Espresso Shot

Epilogue

Despite starting off with a bang (literally), Matt and Breanne’s wedding reception came off quite well. The champagne started flowing, and the well-heeled crowd was soon buzzing with the realization that they now had a fabulous new saga of urban survival—a wedding favor that would keep on giving with retellings at cocktail hours and dinner parties for months to come.

Nunzio’s fountain turned out to be the biggest draw of the night, making our coffee and dessert bar a huge hit. (Janelle received no less than thirty requests for her business card.) And Matt’s passion fueled Breanne’s emotional recovery. Giddily soaking up her groom’s repeated, ardent kisses, the usually restrained, ultra-cool sophisticate was feeling no pain, laughing and animated and uncaring that her exquisite Italian silk creation had been stained like a macchiato. I had to give the woman credit, she wore the espresso like a badge of honor—even insisted more photos be taken with the damaged tray and the spattered gown.

“Hector’s shot missed Breanne,” I told Madame as the evening wound down, “but it killed bridezilla for sure.”

As for the sad-eyed Colombian murderer, I had to wait two more days to hear what the police finally got out of him...

“SUICIDE by cop?” Mike told me.

“Suicide by what?”

“You’ve never heard of it?”

I shook my head.

Mike paused to sip the latte I’d made him. “It’s when a perp commits a crime, expecting the police will gun him down.”

“And that’s what Hector told the Fish Squad? That’s what he thought was going to happen at the wedding reception after he shot Breanne?”

Mike nodded.

It was late Monday evening. I’d taken so much time off work before the wedding that I was giving my baristas a break and closing myself for a few nights in a row. Mike and I were the last ones in the Blend. While I finished wiping down the café tables, Mike watched me from the coffee bar, where he’d been filling me in on the details of Hector’s interrogation.

Distraught and unbalanced, Hector had broken down fairly quickly, spilling everything when Lori Soles and Sue Ellen Bass played the “sympathetic ear” gambit.

Just as I’d guessed, Hector confessed to wanting to kill Matt’s bride in order to cause him pain—as much pain as he’d felt when his own daughter had been (in his words) “driven to suicide by the wedding announcement she’d received.”

Apparently, Andelina Pena had left a long, rambling note professing her love for Matteo. Hector saw the note, saw Matt’s name, and focused on the idea of vengeance. To him, the wedding announcement was salt in a wound—a cruel trick. The fact that it was clutched in his daughter’s hand when she took her own life hadn’t helped, either.

“Hector Pena believed he had nothing to lose,” Mike said. “He’d already been diagnosed with cancer. Knowing he didn’t have long to live, he became obsessed with the idea of avenging his daughter’s death.”

“Then Hazel Boggs really was a case of mistaken identity, just like Matt thought?”

Mike nodded. “Soles and Bass linked the crime through ballistics on Hector’s small-caliber weapon. He hadn’t meant to kill the innocent young Hazel. After that, he was even more distraught. He was also reluctant to use the gun again. The poisoning would have worked if Breanne had gone into the office that morning. Instead, Monica Purcell was the one who died.”

“What about Machu Piccchu?”

“Hector attended the luncheon at Javier’s urging,” Mike said. “He hadn’t planned on an attack there, so he didn’t have his weapon on him. But when he heard that Breanne had been behind sending that wedding announcement to his daughter, he became enraged. After Matt ran off and he was asked to help find him, Hector broke away from the other men, doubled back, bought a coat and ski mask from a clothing store near the restaurant, and slipped inside to wait in the ladies’ room—”

“Where I found him, still enraged, trying to strangle Breanne.”

“By the wedding day he was nearly crazy with rage and frustration. He felt sicker than ever, too, and just wanted to die himself.”

“So that’s why he was so brazen. He expected to be shot after killing the bride.”

Mike nodded, took another sip of his latte. “Suicide by cop.”

It was a tragic case on both sides, and I wasn’t exactly cheered by the body count. “It’s hard to believe one simple act could end up causing so many deaths.”

“One simple act?”

I nodded. “Breanne sending out those wedding announcements to Matt’s old flames.”

Mike shook his head. “Matt had a lot of old flames, Clare. Only one of them chose to make that a reason to kill herself.”

“What are you saying?”

