Decaffeinated Corpse

Six

“The usual?” I asked from behind the coffee bar.

The detective nodded.

Mike Quinn was an average-looking Joe with sandy-brown hair, a slightly ruddy complexion, and a square, dependable chin. He had crow’s feet and frown lines, favored beige suits, rust-colored ties, and gave sanctuary to a trench coat that had seen better years. He was also tall and lean with rock-solid shoulders and a working moral compass.

I couldn’t imagine Mike as being anything but a cop. To me, he was like one of those concrete block warehouses people barely notice on a fair weather day but run screaming to for refuge in a Category Four.

And then there were his eyes. Nothing average there. Even when the rest of him appeared aloof or exhausted, Mike’s eyes were alert and alive, taking in everything. Intensely blue, they were the shade of a Hampton’s sky— which I had only recently discovered, having just spent my first summer there—and when they were on me, my blood pumped a little faster (even without caffeine).

Behind the counter, Joy had finished brewing that fresh French press pot of Ric’s new decaffeinated beans.

“Make Ric’s to go,” I advised her. “He’s heading out.”

I was tempted to keep yakking. I wanted to ask her about that new boyfriend, the one she’d discussed with Matt and not me. It rankled that she was keeping secrets, but we’d been through some rough patches in the last year, and I could see where she might be sensitive about my meddling in her new “adult” life.

My ex-husband had been wrong about a lot of things, but I wasn’t going to disregard his advice just because he could be a horse’s ass in other quarters. He loved our daughter. And she loved him. And maybe, for once, Matt knew what was best.

Biting my tongue, I stopped the dozen grilling questions on the tip of it. Instead, I put an arm around her and thanked her for coming down to say hello.

“No problem, Mom,” she said. “It’s nice to see you.” She hugged me then. It was unexpected but heartfelt, and it made me feel a thousand times better.

As she headed off toward Ric and her dad, I turned back to Quinn.

“We have something new tonight,” I told him. “Beans from a prototype decaffeinated coffee plant. Would you like to try a cup?”

He arched a sandy eyebrow. “You think I come here for decaffeination?”

“Now you sound like my baristas.”

“The usual,” he said, his low gravelly voice like music. “That’ll be fine.”

It always gave me a kick to make Quinn’s “usual.” Before he’d made detective, he’d been a hardened street cop, and even though he wasn’t the sort of man to wear his machismo on his sleeve, I vowed never to tell him that in Italy his favorite nightly drink was considered a wussy breakfast beverage favored by children and old ladies.

The latte was also the most popular coffee drink at the Village Blend, as it was in most American gourmet coffee shops, so who was I to judge? Our double-tall version used two shots of espresso, steamed milk, crowned with a thin layer of foamed milk. (In a cappuccino, the foamed milk dominates.) And because we throw away any espresso shot older than fifteen seconds, we always prepare the milk first.

I cleared the steam wand and dipped it deep into the stainless steel pitcher. One trick for steaming milk (as I tell my new baristas) is to keep your hand on the bottom of the metal container. If it becomes too hot to handle, you’re probably scalding the liquid. That’s one reason I clip a thermometer to every pitcher (150 to 160 degrees Fahrenheit is the optimum range).

As I worked, I kept one eye on Matt, across the main room. He’d approached Ric, who was still sitting by the fireplace, speaking into the phone. When the man completed his call, Matt quietly spoke to him.

Without protest, Ric rose to his feet. The top of his head came dead even with Matt’s. The two could have been brothers, I mused, with their perpetual tans, short-cropped raven hair, and womanizing ways. Then Ric swayed in place. The man was obviously still woozy from the blow to his head.

Matt offered an arm. “Take it easy,” he said as he helped his friend negotiate the close-quartered sea of cafe tables.

As usual, our sparse gathering of patrons, barely looked up from their seats. Mike Quinn, on the other hand, tracked the two zigzagging males as if he were a fixed bird of prey. “What happened to Matt’s friend?” he asked, his gaze never wavering from the pair until the two men left the building.

I didn’t want to lie, but I didn’t intend to break my word either. “Oh, you can guess, can’t you?”

Quinn turned back to me. “One too many decafs?”

I laughed—in an unnaturally high pitch. Since it was time to aerate the top of the milk anyway, I let the steam wand’s gurgle drown out my disturbing impression of an overexcited munchkin from the land of Oz.

Now Quinn’s gaze was fixed on me as I pulled two espresso shots and dumped both into a double-tall glass mug. Then I tilted the pitcher of steamed milk. Using a spoon, I held back the froth at the top, letting the velvety white warmth splash into the liquid ebony.

The Blend had a tasty variety of latte flavors—vanilla, mocha, caramel, hazelnut, cinnamon-spice, and so on—but Quinn was a purist. I finished the drink with a few spoonfuls of frothy light foam and slid it to him. He took a few long sips of his no-frills latte, wiped away the slight traces of foam on his upper lip with two fingers, and sighed like a junkie getting his fix.

