Murder by Mocha (19 page)

He sank down next to me, exhaling like a battered balloon. Leaning back, he stretched out his strong arm. I nestled into him, and for long minutes, we simply watched the fire snap and crackle, both of us too drained to talk. Finally, I wrapped my arms around him and squeezed.

“Thank you for bringing her home,” I whispered.

“Glad to.”

“You want to crash here again?”

“I thought you didn’t want me to sleep over when Joy was here.”

Mike was right. That was my rule. But sending him away seemed even more wrong.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I mean, it’s pretty obvious Joy won’t mind.”

“All right, then, I will . . .” He paused. “Okay if we stay up a little longer?”

I’d been through this before with Mike whenever he came off duty late. If he went to bed now, he’d be staring at the ceiling for an hour.

“You’re wired, right?” I said.

“I just need to unwind a little more.”

“Good. Because I’d like to know what the heck happened between Sergeant Franco and my daughter.”

“I figured you would.”

“Then come into the kitchen. I’ll fix you a snack.”

Mike smiled. “Now who could say no to that?”

“
S
O how did you do it?” Mike asked, folding his long body into one of my kitchen chairs.

“Do what?”

“Catch Joy in the act of vacating her bedroom via the window, past midnight, every single time she tried it?”

I smiled. “Trade secret of the Maternal Union.”

“I see . . .” Sitting back, Mike began to roll up his starched white shirtsleeves. He did it to keep his cuffs clean, but the gesture always reassured me.

Quinn was the most trustworthy man I knew—the most dependable, patient, and steady—but all that control came with a caveat. He was also the most guarded. For years, I was forced to guess what he was thinking—until he rolled up those sleeves. Then, at least, I knew he could get comfortable in my kitchen.

“You can trust me, you know,” he said.

“I know . . .” Bending down, I poked my head in the fridge, began pulling out ingredients. “But I like the idea of having valuable information to barter with.”

Mike eyed my backside. “Sweetheart, you can barter with me in that position all night.”

“Don’t get fresh, Detective.”

“Fresh is the last thing I am right now.”

“Which is why coffee is on our midnight menu . . .”

Caffeine and I were such old friends, drinking coffee late seldom kept me up. In fact, a hot cuppa joe relaxed me like most people’s cocoa, so I reached for my French press.

The bean choice was easy enough. Matt had sourced some amazing new cherries from Rwanda and Sumatra. During my last roasting, I’d paired them with an old favorite from Costa Rica. The new blend I’d created produced a rich, enticing brew with notes of brown sugar, chocolate, and spices. The blend was so new, I hadn’t yet thought of a name for it . . .

“And is there going to be food on our menu?” Mike inquired.

“But of course. Croque monsieurs with coffee Welsh rarebit.”

“In English?”

“The croque monsieur is just a French bistro version of a grilled ham and cheese—thin slices of ham, Dijon mustard, and melted cheese on buttered and grilled bread. The coffee cheese is my own little spin on it.”

“And what exactly is coffee cheese?”

“Watch and learn, grasshopper . . .”

I cut four thick slices from a rustic French loaf and buttered them. On two of the slices, I laid out my beautiful Black Forest ham and caressed it with Dijon. Next I began making the coffee cheese.

“You’re kidding,” Mike said, watching me. “Where in the world did you come up with this one?”

“College . . .”

My short answer. The truth was, during my two years of fine arts education—before I’d spent a summer studying in Italy, met Matt Allegro, and became pregnant with Joy—I kept two small appliances in my dorm room: a toaster and an electric kettle. With the kettle I conjured countless pots of French-pressed bliss. With the toaster, I created tasty snacks, slathering toasted bread with everything from compound butter, fruit preserves, and Nutella to freshly made deli salads. Then one day, I had a craving for a grilled cheese. I tried using the microwave in the community room, but the results failed to inspire.

Well
, I thought,
some people make Welsh rarebit with beer. Why not try coffee?

The recipe I came up with was ridiculously easy—in other words, perfect for an eighteen-year-old dorm rat. I half filled a coffee mug with shredded cheese. Tonight was a combo of mild cheddar and Gruyère, but over the years I’d used almost every semisoft variety: Colby, Monterey jack, provolone, Gouda, mozzarella, cellophane-wrapped American, you name it.

