Murder by Mocha

Four

Once I brought up my cell’s address book, I began toggling through names—

Joy Allegro—my daughter. No. (Obviously.)

Mike Quinn—No. Not only was the man exhausted, he was no longer a precinct detective. The only thing he could do was advise me on who to call at the One Seven, and I already knew that.

I moved past my ex-husband, Matt, who’d been touring coffee farms in Indonesia, which put him out of cell phone range for weeks (as usual). I swept by my baristas—Tucker, Esther, Gardner, Dante, Vickie, and Nancy—blew by more names (acquaintances and suppliers). Finally, I came to the entry I needed and pressed the auto-dial.

“Lori Soles.”

“Good morning, Detective.”

“Clare Cosi, what are you doing calling me? Aren’t you right upstairs?”

“You’re sitting in my coffeehouse now, correct?”

“First cup of the day.” She took a loud sip to make her point.

“I have a situation . . .”

Lori Soles and her partner, Sue Ellen Bass (together known around the NYPD as “the Fish Squad”), had worked out of the nearby Sixth Precinct for years. Both had become addicted to my Americanos, and both still stopped by for their fix every morning before heading north to work at the Seventeenth, their newly assigned precinct house in Midtown.

Soles listened to my brief description of the homicide and thanked me.

“We just had a court appearance rescheduled,” she said, “and this sounds like it’s worth an early start. Sue Ellen and I will call it in. You know the drill?”

(For a variety of reasons, Soles and Bass were under the impression I possessed a private investigator’s license. Not even Mike Quinn had set them straight on that, and considering the situation, I didn’t see it as a disadvantage.)

“I’ll be seeing uniforms here first to secure the scene, right?”

“Right,” said Lori. “Are you with the body now?”

“No, I’m in another room at the hotel.”

“Well, smarten up, Cosi. Go seal the room.”

“It’s locked. And I have a Do Not Disturb sign on the handle.”

“So what? Housekeeping has a pass key. You can’t take the chance they’ll honor a Do Not Disturb sign. Go babysit that DOA till we get there.”

“No problem, detective. Thank you.”

I hung up, reassured Madame, and hurried back to the crime scene before that poor maid with the dirty blond ponytail walked in to find more than used towels in the bathroom and no tip on the dresser. As I neared Alicia’s door, however, my steps slowed. Just ten minutes prior, I’d made absolutely sure that Alicia’s room door had locked behind me. Now it stood ajar.

Okay, this makes no sense.

A member of the hotel staff might have entered and left, but wouldn’t Madame and I have heard some kind of reaction? A scream? A shout? A frantic cry to call 911?

Taking a deep breath, I used the sleeve-covered elbow of my arm to push the door open a wee bit more.

I peered inside the dead man’s room. I didn’t see anyone or sense any movement. The place was quieter than a tomb, and if someone were inside, they certainly would have been making noise at the sight of a bloody corpse.

Despite the bright morning sun outside, the room was still gloomy, the heavy curtains drawn. A noise in the hallway—probably someone grabbing their complimentary newspaper—sent me hurrying all the way inside. I shut the door and stepped forward to check on my dead Candy Man.

Only there was no Candy Man. That’s right. No corpse. No knife. No blood. The bed had been stripped down to the quilted mattress. The bloody sheets, the bunched-up blanket, and the rest of the covers were gone.

Four down pillows lay on the sea-green carpet like puffy white mushrooms. Their cases were gone, and so were the empty martini glasses sitting next to the vase of wilting flowers. Even that strange, cloyingly sweet scent had vanished. It was as if the whole scene had been erased—or hadn’t happened in the first place.

I blinked, feeling slightly numb.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

The staccato raps gave me a start. They were so forceful I assumed the uniformed officers had arrived. No such luck. When I opened the door, I found a young woman towering over me. Her hazel-green eyes were slightly almond in shape. They widened at the sight of me, then narrowed down to slits.

“Who are you?” she said. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Who am I?” I so cleverly shot back. “Who are you?”

She was young, about my daughter’s age (early twenties), her slender form coltish, her patrician face long and partially obscured by a fall of glossy, honey-colored hair spilling over one shoulder. Its golden color appeared even more striking against the dark backdrop of her charcoal pantsuit and shiny black raincoat.

We stared at each other a moment.

“Do you have the wrong room?” I asked.

She checked the number on the door and returned her sharp gaze to me. “Who are you?”

“My name is Clare Cosi. Your turn.”

Instead of replying, Blondie brushed by me, entered the room, and stopped. For a few long seconds, she gawked at the vacant bed, her manicured hand moving to cover her gaping jaw.

“Where is he?” she whispered. “What happened?”

“Just what did you expect to find here? Did you know—”

“You!” She turned on me with one pointy French tip. “You’re not supposed to be here!”

“You said that already.”

In the hall another door opened and closed.

Blondie froze, listened.

“This is a crime scene,” I said calmly. “The police are on their way. So if you don’t want to talk to me, you can talk to them, all right?”

I thought that might encourage her to answer my questions—or at least prompt her to have an actual conversation. Instead, she grimaced and fled, elbowing past me so violently I nearly kissed the floor.

“Hey!” I shouted, regaining my balance. “Come back here!”

Of course she didn’t. Nobody ever does.