A Brew to a Kill (30 page)

“Is that what I think it is?” I asked numbly.
Really? How many shocks can a person be expected to absorb in a single evening?

Matt tossed one of the plastic-wrapped squares on the floor and pierced it with a stab from the box cutter. He had to really dig in, as there were layers upon layers of wrappings. When finally reached the dull yellow paste, the smell that rose from the pierced plastic was noxious, almost like kerosene.

“It’s
oxidado
,” Matt said grimly. “The petroleum stink comes from the way the drug is processed.”

“I’m calling Quinn right now,” I said, making for the stairs.

“Wait!” Matt seized my arm. “I thought of a bright side.”

“This I’ve got to hear.”

“Maybe this is a test—you know, like a test charge?”

“A what?”

“When you check into a hotel, you give them your credit card, and they do a ‘test charge’ of a couple of bucks to make sure the card is valid. I’m thinking this might be a test.”

He said it with such hope, I wanted to believe him.

“Before we tell anyone, we need to know how bad this situation is, don’t we?”

“How could it be worse?”

“Don’t ask.”

I took his face in my hands. “I’m asking.”

Matt’s eyes locked on mine. “I have
fifteen
more bags of this stuff at the warehouse. Every single one of them could be laced with crack cocaine.”

M
ATT
and I streaked through the night in a fully-loaded silver BMW. The car belonged to Matt’s wife, Breanne, so he insisted on driving. Besides the speed limit, my ex was breaking at least one other traffic law—he was talking over his cell while operating a motor vehicle.

Most of Matt’s extremely agitated conversation with his coffee-farming friend in Brazil was conducted in pidgin Portuguese, and since I was only hearing Matt’s side of it, I couldn’t follow.

Matt cursed and slammed the smart phone into the soft leather upholstery. The device bounced and hit the ceiling. I caught it before the phone shattered against the dashboard.

“What did Nino say?”

“He claims he had nothing to do with it. Nino blamed O Negociante for everything!” Matt pounded the steering wheel. Once, twice—

I touched his arm. “Calm down. You’re going to blow a gasket.”

Matt wiped away the sweat on his brow. “Look, if we opened the only dirty bag—if the others in my warehouse are
clean—I can dump the crack we found in the East River. Nobody will be the wiser, and Quinn never has to know.”

“Somebody will be the wiser,” I countered. “O Negociante, for one. And maybe the driver of the car that’s been following us since we crossed the Brooklyn Bridge.”

“What!”

“Don’t turn your head. You can see it in the rearview mirror. That black car—”

“The Chevy Impala? Okay, I see it. Let me speed up a little. If he tries to pace us, we could be in trouble…”

Matt pushed the gas pedal until the BMW purred like a housebroken cheetah. The Impala sped up, too.

Not a good sign.

Matt tried weaving around a slow-moving Ford. The Impala did, too. After a minute or so, Matt cursed and slowed again. So did our Chevy stalker.

“The Atlantic Avenue exit is next,” Matt said. “I’ll shake him there.”

“But the ramp is here
now
! You don’t have time to cut across two lanes of traahhh—”

Matt swerved at high speed, cutting off the SUV in the next lane. Brakes slammed, tires squealed, horns blared—and the pasta I’d consumed for dinner threatened to make a reappearance.

Our BMW shot down the exit ramp at twice the legal speed, and we hit busy Atlantic Avenue just as the traffic light flipped to green—a miraculous piece of good luck since we never could have stopped before the intersection.

“The Impala’s still coming,” I told him, white knuckles gripping my shoulder harness.

“Fine. Let’s see how this SOB likes the old double-back.”

“The old wha—ahhhh!”

Without braking, Matt cut across the opposite lane of traffic and turned into a fast-food parking lot. I nearly bounced off the passenger-side window before the safety harness righted me again.

The place was an all-night burger joint. A red Kia was
stopped at the intercom, blocking the road, so Matt twisted the wheel. We bumped onto a low curb and off again, taking out a bush as we passed the little red car.

Bree’s BMW mirror on my side shattered against a steel menu display. Matt shifted gears again, and we burst out of the parking lot.

Tires streaming smoke and rubber, the BMW screamed back onto Atlantic. But this time we zoomed in the opposite direction, leaving the Impala stuck in the wrong lane. Before I knew it, we were on the expressway again.

Needing fresh air, I cracked my passenger-side window. Howling night wind filled the compartment. I heard a triumphant snort and turned to see Matt’s white teeth gleaming in the dashboard lights.

“Maybe we should have confronted the driver,” I said. “Maybe this whole mystery could have been solved.”

“Yeah, right. And maybe the driver had a gun, Clare, and a bullet with your name on it.”

My jaws clenched, and I didn’t speak again until we rolled to a stop in front of the warehouse gate minutes later. The engine still running, Matt popped the door. “I’ll open the gate.”

