Murder by Mocha

Forty

“How’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...”

An 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 . . .”

Matt and I exchanged glances. Was this guy a devil or a saint? He couldn’t be both. Could he?

Matt stood. His voice was soft. “I’d like to know everything, Mother. I think you better start from the beginning.”