French Pressed

Four

The tall, broad-shouldered police detective entered my coffeehouse like he always did, with the commanding authority of a seasoned New York cop. In one sober sweep, he scanned the room to take note of his surroundings, then his arctic-blue gaze came to rest on me and, ever so slightly, his expression melted.

“Hi, Clare.”

“Hi, Mike.”

In a city that hardened everyone—from little old church ladies to pretty-in-pink sorority girls—cops were the hardest cases of all. Mike Quinn was no exception. A square-jawed New York native, he had a long, powerful physique, short, sandy-brown hair, a dry sense of humor, and a load of street smarts from his years working a uniformed beat.

Like your typical poker-faced soldier of law enforcement, Mike didn’t give much away, but I’d been serving him double-tall lattes for well over a year now, and I knew how to read him.

Today, for instance, had been a hard one for him. The shadows under his eyes told me he was coming in here with the weight of a long shift on his shoulders. And the tension in his rugged face told me he hadn’t accomplished what he’d set out to.

“You closed?” Mike asked, his expression still stiff as he swept the empty room once more.

“Depends,” I teased.

“On what?”

“On what you’re here for.”

Mike strode across the wood-plank floor. He took his time stripping off his overcoat, a nicely tailored cinnamon-colored garment, which he’d finally exchanged for that battered old trench he wore in warmer weather. Then off came the beige sport coat, revealing a white dress shirt, slightly wrinkled by the leather straps of his shoulder holster. The butt of his service .45 peeked out from beneath his left arm—a turn-on for me; shameful, but a turn-on nonetheless.

He dumped his coats on one of the high chairs at the espresso bar and sat down. Then he glanced back up, right into my openly admiring eyes.

Since his wife had left him for a younger Wall Street whiz, Mike had been working out a lot more. His upper body was looking more muscular these days, and other parts of him were presumably tighter. This was pure speculation on my part, since (to my growing frustration) our first month of dating had remained chaste.

Oh, sure, there’d been kissing and touching (okay, plenty of kissing and touching), but although he was legally separated, Mike made it clear that he didn’t want us to rush the stages of our fledgling relationship. There were five of these little suckers, according to Mike, and we’d only progressed from stage one to two. What would catapult us to three? I didn’t have a clue.

I figured Mike was gun-shy—understandable, given the lying, cheating, and bipolar nightmares his wife had put him through (like the time she’d left a note informing Mike that she’d pulled the kids out of school and used his nearly maxed-out credit cards to fly them to Florida’s Disney World for a few days—a passive-aggressive reaction to a morning argument).

One thing I was sure of with Mike and me: sexual chemistry wasn’t an issue. Since we’d first met, he and I had flirted openly with each other. He’d been a loyal friend to me during some bad patches, always sticking his neck out to help. In return, I’d tried to be a good listener as he unloaded the problems of his perpetually rocky marriage. Because he was married, however, we’d never pushed for more. But now that he was separated, his wife was living with another man, and we were finally dating, I saw no reason to veil my attraction.

And, clearly, neither did he.

The moment Mike realized I’d been admiring his physique, his sandy eyebrows arched, and he turned the tables, taking his own good time looking me up and down.

Super, I thought, remembering my wretched state.

At the start of the evening, my French-twisted hair had been semi-neat at best. Now I could feel stray strands slipping all over my head. My fitted cocoa suit had been sort of sexy, but I’d taken off the snug jacket to do the closing chores, and I was pretty sure my Village Blend apron held all the allure of a granny smock.

“So, Detective?” My grin turned into a smirk as I loudly blew a loose strand of chestnut hair out of my face. “Make a decision yet? Do you know what you want?”

“The same thing I always want when I come here, Cosi…”

“And what’s that?”

A slow, suggestive smile lifted the weariness in his face. “Stimulation.”

I blinked, speechless for a moment since the sudden rush of blood to certain parts of my body put a strain on my ability to form words.

“Well, then…” I finally managed. “Why in the world are you just sitting there? If you want to be served right, you’ll have to come around my counter.”

He did. Inside of five seconds, Mike was pulling me into his arms. He kissed me deep and long, his hands roving over me, and I felt something different in him…something new. He tugged loose the strings at my neck and waist, yanked the apron off me, and tossed it aside.