The memory of gunshots in the afternoon, coupled with the late hour and the moonless night, cast a sinister pall over everything. The mixed-zoning neighborhood no longer seemed bohemian friendly. Industrial buildings loomed like giants, and the windows on the surrounding houses were dim. Even the bodega at the corner was lightless, and there was not a soul on the sidewalk.

Matt unlocked the chain-link gate and tore away ribbons of yellow police tape that crisscrossed the entrance. He eased the BMW into the parking lot, cut the engine, and closed the gate.

As we approached the main door, a motion detector activated security lights, bathing Matt and I in a bleached halogen glow. That light made us targets, so Matt hastily punched in the code on the keypad and killed them.

Clutching his key, Matt input another code. When the little red light blinked to green, he inserted the key, twisted it, and pushed the heavy steel door inward.

The code had triggered fluorescent lights embedded in the high ceiling, so the windowless loading dock was now awash in sterile light.

Stepping inside, I smelled fresh paint, and I knew why. For the past few months, this area had served double duty: loading dock by day, depot for the Blend’s coffee truck at night. Our newly painted Muffin Muse was parked here now, gleaming in the harsh brilliance.

Out of habit, Matt checked the digital gauges monitoring temperature and humidity. Grunting his satisfaction, he extracted a second key and unlocked a pair of double doors. A gust of cool, dry air chilled my skin as we entered the coffee storage area.

The sacks of Terra Perfeita Dourada were stacked just inside the entrance, still resting on the wooden pallet on which they’d been delivered. Matt, clutching an iron carting hook, tore into the nearest jute sack with the sharp edge. It didn’t take long to locate the drugs.

Desperate now, Matt dropped to his knees and ripped into a second bag, then a third. All were laced with packets of
oxidado
. Matt staggered to his feet, stepped back. The metal hook fell from his limp hand to clang loudly on the concrete floor.

I reached into my handbag.

Matt hung his head. “If the police or the DEA find out about this, we’re ruined. I mean
ruined
. The Feds will seize the warehouse, probably the Blend, too.” He paused, rubbed the back of his neck. “Call Mike Quinn,” he said. “Tell him everything.”

The phone already in my hand, I hit speed dial.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Mike answered in a sleepy voice. “It’s almost midnight. Are you checking up on me?”

“Mike,” I said in a shaky voice. “I need your help. Like I’ve never needed anyone’s help before…”

“Clare, what’s wrong.” He was wide awake now.

“Matt found drugs. Cocaine. In a shipment of coffee.”

“Where are you now?”

“With Matt, at the warehouse, in Brooklyn. Mike, there’s a lot of crack…”

A loud crash boomed from the loading dock, followed by the sound of running boots on the concrete floor.

Matt grabbed the carting hook and whirled to face the double doors as a strident voice boomed.

“DEA. DEA. We’re coming in. We have a warrant.”

“Mike!”

“I heard, Clare. Do what they say and you won’t get hurt. I’ll get you out of this.”

The double doors burst open. I saw beetle-blue body armor with DEA stenciled across torsos, guns aimed at my heart. Then blinding bright light struck my eyes and I saw stars.

“Get on the ground, now! NOW!” This time, the voice belonged to a woman. “Down and drop the phone.”

I wanted to hear Mike’s voice one last time, but I remembered his final instructions and released the phone.

“Facedown on the ground!” she cried and I dropped.

Beside me, I heard another voice. My ex cursing.

“Matt,
listen
to me. Don’t say a word to them. No matter what they say to you—and they’re going to say
terrible
things—ask for a lawyer then bite your tongue. No matter what they tell you, be strong, and just—”

“Shut up!” the woman commanded. I felt rough hands cuffing my wrists.

Over all the chaos, a monotone voice droned. “You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”

T
HEY
separated us immediately.

I heard Matt cry out in protest before a pair of DEA agents shoved me into the back of a van. Then it was a long, lonely ride to a faceless building under the High Line. I got only a brief glimpse of my surroundings before I was hustled through a glass door, pushed onto an elevator, and deposited in a dark, windowless cube.

I’d seen other interrogation rooms, and this one was no different—soundproofing, three walls, a trick mirror, a couple of chairs and a table. And like the last time I was in a place like this, I was handcuffed to a stationary object; in this case, a metal chair.

I knew what the agents were planning. Mike Quinn was one of the toughest, smartest interrogators in the New York Police Department, and I’d shared enough pillow talk with him to know how he thought, and how he worked.

Mike walked into an interview room like a lawyer going into the first day of trial—or (apparently) a Brazilian drug lord trying to turn a coffee broker. He learned almost everything he could about his suspect, including what he or she
cared about most in the world—and especially what would hurt them the most.