Espresso Shot

Fourteen

For the second time in two hours, the unflappable Breanne Summour was well and truly flapped. Like a gazelle on the veldt, she sprinted out of the magazine’s reception area, her treadmill-toned legs eating up the carpeted hallway. My short limbs struggled to keep up while Roman huffed behind us like an overweight rhino trailing a Serengeti stampede.

Bree made a right turn, then a left, and poked her head into one of the many offices lining the corridor.

“Have those final fixes been made yet?” Bree demanded.

“Which fixes?”

“Wake up, Monica! The ones I gave you at Fen’s less than an hour ago!”

“Petra’s staff is working on the Sinamon fixes first, since her people are arriving at three.”

“Well, Nunzio is now arriving at two instead of six!” Bree cried. “Tell Petra I’m giving her fifteen minutes to make the final changes on his pages.”

“Only fifteen? Do you really think that’s enough—”

“I can stall the man for a little while, but he’ll want to see those pages. You stay with the art department, do you hear me? Make sure every single correction is made. I’m holding you personally responsible this time!”

“Yes, Ms. Summour.”

Monica Purcell’s thigh-high boots raced out the door like her pirate ship was on fire. She zipped down the hall, nearly knocking over an older editor, and disappeared around a corner.

Breanne let out a moan, shook her head, and began massaging her temples.

I stepped up to her. “Is there anything I can do?”

The chief editor shuddered, obviously startled to be reminded of my existence. “I don’t know, Clare, what can you do?” She looked down her long nose at me. “Are you a whiz at Photoshop?”

“Not lately.”

“Then why don’t you just...” Her voice trailed off, and she squeezed her eyes shut. A moment later, she sighed. “Why don’t you just go make us some coffee. Okay?”

“Coffee? You’re kidding.”

“There’s a coffeemaker in the break room—that way.” She pointed, then waved her hand, shooing me away.

“But—”

She turned to Roman. “Come on. Let’s go to my office.”

Office, I thought, watching Bree and Roman disappear down the hall. Now there’s a better idea...

Monica’s office was right in front of me. And Monica would be out of it for at least the next fifteen minutes. What if I take a look around? I checked the hallway. No one was paying attention to me, so I slipped inside and shut the door.

At over twenty stories up, the view was breathtaking, all cerulean sky and shimmering cityscape. But I wasn’t in here for the heavenly vision. Regrettably, my business was somewhat lower. Turning my gaze downward, I scanned Monica’s desktop and immediately spotted her cell phone. It sat next to a stack of mail and an overflowing in-box on the glossy, fine-grained wood.

I dropped my new Fen bag on the edge of her desk, sank into her ergonomically designed chair, and opened the sleek device. I didn’t like invading her privacy, but this was about one woman’s life—and another’s death. I took a breath and figured out how to read the call logs.

Using a pen and a piece of memo pad paper from Monica’s desktop, I wrote down the last five numbers I found—outgoing and incoming—along with any names listed. I put an asterisk beside the call she’d made on the sidewalk outside of Fen’s. It was easy enough to figure out, since I’d already made a mental note of the exact time she’d placed it. Unfortunately for me, there was no name listed next to the number.

This is going to take a bit of research. I could use the reverse directory on the Internet, but if the number was unlisted, I’d have to ask Mike for help.

I closed the phone, folded the paper, and slipped it into a handy interior pocket of my new little Fen jacket. Then I tried the desk drawers. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, until I carefully lifted up a plastic tray of paper clips, pencils, and erasers. Hidden beneath was a lacquered black box.

Hello...

I lifted the box’s lid and spied a collection of amber-colored prescription bottles. There was a business card there, too, facedown. I was about to reach for it when I heard, “Has anyone seen a woman named Clare Cosi? I can’t find her!”

Damn.

I closed the black box, dropped the tray of paper clips and pencils back on top, closed the drawer, and hurried to open the door.

A fairylike waif of a girl was hurrying down the hall. She had long, super-straight auburn hair, delicate features, clearly glossed lips, and in her small hand she held a Who Loves Kitty? mug with a tea bag string hanging over the side.

“I’m Clare,” I said, walking up to her. “And you are?”

“Terri.”

“Breanne’s assistant?”

She nodded. “Ms. Summour sent me to find you. She wants to know if you need any help making your coffee.”

“My God, Breanne was actually serious about that?”

“She says if Nunzio’s jet-lagged, then he’s probably going to need a few cups when he gets here, and she could use some, too. Sorry, but I don’t know the first thing about making coffee.” She lifted her mug. “I only drink green tea.”

“Right...” What now? I couldn’t very well bug out on this girl with an excuse of needing to invade her coworker’s privacy. So I shrugged and said: “You better show me where your break room is.”

As Breanne’s assistant took me through an open area of cubicles, I decided to make the most of this detour.

“Terri, what can you tell me about Monica Purcell?”

“Monica?” She laughed—a little nervously, I thought. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, has Monica been very angry with Breanne lately?”

“Not that I know of. They’ve always been pretty tight. Before Monica was promoted, she used to be Ms. Summour’s assistant.”

“You mean like you are now?”

Terri nodded.

“So you trust Monica?”

The young woman laughed nervously again. “I didn’t say that—and why do you care, anyway?”

We arrived in a room with a fridge, cupboards, and some vending machines. The space was empty. I closed the door and lowered my voice.