I loved seeing the man’s stone face crack, relaxed pleasure shining out like sun rays through a storm cloud. I noticed the shadow of a beard on his jaw line. The dark brown scruff made him look a little dangerous. Not for the first time, I wondered what it would be like to wake up next to him first thing in the morning. He caught me looking. I turned away.

For well over a year now, Mike Quinn had been a loyal friend. He was someone I’d trusted and confided in, someone who’d helped me get through difficult situations, a few of which had involved murder.

Mike had confided in me, too... often about his case-loadand sometimes about the crumbling state of his thirteen-year marriage. He had two young children, a boy and a girl, and he’d wanted to stick it out for their sakes, but the last few years had been the worst. He’d tried marriage counseling, group therapy, and “couples’ exploration” weekends. Finally, he decided to grit his teeth and just bear it until his kids were older, but his wife didn’t feel the same. She was the one who made the final cut.

About a month ago, she announced that she wanted a divorce. She intended to marry the “new” man in her life— which translated to the latest guy in a string of affairs. And since New York State requires couples to live apart for one year before a divorce can be granted, she insisted their jointly-owned Brooklyn brownstone be put on the market immediately.

Mike’s wife and kids were now preparing to move into the guest house on the new man’s Long Island estate (the new man apparently pulled down in a month what a veteran detective made in a year), and Mike was living alone in Alphabet City. He’d taken a one bedroom rental, not that I’d seen it.

Did I want to? was the real question.

Yes! was my resounding answer.

I’d had a brief summer fling with Jim Rand, but we’d parted ways at the start of September. Now he was scuba diving thousands of miles away, although it might as well have been millions. Jim was the kind of peripatetic lover of adventure who couldn’t stay in one place long enough to let a tomato plant take root, let alone a relationship, and I’d had his number from the moment I’d met him.

The attraction between me and Mike was something else, something more. Over the past year, we’d flirted regularly, laughed at each other’s jokes, and shared many a long, quiet conversation. But as long as Mike was trying to make his marriage work, there was no way I was going to allow us to cross that platonic line.

Things were different now... and yet they still weren’t right...

My ex-husband’s little prediction about the man “making moves” on me was quaint, but I didn’t believe it for a second. Mike Quinn had “gun shy” written all over him—and it had nothing to do with the .45 peeking out of his shoulder holster.

Although he was separated, he wasn’t legally divorced, and he was obviously still stressed and disturbed about the end of his marriage. When would he be ready to move on? I didn’t know. I couldn’t even be sure he’d want me when he was ready...

Grabbing the portafilter handle, I gave it a sharp tug, unlocking the basket from the espresso machine. “So what’s new tonight?” I asked, knocking the cake of used grounds into the under-counter garbage.

“You tell me.”

I glanced up at him. Damn those blue eyes. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“You’re such a terrible liar, Cosi.”

I looked away, noticed Joy’s pot of decaf, and moved to pour myself a cup.

“You know...” Mike said lazily sipping his drink, “Tucker told me what happened.”

I froze, midpour.

When Mike had come in earlier, he’d sat down at the coffee bar and made small talk with Tucker. Until now, I hadn’t considered what they’d been talking about. Obviously, Matt hadn’t either or he never would have made a deal with me.

I threw out the cup of decaf. For this, I’d need caffeine.

I dosed grounds into a portafilter, tamped, clamped, and pulled two shots. Then I poured the double into a cup and took it with me to face Mike across the marble bar.

“What... exactly did he tell you?”

“That someone mugged your ex-husband’s friend in your back alley. Why didn’t you call the police?”

“You’re the police. And you’re here.”

“But you didn’t call me.”

“Matt’s friend... he didn’t want to report the incident.”

“Why?”

“There are issues.”

“What issues?”

I took another hit of caffeine. “I don’t know yet, but Matt promises he’ll tell me later.”

Mike’s gaze didn’t waver. “Be careful, Clare.”

“Of what?”

“A man who doesn’t want to report a crime is usually a criminal himself.”

I folded my arms. “Ric’s the victim here, not the criminal.”

Mike didn’t try to argue; he simply continued drinking his coffee.

“We’re going into business with this man, you see? He’s the one who made that breakthrough with the decaffeinated plant I mentioned....” I was trying to project confidence, but I could tell I was coming off defensive. “It’s really an amazing thing, you know, for the trade? And Matt’s known Ric for almost his entire life.”

Mike glanced away. “Matt’s not exactly pure as the driven snow.”

“That’s not fair. I mean, okay... I wouldn’t call him an innocent lamb, but Matt’s definitely no criminal. And I don’t appreciate the snow crack.” I closed my eyes and held up my hand. “Don’t say it. I already know... crack is also a term for cocaine.”

Mike drank more latte. “So what do you think happened?”

“I’m not supposed to discuss it with you.”

“Solve a few homicides and you’re flying solo, huh?”

“I made a deal with Matt. He agreed to take Ric to St. Vincent’s ER now and tell me everything later—”

“—as long as you keep the details from me.”

“What are you, a mind reader?”

“Some people are an open book.”

“Meaning me? Now you sound like my ex-husband.”

“Ouch.”

“Listen,” I leaned on the coffee bar, closing the distance between us. “Since you already know the basics, I don’t see any harm in talking hypothetically.”