My arms lifted high to pull down his head again and get back to the kissing, but the moment my hands locked around his neck, he began dancing me backward—

“Mike?”

With a slight bump, my back end hit the wide work counter beneath the marble espresso bar. He reached behind me, shoving aside two empty milk-foaming pitchers. Then his hands were on my hips, lifting me up. He set my bottom on the cleared counter and stepped between my stocking-clad legs.

“Mike!”

He smiled. “You’re serving stimulation, Cosi. Don’t hold back now.”

This was the most sexually aggressive he’d ever been with me. My skirt was hiked up, his strong thighs between my own, making me understand that there was absolutely no issue with his physically wanting me. With a groan, he started kissing me again, pressing into me.

“Whoa, Mike,” I murmured against his mouth. “You know there’s a perfectly good bed upstairs.”

“I know…” His lips moved off mine, trailed kisses along my jaw. “And if I had time, we’d be on it right now.”

“You mean it?” I gently pushed at his chest.

He leaned back. “Clare, I’ve been on duty for the past ten hours, and all I can think about is you.”

“Really?”

He sighed, rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “I think about you every day, Clare, and every night. Especially at night. I’m losing sleep. I had wanted to wait a little longer, make sure things were right…” He paused, letting his voice trail off, as if he wasn’t sure what to say next.

“What do you mean right?” I pressed.

“Just that…” He shook his head. “Forget it. I can’t wait anymore, sweetheart. You’re messing with my focus on the job. We can’t have that.”

“No, we can’t,” I said, practically giddy. “So let’s go upstairs.”

Mike checked his watch and sighed. “I’m only being spelled for thirty. Not that I couldn’t make the earth move in that time—” He smiled. “But there’s no way I want our first time to be a quickie.”

“Yeah…I don’t want you leaving me—after. Come back later, when you’re off, when you can stay.”

“Okay…” He nodded, kissed me again. Then he lifted me off the counter.

“Come on up to the duplex in the meantime,” I told him, tugging my skirt back down over my thighs. “I’ll press you a pot of my new Morning Sunshine Blend before you have to get back. It’s a Full City roast, so it has more caffeine than your regular latte, and stimulation is my business.”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

He grabbed his blazer and overcoat off the bar chair, and I picked up my apron. Then I switched off the main lights and, before heading upstairs, finally locked the front door, vowing never to tell Esther that, thanks to her genius boss, a Blend customer could have walked in on something a lot more obscene than rap music.

“So what’s the job tonight?”

Standing at the marble counter, I pushed the plunger down on the French press. The coarsely ground beans filled the apartment’s cozy kitchen with arousing, floral notes. Mike made a show of inhaling the aroma.

“Mmmm…nice,” he said, his eyes following my every move as I filled our mugs. Then I bent over to grab a carton of half-and-half from the fridge’s bottom shelf, and Mike murmured, “Even nicer…”

I turned around. “Mike, did you hear me? I asked what’s up with your job tonight.”

The detective arched an eyebrow. “If you want me to focus, Cosi, then don’t bend over in front of me.”

“Mike!”

“What?” He plucked the carton of half-and-half from my hand and dumped a little splash of light into his pool of black. “You have no idea how distracting that ass of yours is.”

O-kay, I thought, the man’s definitely ready to shift us into another gear. This was fine with me, except for the fact that he was out of here in twenty, and I didn’t appreciate being left hot and bothered for the next few hours.

“Go ahead,” I warned, “keep up the suggestive talk, and see if you make it out of here unmolested. Now focus, will you, Detective?”

“I’ll try,” Mike said behind smiling eyes. Then he downed a few healthy swigs of my coffee and sighed, letting the hot, fresh blend revive him.

MRRROOOOOW!

The sudden jaguar yell echoed off the kitchen walls. I glanced around to find its source, which was not in fact a 300-pound carnivore, but a 10-pound female house cat with the lungs of a famished jungle beast.

MRRROOOOOW!

“Sounds like you forgot to feed Java,” Mike remarked, glancing around. “Where is she? Java!”

“I’ll have you know I fed her a delicious dinner. She’s just protesting now because all she got was cat food.”

“Excuse me? She is a cat, isn’t she?”

I shook my head. “You just don’t understand…”

White whiskers and two coffee bean–colored paws peeked out from under the kitchen table. Then Java’s whole furry form slinked out, and she began to rub herself against Mike’s leg. He reached down to scratch her head.

