Murder by Mocha (33 page)

“A woman was thrown overboard,” I told them. “A young woman named Daphne Krupa.”

Soon after, bells sounded and a voice came over the PA system. “Passenger overboard. Passenger overboard...”

The
Argonaut
lurched as the engines shifted tempo, and the yacht began the careful process of turning around in midchannel.

As Susan Chu was helped into a state room, the male detective cornered Alicia and Aphrodite, and herded them away. The woman detective approached me. “Let’s talk.”

T
WENTY minutes later I was staring at the espresso-colored water that was churning into foam in the wake of our passing.

The
Argonaut
had long since sailed over the area where Daphne had been lost. Rescue helicopters and several boats still circled the perimeter, their searchlights playing across the river’s glassy surface. I hadn’t given up all hope, but I doubted Daphne had merely been tossed into the drink. Just like Patrice Stone, she’d probably been bludgeoned before she was dumped over the side.

I told Queens sergeant Grace Kwan all of that and more, replying to her many questions. Shortly after my interview ended, she consulted with her male partner, who’d interviewed Susan Chu. Before we returned to the pier, Sherri Sellars was taken into custody.

“Why would I kill Daphne?” Sherri cried as the two detectives cuffed her. “I protected that poor girl! I trained her to be my Web master. Why would I do anything to harm her?”

I agreed with Sherri. It didn’t make any sense, despite the things Daphne told Susan. Could poor dead Daphne have been fooled by false evidence on Sherri’s computer?

As the yacht steamed back toward its home, Matt and Madame rejoined me. I asked after Joy, and Matt said she was helping Tucker break down the catering stuff. According to Madame, Alicia was still being questioned by the police.

I told them about Sherri’s arrest. Madame was shocked, but Matt wasn’t surprised. “When I shook Sherri’s hand, I saw her dilated pupils, her flushed complexion. Take it from a guy who knows, the Luv Doctor has a special relationship with white powder, and tonight she was coked to the gills.”

“That must be why she couldn’t produce any witnesses for her whereabouts when Daphne was attacked,” I said. “She slipped off to feed her habit.”

Matt nodded. “She sure looked like she needed a fix after her talk. And when you need cocaine that much, you’re just about crazy enough to do anything, including toss your assistant over the side.”

“That doesn’t sound like the kind of calculating killer who sent phony letters to entrap Maya, Alicia, and me. And you need self-control to paint a word over a bulkhead after you’ve beaten two girls down and thrown one over the side.”

“What are you saying, Clare?”

“I think Sherri is being framed.”

As we approached the pier, the captain warned us over the PA system that everyone would have to wait until police business was concluded before we would be permitted to disembark. Despite that directive, all the guests assembled on the lower deck, close to the exit, as the
Argonaut
berthed.

I noticed a lot of activity on our dock. Not a shock, considering all that had happened. But I was surprised to see two familiar faces among the crowd. As soon as the gangplank dropped into place, Manhattan detectives Lori Soles and Sue Ellen Bass led a foursome of uniformed officers aboard.

I tried to speak to them, but the Fish Squad quickly disappeared below deck. Moments later, Sherri Sellars was escorted down the plank by Detective Kwan and her partner.

Two minutes after that, Soles and Bass reappeared. Alicia Bower was now walking between them. Her head was down, her hands cuffed behind her back.

I ran up to them. “Lori! What’s going on?”

Alicia turned when she heard my voice. “Clare! Help me!”

“Quiet,” Sue Ellen barked.

Lori Soles stopped to speak with me while Sue Ellen and two other officers proceeded down the ramp. As Alicia was pulled along, she called over her shoulder. “Bay Creek Women’s College! Find Aphrodite’s thesis. Find it, Clare!”

“You have to let me speak to Alicia!” I begged Lori.

“That’s not going to happen, Cosi.”

“But—”

“We got a nice print from a piece of the victim’s smart-phone that the killer tossed off the Garden’s rooftop. It took time, but we found it—and matched it with a print on file in Long Island. We now have a solid case against Alicia Bower for the murder of Patrice Stone.”

“Listen to me! There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for that print. Ask Alicia. She’ll tell you—”

“Alicia will have her day in court,” Lori said before turning away.