When my freshly brewed coffee was good and hot, I poured it over the cheese in the mug. Mike couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. His eyebrows practically fused together with naked skepticism.

“Oh, ye of little coffee faith,” I scolded. “As I recall, you were just as squeamish about trying your first café latte.”

“True.”

“And now they’re your favorite.”

“I don’t know—that giant Depth Charge you made me today practically let me see into the future.”

“Well, don’t tell Esther. She’ll insist we rename it Nectar of Delphi.”

For about fifteen seconds, I stirred the mug’s contents then poured off the greasy coffee, carefully holding back the gooey ball of spreadable goodness. What I had left in the mug was a unique delicacy—melted cheese with a meatier, more complex
umami
flavor, like a Welsh rarebit.

Finishing our croques monsieurs, I covered the two remaining slices of bread with my melted coffee cheese, slapped the ham sandwiches together, and slipped them into a hot skillet of bubbling melted butter.

After frying them on both sides—getting that chewy, crusty, rustic French bread to turn a golden toasty brown—I slid the sandwiches onto separate plates, cut them on the bias, and presented one to the skeptical cop at my table.

Mike took a tentative bite and closed his eyes. “Oh man . . .” He took a few more bites, made a guttural kind of man-in-ecstasy noise, and inhaled the rest.

I finished off my own sandwich. As I licked my fingers, I noticed Mike casting a sheepish glance my way. “What’s wrong?”

“Can I have another?”

I laughed. “Didn’t I tell you it was good?”

“You did—I should have trusted you.”

“I guess that admission earns you another, but it’ll cost you . . .”

He brightened. “Personal favors? I’m up for that.”

“Rain check,” I said. “Tonight I just want information.”

“Franco and Joy?”

I nodded. “I’ll start cooking and you start talking . . .”

TWENTY-TWO

“Y
OU remember why I had to leave the party, don’t you?” Mike began.

“An urgent phone call,” I said, prepping the man’s second sandwich. “A ‘certain member’ of the NYPD required your attention.”

“Well, that ‘certain member’ was Franco. Sergeant Sullivan wanted to warn me about him.”

“
Warn
is not a happy word.”

“When Franco found out about my handing his and Sully’s case over to the Feds, he blew a gasket. Sully stressed the decision wasn’t mine; it was Hawke’s—the first deputy commissioner.”

“I remember who Hawke is.”

“Well, Franco didn’t care. He went off half-cocked, anyway.”

I slipped the croque monsieurs into the bubbling butter. “What does that mean exactly?”

“It means he went rogue.”

“In English.”

“He went after the Jersey dealer himself, beyond our jurisdiction and counter to his superior’s decision, which is grounds for reprimand—or even termination. Given the situation, I understood his feelings. Sully is just as emotional about the case, but he’s not as young and hotheaded as Franco. So he called me, and we took off to track Franco down and stop him before he did something actionable.”

“I need a little more here . . .” I slid Mike’s finished sandwich from the pan to his plate.

“So do I. Give me a sec—” He crunched into his croque monsieur, chewed, swallowed, and sighed with satisfaction. “Okay,” he mumbled around another buttery bite. “What don’t you get?”

I refilled Mike’s cup and my own, then sat down opposite. “I don’t get why Franco blew his top. What’s the difference who puts this drug dealer behind bars?”

“That’s just it. Putting him behind bars is the issue. This dealer has no previous record. If he’s smart, he’ll cut a deal with the Feds and do little to no time.”

“But he’s responsible for at least two deaths, isn’t he? The girl who overdosed on his drugs and the artist boyfriend who killed himself over buying them for her.”

“The Feds won’t see it that way. In the bigger picture, this dealer is small time. If he offers good intel on perps higher up the supply chain, they’ll use him as an informant.” Mike finished off his sandwich, sat back.

“And you’re okay with that?”

He folded his arms. “No, I am not ‘okay’ with that, but my feelings are not the law. When you’re on the job, you have to pick your battles. Earlier today, I picked mine. I was willing to go down for my squad. Franco seems willing to go down over this lowlife drug dealer.”

“Why?”

“Because he feels responsible for that kid’s suicide. He thinks he should have seen the signs.”