“Watch out,” I warned. “She’ll think you’re a soft touch.”

“I am.” Mike met my eyes. “Depending on the feline.”

He gently picked up Java and set her on his lap. Parts of my body melted as Mike’s hand steadily stroked her: long, sweet, gentle strokes. I sighed. Lucky cat.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” Mike said. “If she doesn’t want cat food, what does she want?”

“Human food, of course.” I folded my arms. “She probably smells the butter-browned lobster on my breath from dinner. Sorry, Java honey, I ate every bite. No leftovers.”

MRRROOOOOW!

Mike laughed. “I can see that went over well.”

“Here…” I went to the cupboard, found a can of Pounce kitty treats. “Give her a few of these. They’re lobster flavor. Not the real thing, but then she doesn’t have the bank account for a Solange entrée. Actually, neither do I. Madame footed the bill tonight. Anyway, they should tame Java’s hungri-tude for awhile.”

“Hungri-tude?” He popped the can. Java’s ears instantly perked up.

“It’s what you get when hunger and attitude collide in a self-actualized female tabby.”

Java jumped down, and Mike threw her a few of the triangular-shaped treats. My companionable but languorous feline began scampering across the floor like an excited kitten, catching and eating each tiny triangle as if it were a fat mouse.

I might have accused the cat of having no shame, but then I probably would have joined her on the floor if Mike had started throwing out some of those champagne-poached oysters I’d devoured earlier in the evening.

Since Pounce treats were all he was tossing, however, I sat my “distracting ass” down across the table and lifted my own coffee mug. The swallow I took was long and satisfying. My Morning Sunshine was an even cleaner and brighter experience than our regular Breakfast Blend, thanks to my ex-husband.

Matteo had found us an exquisite crop of Yirgacheffe during a trip to Ethiopia, so I decided to make good use of it by creating the special blend. I savored the hints of lemon and honey blossom that the Yirgacheffe brought to the party. They also provided an amazingly juicy finish—the kind of salivation you’d get after a luscious bite of citrus fruit.

It was the perfect cup for my morning customers, because I’d stopped the roasting process at medium, so a healthy mug of it provided a higher caffeine content than a demitasse of espresso.

In my professional opinion, my Morning Sunshine was a superb, eye-opening coffee to wake up with—whatever time of day one needed waking. And I could certainly see, from Mike’s weary demeanor, he needed it tonight.

“So…what’s your duty?” I asked him again.

“I’m supervising three undercover teams at three different nightclubs.” Mike tossed Java another treat. This time she rose up on her hind legs and caught the treat with her two front paws.

Mike pointed. “Look at that. Java does tricks.”

“She’s just showing off for her new boyfriend.”

Mike laughed and threw another treat.

“So tell me what’s happening at the nightclubs. Drug sales? Assaults?”

“Confidence game,” he told me.

“A single perpetrator?”

“At least four, probably six. We’re calling them the May-September gang.”

“May-September?” I murmured, scratching my head. “They only operate in the summer?”

Mike laughed. “No. Good guess though. Care to try again?”

“Sure…”

This was our usual routine. Long before we’d started dating, Mike would come into the coffeehouse as a customer, belly up to my espresso bar, and we would get to talking about his cases, from his theories and interrogations to his methods of trapping an array of criminals. I’d learned a lot about detective work, just listening to Mike as he downed his lattes.

The first week we’d started dating, he’d confided to me how happy it made him that I genuinely cared about his work. Apparently, his wife had changed on him early in their marriage, asking him not to bring his job home.

I’d never met Mrs. Quinn, but I couldn’t understand how she could shut down her husband like that. I thought Mike’s work was admirable and inspiring, not to mention thrilling. The man routinely risked his life to keep the never-ending New York crime wave from touching me and mine. How could I not want to hear about it?

“May-September, May-September,” I repeated, drumming my fingers on the table. “Is the name some kind of a play on the phrase May-December relationship?”

“You’re getting warmer.”

Mike glanced away from Java and moved his attention fully over to me. I gulped a few more hits of caffeine just to stay focused under his intense blue gaze.

“Okay…” I said. “If the gang is May-September, then it must mean a younger person and a middle-aged person are involved somehow. Are younger perps setting up middle-aged victims for robberies?”