Matt appeared beside me, put a hand on my shoulder. “You know, Clare. You
did
think Alicia was the murderer.”

“Because that’s what the killer wanted me to think. But Alicia’s not a murderer—and I don’t think Sherri is, either. Someone went to great lengths to frame Alicia and Sherri. Someone wanted to frame them both.”

“Clare’s right,” Madame told her son, lips tight. “Alicia is
not
a murderer.” She faced me, her violet eyes welling. “We have to fix this. We have to help her.”

“We will.” I took her hand in both of mine. “I promise.”

Matt pointed over my shoulder. “Why don’t you start by asking Dudley Do-Right here for some advice.”

“Mike’s here?” I spun to find Quinn’s long legs striding across the deck. In his wake were Sully and a uniformed officer. Mike paused, scanned the crowd, and walked right over to the Hasidic man in the broad-brimmed hat. He paused to stare into the older man’s eyes while Sully took hold of the man’s arms and pinned them behind his back.

With a brush of his hand, Mike knocked away the hat, pulled at the false beard. As it fell away, I saw that terrible bone-white scar.

“Cormac Murphy O’Neil, you are under arrest for the murder of a New York City police officer. You have the right to remain silent—”

Madame heard the man’s name and blanched. “It can’t be...” When she turned to look, their eyes met. Matt and I had to move quickly. We caught her in our arms before she sunk to the deck.

THIRTY-NINE

K
EEP your head down. Stay quiet. Don’t give yourself away...

God, it was hard. The giggles were bubbling up again, threatening to expose her. But it was just too perfect: Seeing Alicia and Sherri led away in handcuffs.

Now they knew what her mother felt: Fear. Dread. Humiliation. Now they would go through a public trial, be shunned by so- called friends, torn from their families, suffer living vivisections by a rabid press.

Have fun, ladies! Enjoy having prosecutors dissect your lives, examine every blemish, exhume every personal secret . . .

Yes, this was what she’d dreamed of, all those years ago: to watch this show, watch them suffer! She bit her cheek, made it hurt, then swallowed down the laughter.

Only one more act to go now. Like the judge and prosecutor, this monster’s fate would end with an execution.
And if that little snoop, Clare Cosi, dares get in my way again, I’ll end her, too.

FORTY

“H
OW’S she doing?” Mike Quinn asked.

He pulled me aside when he noticed Madame’s reaction. Cormac O’Neil had been led away by now, escorted down the gangplank, and placed in Mike’s unmarked vehicle.

“A doctor on board is checking her over to make sure she’s okay. Matteo and I just need to get her home.”

Quinn nodded. “Have you spoken with her yet about the past? Her grand jury appearance?”

Shaking my head, I considered explaining what kind of day I’d had, but this wasn’t the time or place to start unloading. Mike’s own day was far from over, and he didn’t need more baggage from me. So I simply said—

“If Madame needs to talk when we get her home, I’ll listen. Otherwise, I’ll broach the subject tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow’s fine. Don’t stress her. O’Neil surfaced for a reason, and I’m guessing he’ll give it up easily.” He lowered his voice. “What about you? How are you holding up?”

Feeling Quinn’s heavy hand on my shoulder, I closed my eyes, still amazed that a simple touch from this man was all the aphrodisiac I needed. Like a warm espresso, it woke up every part of me.

“I’m fine. Long day, that’s all . . .”

He cupped my cheek. “You don’t know how much I’m looking forward to its end.”

“Me too.”

Mike moved his hand back to my shoulder—his grip felt firmer. “I have to ask you something, Clare. Has Sergeant Franco tried to contact you?”

“No.”

“Do you know if he’s been in contact with Joy?”

“He hasn’t, and she’s left plenty of messages for him. What’s the matter? Is Franco in danger?”

“He’s not in danger. He’s in trouble.”

Aw, no . . .
“It’s the dealer again, isn’t it? The case he couldn’t let go.”

Mike nodded. “Franco defied orders, trailed that scumbag from Jersey, and arrested him in Manhattan. Hawke found out. He and Franco had words . . .”

Mike’s public mask was rigid but not unreadable, not to me. His dark blue eyes had narrowed slightly, deepening the crow’s feet at their edges. His mouth looked tight.