“I’m trying to help your boss right now, Terri. You can trust me on this: my questions are important. So tell me the truth. Why wouldn’t you trust Monica?”

“It’s just that...” Terri shrugged. “Monica can be slippery sometimes.”

“What do you mean by slippery?”

Terri looked away. “She’ll say one thing to someone’s face—like she thinks an idea for an article is really good, you know?—and then she’ll turn around and deny it in a big meeting.” She shook her head a little, like she was getting agitated. “I heard that when Monica was Breanne’s assistant, she undermined some older editors with that sort of thing, going to Ms. Summour before a meeting, telling her about this or that idea she’d overheard and spinning it badly, totally dissing the thing before the editor got the chance to present things her way. One editor felt so demoralized with the pattern, she just quit. That’s when Ms. Summour promoted Monica over other junior people into the woman’s job.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Before I started here. About four years.”

“Has that older editor been in touch lately? Maybe threatened your boss?”

Terri shook her head. “The woman got married and moved to Australia with her new husband. I hear she’s doing really well, started her own e-book publishing company.” She checked her watch. “Listen, we better get that coffee started. Ms. Summour’s going to be pissed.”

Oh, God forbid Ms. Summour should be pissed. “Okay, fine, let’s see what we’ve got to work with here.”

I rummaged around the cupboards and fridge, satisfied with what I found (at first). There was a small grinder and a bag of whole coffee beans beside the microwave. I found milk in the fridge and a few lemons, no doubt for the many tea drinkers on staff (one entire cupboard was filled with herbal, green, and “weight-loss” varieties). Unfortunately for me, the situation deteriorated from there.

The drip coffeemaker stank of mildew. It probably hadn’t been cleaned since the Carter administration. And the beans on the counter were nearly as old. The French roast was a quality Arabica, purchased from the Whole Foods Market in the basement. The beans might have been okay if the vacuum bag hadn’t been left wide open (air and light being the enemies of freshness). I sniffed the shrunken black gravel and gagged at the level of bitterness.

Great.

Nunzio was an Italian artist, born and raised in a country with over 200,000 espresso bars and a century-old tradition of serious java making. If I served him this swill, he’d probably spit it out right in front of me.

I considered my options and had a thought.

“Terri, you have a product closet here, don’t you?” (I remembered Matt scoring a few choice items when Breanne invited him to peruse the thing.)

“That’s right,” Terri said. “It’s down the hall.”

“Show me.”

It took me all of three minutes to dig among the straightening wands, kitchen appliances, shower attachments, and exercise devices to find a home espresso maker, sent gratis to the magazine in hopes of getting a mention in Trend’s Hot Products page. As a bonus, I even found a set of espresso cups and a serving tray. Terri helped me carry everything to the break room, where I hurriedly set it up.

“Do you know where Bouchon Bakery is, Terri?”

“You’re kidding, right? Everyone in this building knows where it is: right downstairs in the lobby shops, follow the smell of warm croissants.”

I fished out some cash (after all, if Bree could buy me a $900 outfit, the least I could do was spring for some decent joe). “Go down to the bakery’s take-out counter and buy a package of their whole bean coffee—”

“Their what?”

“Bouchon doesn’t just peddle éclairs and tartlets. They sell freshly roasted coffee beans in small bags. Ask for whole bean. Not preground and not decaffeinated.”

“Whole bean. Not decaf. Got it,” Terri said, giving me a team-player thumbs-up.

Bouchon Bakery was run by Thomas Keller, one of the greatest American chefs alive. And the coffee beans I’d just sprung for weren’t only served at the man’s bakery twenty-two floors below me, they were artisan roasted by the same woman-owned company that provided the coffees for Keller’s French Laundry in California and his Per Se in New York, two of the finest restaurants in the country.

No home espresso unit could summon the level of heat and pressure of a professional machine. But the premium Bouchon beans would help overcome the limitations of the method. Even if the home machine extracted half of what was present, I figured I’d get some magnificent, mood-altering cups for Nunzio.

Terri was gone and back in under ten minutes. “Nunzio’s arrived, Clare. He’s been escorted to Breanne’s office already. I better get back there.”

As Terri raced off, I opened the bag of magic beans and went to work.

The Bouchon House Blend smelled heavenly: woody and sweetly dark, like caramelized nuts with traces of cocoa and spice. It was primarily a Sumatra Golden Pawani mixed with African and Latin American beans. I ground them fine, packed them into the portafilter, secured the handle, and started the pull.

While the test cup was extracting, I grabbed a lemon from the fridge and used a small knife from a cupboard to artfully corkscrew the rind. Then I reached for the first cup and tasted it.

The roast method was Viennese, which brought out the tropical wood nuances in the beans while preserving a wallop of caffeine punch. The taste profile included a hint of citrus and berry with a heavy spice finish.

Not bad!

I drew four new espressos, placed a tiny, perfect lemon rind curl on the edge of each demitasse, and set the small cups and saucers on the serving tray. Then I hoisted the tray onto my shoulder and headed down the hall.

I found Terri pacing in front of Breanne’s office. The double doors were closed, but I could hear muffled voices from the other side.

“Careful,” she whispered. “Nunzio’s in a really foul mood, and Monica hasn’t come back from the art department. The profile pages should have been here five minutes ago. See, I told you Monica can’t be trusted.”

“Open the door for me, Terri.”

She did and stood aside. Then I strode in.