“You got it.” He put the lid on the Pounce treats. Java got the hint. She licked her brown paws, stretched, then trotted off toward the living room. “Looks like I lost my new furry girlfriend.”

“Pop the lid on those treats, and she’ll be all yours again.”

“I see. It’s a superficial thing.”

“So…how are they doing it exactly? The gang?”

“The MO’s been the same a half dozen times now. A twentysomething perpetrator picks up a middle-aged target at a nightclub, brings the target to another location, where accomplices initiate the robbery. Sometimes there’s violence, other times just some gun pointing. They always leave the victim tied up. CompStat confirmed the pattern, and my captain asked me to form a task force.”

“Does that mean this gang’s operating beyond the Sixth Precinct?”

Mike nodded. “Lower East Side, Soho, and here in the Village.”

“I guess that makes sense…I mean, those are the hot spots for nightlife.”

“Three clubs seem to be favorite locations for this gang,” Mike said. “We’ve got personnel undercover, posing as nightclub customers.”

“You have them well-dressed, I assume. Flashing cash and jewelry? Looking clumsy and drunk, like easy marks?”

“You got it, Cosi.” Mike smiled. “Didn’t I tell you to sign up for the Police Academy?”

“You know I’m way too old for that, Detective. I may be a long way from December, but I’m definitely pushing September. Are women getting hit on as victims in these nightclubs or just men?”

“Women and men. Both have been targets.”

“But you haven’t had any bites yet?”

The smile left Mike’s eyes; he glanced into his cup. “Nothing.”

“That’s not unusual, is it? I mean, you just started your operation…”

“The robberies are getting more violent: pistol whipping, choking to unconsciousness.” He frowned, looked away, sipped more coffee. “If we don’t tag a lead quickly, I’m concerned we’ll be looking at homicides.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you should use me as a decoy.”

“I have a lot of plans for using you, Cosi. None involve setting you up as bait for a confidence sting.”

“Okay, fine…as long as one of your plans involves those handcuffs of yours.” I put my wrists together in front of me, hoping to lighten his mood again. “Did I mention the bed upstairs is a four-poster?”

My little joke seemed to perk up Mike faster than another hit of Sunshine. He smiled, rubbing his chin, but he wasn’t taking the bait where the handcuffs were concerned.

“So tell me how your little investigation ran?” he asked, pointedly changing the subject, which was probably smart, considering we had zero time to act on the other subject.

“My investigation?” I knocked back more coffee, refilled my mug.

“Come on, Clare. You mentioned going to Joy’s restaurant tonight, and I know you didn’t choose it for the ambiance. You went to check up on your daughter, right?”

“Right. I admit it. Wasn’t that easy? And you didn’t even have to beat it out of me.”

“Well? How did it go?”

“Not very well, I’m sorry to tell you.”

“Why not?”

Mike’s brow knitted as I recounted my evening, from the schizoid dinner of perfect food and lousy coffee to my daughter being threatened by a knife-wielding, probably drug-addled sous-chef. When I finally finished, he leaned forward, his mouth tight.

“And where was the great Tommy Keitel during all of this?”

“He was missing in action. Joy says he’s been disappearing a lot lately, and tonight I saw it for myself. This executive chef came in after dinner service was over—and with this creepy guy named Nick in tow.”

“Creepy how?”

“His demeanor, I guess. I mean, I’ve seen all types in the Village, believe me, but this guy was hard-core intense. His skin was extremely pale, and his brown hair was longish, but not in a trendy way. It just hung there, you know? And he was dressed all in black—which, again, isn’t exactly atypical for New York. But these clothes weren’t in the least fashionable. He didn’t utter a word to me, even after we were introduced, and he wore these pointy boots and a black leather blazer, the kind the outer-boroughs guys wear.”

I suddenly thought of Esther’s boyfriend. BB Gun had been wearing a black leather blazer that was a lot like Nick’s.

“Anything else you remember?” Mike asked.

“Yeah. When Tommy introduced me to Nick, he said the man was from Brighton Beach.”

“Brighton Beach, huh? That area of Brooklyn is full of Russians.”

“So?”