“Hypothetical is my middle name.”

“I thought it was Ryan.”

“Aw, Clare... you remembered.”

“Have you ever heard of a mugger using a prerecorded message?”

The detective put down his nearly empty latte glass. “You’re not kidding, are you?”

I shook my head.

“I’ve had voices mechanically distorted in extortion cases, but never a street mugger. Not in my experience.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Mike’s lips twitched. “What else do you think?”

“If the mugger didn’t want his or her voice recognized, then Ric might have recognized it, right? Which means—”

“Ric already knows this person.”

“Or...” I murmured, “he’s about to know this person.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Ric’s in town for the ICGE—it’s an international trade show for the coffee industry. Later this week he’s announcinghis horticulture breakthrough, and it’s going to shake up a lot of people.”

“What does ‘shake up’ translate to? Will it ruin them?”

“No... at least not right away. Ric’s deal is exclusive with the Village Blend, and we’re a premium product. Something like this won’t change the mass market for years. This discovery shouldn’t be a total shock, either.”

“Why not?”

“People have been working on creating a viable decaffeinated plant for a little while now—the interest was negligible at first but the percentage of decaf drinkers has skyrocketed in the last fifty years. It was something like three percent in the sixties, now it’s close to twenty, and—”

“You don’t have to tell me. It’s a very old song, where there’s a market, there’s interest in exploiting it.”

I nodded. “Yeah. Love it or hate it, so goes the capitalist formula for progress.”

“So who’s competing with your friend?”

“Some scientists in Hawaii are doing field tests on a genetically engineered decaffeinated plant. And back in 2004, there were rumors that Brazilian scientists from the Universidade Estadual de Campinas had identified a naturally decaffeinated Ethiopian coffee plant.”

“What happened there? Why wasn’t that a success?”

“Ethiopia supposedly raised issues over the ownership and that was the last anyone heard of it—the quality of those beans is still an unknown.”

“Is Ric associated with that discovery?”

“No. Ric’s living in Brazil now, but Matt tells me he did his own experimentation. He’s been interested in botany since he hung out here at the Blend back in college.”

“He went to college here?”

“He came as an exchange student from Costa Gravas for a year or so. He lived in the Village and took classes at NYU and Cornell, I think.”

“I thought you said he was from Brazil.”

“He and his family are living in Brazil now, but he was born and raised on Costa Gravas.”

“Where is that? Central America?”

“It’s a small Caribbean nation, near Jamaica, Spanish and English speaking. It was a British colony, which explains Ric’s surname. His father’s side held land there for generations. But now the island is independent and self-governing. Ric’s family left and went to Brazil. They reestablished their coffee farm there.”

“Don’t you know why his family left?”

“Not really. Matt and I were divorced when it happened, and I lost touch with Ric... until now.”

“What kind of a guy is he, would you say?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is he the kind who makes a lot of enemies? Does he have a temper? A short fuse?”

“No. The man’s as easygoing as they come. Five minutes after the mugging he was telling my daughter how beautifully she grew up.”

“If he’s not one to make personal enemies—”

“I didn’t say that... I don’t know him well enough, and...”

“What?”

“He’s a pretty smooth operator with women. At least he used to be, back in the day.”

Mike nodded. “Would he sleep with a married woman?”

“I don’t know...”

“Crimes of passion are at the top of the charts in my caseload.”

“I know... but it seems more likely that someone’s after Ric’s research.”

“As well as his life?”

“I don’t know that Ric’s life is in danger. The mugger stole his hotel room keycard. But this person might have taken his wallet too—the mugging was interrupted.”

“How?”

“I’m pretty sure a police siren spooked the mugger first, and then when this robber came back, I was there with Ric.”

“Then you saw the mugger?”

“No. Before I had the chance, I was introduced to our back wall.” I lifted my bangs, showing Mike my bruised forehead.

“God, Clare...”

I dropped my bangs, but he reached out to lift them again. With one hand, he held back my hair. With the other, he tested the bruise’s discolored edges. The rough pads of his fingers were gentle, but the injury was sore.

I winced.

“Sorry...” he whispered. “Damn that ex-husband of yours. He should have called 911.”

Mike appeared to continue examining the bruise, but the affectionate way he kept stroking my hair was starting to scramble my brains. He just wouldn’t stop touching me, and for a moment I lost my voice along with my train of thought.

“It’s okay,” I finally managed. “Ric was the one who needed the ER. He was pistol-whipped pretty badly. When I first found him, he was unconscious.”

Mike’s hand released my chestnut bangs, but he didn’t pull away. Slowly, gently, he began to curl locks of hair around my ear. As his blue eyes studied my green ones, he seemed to be thinking something over. Then one finger drew a line down my jaw, stopping beneath my chin.

If he had leaned just a little closer, he could have kissed me. But he didn’t lean closer. He leaned back, taking the heat of his touch with him.

“I’ve got news for you, Clare,” he said quietly, “if the mugger hit him that hard, then it’s not a simple robbery.”

“What is it?”

“Attempted murder.”