“Hawke’s really angry, isn’t he?” I said. “What’s he forcing you to do?”

Mike exhaled. “He wants Franco’s badge and gun.”

“For heaven’s sake, what’s the sense in that? Didn’t the man simply do his job?”

“Following orders is part of the job, too, Clare.”

“I’m sorry, but this stinks like office politics—another big boss with a big ego.”

“I don’t like it much, either, but the chain of command can’t be broken without consequences.”

“And what if the top of that chain is
wrong
?”

“Franco’s done a good job for me, for my squad. I want to save his career, but he has to help himself now. He has to come in.”

“It’s just . . . Mike, it’s not right, and you know it.”

Quinn looked away, rubbed the back of his neck. His expression went from stony to openly grim, as if he were trying very hard to control anger—or pain. “If he contacts Joy or you, try to convince him, okay? Tell him to call me. We’ll work it out.”

“Can you really work it out? Or is it too late?”

“Honesty, I don’t know. I’ll do what I can...”

A
n hour later, I was sitting in Madame’s penthouse apartment near Washington Square. Her live-in maid had greeted us at the door. Like a doting mother, Consuelo fussed and clucked, tucking Madame into bed, plumping her pillows. Consuelo brought her a cup of cocoa, too, even fixed a tray for me and Matt before retiring herself.

“Okay, she’s resting comfortably,” my ex-husband said, striding out of his mother’s bedroom. “She insisted on calling a lawyer for Alicia, but she’s finally settled in. Now talk to me, Clare...”

“Sit down,” I told Matt, cradling the warm cup. The rich, heady aroma of fine European chocolate reminded me how Madame had fussed and clucked over me during my pregnancy. The drink tasted of everything that was sweet and comforting and good. “Have some cocoa.”

Matt remained standing. He folded his arms. “I want to know
who
this man O’Neil is,
why
he was arrested, and
why
my mother fainted when she saw him on that yacht tonight!”

“Lower your voice—I’m going to tell you. But I want you to sit down first. This is liable to be a shock . . .”

When Matt finally settled on the sofa, I explained it all: how Mike Quinn got involved, how he read the police file, how Madame was thrown in jail for protecting a cop killer.

“I can’t believe she did that . . .” Matt was holding his head now, just as shocked and upset as I knew he’d be. “When did this happen exactly?”

I gave him the dates.

“I remember that time . . .” He sat back, gaze going glassy. “About a year after my father died, Mother arranged for me to spend six months with the Gostwick family—they were good friends of my father’s, and they owned a coffee farm in Costa Gravas.”

“I know the Gostwicks, Matt. You and Ric are best friends...”

“I’m just trying to explain. I missed my dad so much back then. I was failing out of school, getting into fights . . .” He shook his head. “It must have been extremely difficult for my mother. You know, I didn’t even think about it then. I only thought about myself, my own grief. But now that I’m a father...” His voice caught. “I think it must have been very hard for her to send me away like that. Maybe it screwed up her judgment.”

“Maybe. But I’m sure she hoped the change would be good for you.”

“Oh, it was. I learned so much over those months. Ric’s father taught me about the coffee business from the bottom up, and we traveled, too, because the family loved to sail. They showed me Jamaica, Haiti, much of the Caribbean. We even motored through Central America. I came back to New York fluent in Spanish and Creole French, feeling ready to take on the world.”

“And you did . . .”

Just a few years later, Matt went off alone to backpack Europe. I was staying with relatives, studying Renaissance art. We met in Italy. One chance encounter on a beach, and our lives changed forever.

“Well,” I said, “if you were in Costa Gravas that long, it explains why you don’t remember this character O‘Neil. He must have duped your mother into the relationship because, according to the police file, Cormac O’Neil was one dirty cop.”

“Cormac O’Neil was one
good
cop.”

Madame’s voice was fixed and strong. She stood in the doorway to her bedroom, a white silk robe wrapped elegantly around her, her bearing as regal as ever.

“Cormac was also a righteous man. The best. I’m sure he still is.”

I set down my cup. “That’s not what the police file says.”

“And I was not
duped
into a relationship with him. Our love grew out of friendship. And our friendship grew from trust. Cormac protected me, and he saved our Village Blend . . .”