“Okay, so Franco’s having problems with cop guilt. How does ‘going rogue’ help? What did Franco do exactly?”

“He sat on the dealer.”

I blinked, flashing for a second on those hulks from
WrestleMania.
“Literally?”

Mike’s grim expression finally broke. “No, not literally. Although Franco’s not above a move like that—” He reached for his coffee mug. “What my young sergeant did was conduct his own private stakeout. He took a little drive across the river to see this perp, and it turned into a very long drive. We tracked him for hours from his radio’s GPS.”

“Wait a second. Are you telling me your sergeant took
my daughter
on a stakeout of a drug dealer?”

“Calm down. Nothing happened. Absolutely nothing.”

“What in the world was Franco thinking?”

“It wasn’t his idea. Apparently, Joy called him before he got to the Lincoln Tunnel. He picked her up, they parked by the river, and he explained that he was heading to Jersey on a stakeout. He was about to drive her home, but she insisted on going with him.”

“What in the world was
she
thinking?”

“They weren’t thinking, neither of them . . . As I understand it, Clare, your chocolates were involved.”

I massaged my temples. “Half a box of Voss Raspberry-Espresso Flowers.”

“Well, Sully and I tracked those flowers all over Jersey. Franco and Joy started off watching the scumbag’s house, saw him drive away, tracked him to a nightclub, waited him out there. They hit a diner and finally followed him to a girlfriend’s house. They were practically in Pennsylvania when we caught up with them. Never once did this dealer cross into Franco’s jurisdiction so he never made a move.”

“What move would that be?”

“A move to find cause . . . a new reason to arrest the guy.”

“Okay, I get it. But you still haven’t told me what happened between Joy and Franco while they were alone in that car?”

“I didn’t ask.”

I sighed. “She’s really smitten, isn’t she?”

“I think so.”

“What about Franco? How does he feel about my daughter?”

“He’s a hard case, Clare. I don’t know.”

I closed my eyes and saw Joy in a wedding gown; Franco in formalwear with matching black do-rag and motorcycle boots; Matt sweetly walking his little girl down the aisle—then lunging to strangle the groom.

“Try not to worry,” Mike said. “Joy will be back working in Paris soon enough, right?”

An argument beyond lame. I’d made it myself two times already—to no avail. Joy had been drawn back to Franco like pig(headed) iron to an industrial magnet.

“Let’s talk about something else,” I said. “I don’t need a new nightmare.”

Mike studied me. “What was it about? You never said.”

I took a breath, met his gaze. “You were on the road for hours, right? You never came back to Rock Center, did you? Never used your handcuffs on me?”

“Uh, that would be a no . . . not that it hasn’t entered my fantasy life.” Mike began to smile, until he saw my expression. “I was joking, Clare—for the most part, anyway. Are you telling me your bad dream was about me?”

“I had an erotic dream that turned bad. We made love. You sort of handcuffed me and seduced me into it . . .” Mike’s eyebrows rose with fairly predictable male fascination. “Then I found the body all over again.”

“Body?” His eyebrows fused. “
What
body?”

Before I could answer, Mike guessed: “That ‘accident’ you told Joy about—you were in the middle of it? Is that what you’re telling me?”

I nodded and he softly cursed. “I heard the chatter on the police radio, knew there was an incident at Rock Center, but it’s a big place, and I was sure you weren’t involved. And do you know why?
Because I never got a call from you!
”

“Don’t be angry.”

“Why didn’t you contact me?”

“I turned off my cell during service, and after I found Patrice dead, the events just snowballed . . .” I did my best to quickly fill Mike in on the evening’s festivities—witnessing Maya’s threats, finding Patrice’s body, working with Detectives Soles and Bass.

“So you think Patrice Stone was murdered?”

“I
know
she was murdered. Why else would the killer hide from a visible security camera under a giant black umbrella?”

“There could be a reason. A good defense attorney will find one—have no doubt. Did Soles and Bass make an arrest?”

“We couldn’t get a clear ID from the camera, but they’re gathering all the digital footage, having it analyzed frame by frame.”

“You were at the party, Clare. Do you have a theory?”

I told Mike about Maya and Herbie and a few other possible suspects, including the suspect who worried me most: Alicia Bower.