Mike shrugged. “Life’s messy.”

“That’s it?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Can you foresee the harm of every choice you make?”

“No, but while I grant you Matt’s a cad where women are concerned, he isn’t a cruel man. After the reception, he told me that he’d broken up with Andelina months before he’d proposed to Breanne. He said he’d done it as gently as he could, but the young woman had been unstable for a long time, was seeing a therapist, and taking medication.” I shook my head. “Still, Breanne had to know she would cause a lot of women a lot of indigestion.”

Mike shrugged. “I can’t argue that some people are better at making messes than others.”

“So why is it people like us always have to clean them up?”

Mike caught my arm, and suggested I stop cleaning up for a while. “Take a break, Cosi.”

I did, plopping myself next to him at the espresso bar. I noticed the New York Journal at the end of the bar and slid it over to him. “Speaking of dirt, guess what’s in here.”

“Oh, right, that big exposé of Randall Knox’s. Now there’s a man who not only likes dirt, but feeds off it.”

“Can’t argue there, but get a load of this. The coverage of the wedding in the paper is all sweetness and light. Not a word in here about Breanne’s sordid past or her connection to the dead stripper Hazel Boggs. Guess why?”

“Knox turned over a new leaf? From now on, he’s only going to report good news?”

“I wish. No, it seems Knox wasn’t the only one with a file in his desk. Breanne finally admitted to me that she’d compiled a thick file on Knox—and not alone. Remember that suspicious-looking guy I saw outside of Fen’s and later at Breanne’s office, asking for her?”

“The big guy with the too-tight suit? Yeah. He factors into this?”

“He’s a private investigator. Breanne hired him to dig up unsavory history on Knox, some of which could land gossip boy in prison if she ever decided to release it to the press. It was enough to bring Knox to heel. He agreed to bury Breanne’s own file as long as his remained under wraps.”

“My ears are still ringing from unsavory allegations that can land him in prison. Anything you want me to look into?”

“Breanne won’t say.”

“Well, I think you and I might want to watch the guy anyway. Or we can sic the Fish Squad on him, or maybe even the pit bull for all those unpaid parking tickets I saw in the system.”

I smiled at the mention of the Sixth’s tough lady beat cop they called the pit bull, which got me to wondering. “Mike, I’ve been wanting to ask you—if I were a dog, what breed would I be? I’ve always thought of myself as a Jack Russell terrier.”

He laughed. “A Jack Russell’s not bad for you, but I think you’re more you of a border collie.”

“A border collie! Aren’t border collies, you know...”

“What?”

“Stupid!”

“No! They’re extremely smart. They just get a little neurotic if they don’t have enough to do, but farmers have used them for generations to protect their dim-witted sheep. They’re also pretty adorable.”

“I’m a border collie?”

“You’re adorable... and smart and gutsy and loving and... C’mere...”

Mike’s mouth was still warm and slightly sweet from the latte, and his lingering kiss made the collie thing suddenly seem a whole lot easier to take. When we parted, he gazed down at me, brushed back my chestnut hair.

“I just want you to know, Cosi... I’m well aware you had a choice, and I’m glad that I’m the man who’s here with you now.”

“I am, too, Mike. Very glad.”

He smiled. “So what dog am I then? Golden retriever? Irish wolfhound?”

“Rottweiler.”

Mike laughed. “A police dog, huh?”

“Guard dog. A tough and hardy breed. Dependable, lovable”—I raised an eyebrow—“usually trustworthy...”

“Okay. I get it.” He raised a hand. “And I’d rather you quit while I’m ahead. Besides, didn’t you say something on the phone earlier about an empty apartment upstairs that you’ve finally got all to yourself?”

I nodded. The bride and groom were off on their honeymoon, Joy was spending the night at her grandmother’s, and when my hand reached into my jeans pocket, it came out holding a small piece of shiny metal.

“See,” I said. “Before he left for Barcelona, Matt handed over his key.”

“And you’ve got the whole place to yourself tonight, right?”

“That’s right, Lieutenant, including the bedroom.”

“Come on then, sweetheart.” Rising from the chair, Mike tugged my hand. “Let’s see if it works.”

It did.

I’m happy to report the bedroom worked like a dream—all night long.