“So it’s a long way from Manhattan. Why’s Keitel hanging with a guy like that?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“Yes, you can, Clare. The black leather blazer’s a popular rag with the wiseguys. Do you know if Keitel owns his restaurant?”

“He doesn’t.” I related what I’d overheard during Brigitte’s meltdown. “One of the men on the staff loudly reminded Brigitte that she was under contract just like Tommy Keitel.”

“So.” Mike paused, put down his cup. “Tommy doesn’t own the restaurant. Which means he answers to an owner—or owners. And restaurants like Solange aren’t cheap. Starting a place like that must cost a cool million—”

“Six.”

“No.”

“Yeah. David Mintzer told me it costs around six million to get a-two-hundred seat restaurant off the ground in midtown Manhattan. And to maintain it, the cost is something like five to eight hundred dollars per square foot per month, just for rent.”

Mike whistled. “I guess that’s why a martini in those joints costs eighteen bucks.”

“And a lamb chop is forty-four. Yeah, that’s why.”

“Well, there you go,” Mike said. “The picture seems clear enough to me.”

“What picture?”

“Put the pieces together, Clare. Somebody with big money is backing Tommy’s restaurant. Tommy goes missing from dinner service. Nobody knows why or where he’s gone. Then he shows up late with some creepy guy in wiseguy rags from Brighton Beach—”

“You’re saying Nick’s attached to the Russian mob? That Tommy got his financing by way of some corrupt gangsters from the eastern bloc?”

Mike leaned back, folded his arms. “You know and I know the Italian mob has a long history of funding food-related businesses in New York. They practically owned the Fulton Fish Market before Giuliani cleaned it up. And where the Italians have lost ground, the Russians have been moving in to take it up.”

“I don’t know…” I shook my head. “Mob or no mob, the problem from my point of view isn’t Tommy and his backers. I mean, factoring out the man’s recent neglect of his responsibilities, the real danger to my daughter is Brigitte Rouille, and that’s all I care about…”

I stood up and began to pace the small kitchen. “If I could just find some way into that restaurant, I could keep an eye on things, make sure Brigitte doesn’t freak on my daughter again…Maybe I could even help the woman…get her to admit she has a drug problem…”

Mike cleared his throat. “Uh, Clare…” He lifted his coffee cup and pointed to it.

“What?” I stopped pacing. “You want a refill?”

“No.” He laughed. “I mean…yes, I’d love more. But that wasn’t my meaning.”

“Excuse me?”

“Didn’t you tell me Solange’s coffee was abysmal? You said it tasted like…What was it?”

“Mississippi swamp mud. Although I’ve never actually tasted mud from the mighty Mississippi, so it’s technically an unfair comparison.”

“And didn’t you help out David Mintzer this past summer? Setting up the coffee service at his new Hamptons restaurant?”

“Yeah, sure.” I shrugged. “I roasted blends especially for his place, created a coffee and dessert pairings menu, and—Oh, yes! I see where you’re going! I can do the same thing for Solange!” I started pacing again. “Tomorrow, I can go back. I can make a sales pitch to Keitel and Dornier!”

“Dornier? Who’s Dornier?”

“Napoleon Dornier is Solange’s maître d’ and wine steward.” I folded my arms and tapped my chin, thinking aloud. “Since he’s responsible for the front of the house, he’s got as much say in the beverage service as Keitel, so if I can’t persuade Tommy, I’ll work on Nappy. He struck me as a prideful man. I can’t imagine he thinks it’s a good idea to poison a customer’s palate at the end of a meal with crap coffee.”

Mike nodded. “So there it is. You’ve got an in.”

“I’ll give it my best shot anyway. Thanks, Mike. Thanks for the suggestion.”

He smiled. “So how about seconds?”

“Sure. I think you’ve earned it.”

I grabbed the French press pot off the counter, but before I could refill his mug, Mike’s strong arm circled my waist. He tugged me onto his lap.

“I meant seconds of something else,” he murmured in my ear.

A shiver tore through me as Mike’s lips moved down my neck. Oh, yes… I was exactly where I wanted to be, and if I were a cat, I’d most definitely be purring. There was only one problem—

“Mike…I thought you only had thirty.”

“We’ve got at least five left.” He tipped his head at the kitchen clock. “Let’s make it count.” Then his mouth was on mine, and for the next few minutes the only thing I drank in was Michael Ryan Francis Quinn.