louder, and the stalker strode in, vowing—at least for this one brief moment—never to look back.
