Billionaire Blend (A Coffeehouse Mystery) (3 page)

BOOK: Billionaire Blend (A Coffeehouse Mystery)
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“Ms. Cosi . . .” Spinelli faced me. “Do you think you would recognize Thorner’s phone if you saw it again?”

“I’m sure I would.”

“I think we caught a little luck here,” Spinelli told his boss. “Ms. Cosi could clear up the question of ownership, at least.”

“We’ll see . . .” DeFasio rose and stepped around his desk. “You’re on the spot now, honey. Follow me.”

S
ixteen

“T
HAT’S
it!” I confirmed (with enthusiasm). “That’s Eric Thorner’s smartphone!”

Spinelli grinned and folded his tattoo-laced arms. “See, boss, I knew she could do it.”

DeFasio still looked skeptical. “Are you sure, Ms. Cosi? Maybe we should have done a lineup.”

“It’s a phone, not a felon,” Quinn snapped.

We were downstairs, at garage level, in the chilly heart of the Bomb Squad’s workshop and storage area. Evidence cages lined one wall. A bomb disposal robot sat in the corner on rubber treads, hooked up to a battery charger.

In the center of the room, plastic bags filled with debris collected at yesterday’s bomb scene were tagged and waiting to be moved to the crime lab on 20th Street. Thorner’s smartphone sat, all by its lonesome, on a workbench.

“You’re absolutely
certain
this belongs to Thorner?” DeFasio pressed.

“I recognize the way it’s contoured to the hand. I’m far from a smartphone expert, but I’ve never seen that design before.”

“Neither have we,” Spinelli confessed. “It’s some kind of prototype. We’ve been trying to hack the password, but we’re afraid to mess with it too much or we’ll drain the battery.”

“You can’t recharge it?” Quinn asked, moving closer. I saw it then, that familiar look of cop interest in his eyes.

“I can’t even find a way to hook it up to a power unit,” Spinelli replied. “There’s a slot with a weird pin configuration. I’ve never seen it before. That’s it.”

“You can’t retrofit it?” Quinn suggested.

“I could try, but it’s a risk. I might destroy data.”

I hid my reaction to this exchange, but it did my heart good to see Mike Quinn shifting into cop mode again, warming to the details of an investigation—like the old days.

Now Spinelli was addressing me again. He lifted the black-chrome device so I could see the screen. “Do you remember seeing numbers on this display?”

I shook my head. “Too much was going on before, during, and after that car bomb went off.”

“But you said Thorner held it out for you to use, right?”

“He did. He was in bad shape then. I’m sure he was going into shock . . .”

I closed my eyes, tried to bring back those moments . . .

“Charley, Charley,” Eric kept moaning. “What about Charley?”

“Stay still,” I warned. “Help is coming, but you have to
keep still . . .

“Clare . . .”

Eric’s intense, little-boy stare was back, but much different now. I could see it in his eyes:
I’m scared
. I took his right hand and squeezed.

“I’m going to get you through this. I promise. It’s going to be all right . . .”

His eyes filled and he squeezed my hand back. Then his muted voice mumbled something. His left hand rose weakly, as if he wanted me to take the smartphone still in his grip.

“Nine ones squared,” he said.

That’s when Tuck appeared next to me, describing the scene—and Eric’s injuries—to an emergency operator.

“Nine ones squared,” Eric repeated.

I leaned close. “We’ve already called 911. Hang on now, help is on the way.”

“No . . .” Eric shook his head, like I’d missed something. “Nine ones . . .” Then the smartphone tumbled from his hand . . .

*

I
OPENED
my eyes. “Do you have a calculator?”

“Sure, right here,” Spinelli tapped his head.

“Ninety-one times ninety-one is . . . ?”

“Eight thousand, two hundred and eighty-one,” Spinelli replied.

“Try that as the password—8281.”

“Won’t work,” Spinelli said.

“But you didn’t even try it.”

“Four digits isn’t long enough. The screen prompt wants me to enter a seventeen-digit passcode.”

DeFasio whistled. “Who can remember seventeen digits in the proper sequence?”

“Maybe they’re
letters
, not numbers. Like an Italian name,” Quinn jabbed. “You could fit a lot of extra vowels and double letters to stretch it.”

DeFasio smirked. “You’re a riot, mickey Mike.”

“It’s a seventeen-
digit
passcode,” Spinelli clarified, “as in
numbers
.”

“Yeah, but there’s a positive sign here,” DeFasio pointed out. “Our Mike is talking like a cop again. Pretty soon he might even be thinking like a cop again, too.”

“Let’s start over, Ms. Cosi,” Spinelli said. “Try to remember Thorner’s exact words.”

“I do remember. He said
nine ones
squared
.”

“Sorry, like I said, ninety-one squared doesn’t work.”

“Wait,” I said. “What if nine ones literally means, nine ones. You know: 111, 111, 111. In that case if you squared it—”

Spinelli slapped his own forehead and shouted. “I’m an idiot!”

“This is new information?” DeFasio muttered.

“It’s a kid’s math riddle, boss: 111,111,111 squared equals 12 quadrillion, 345 trillion, 678 billion, 987 million, 654 thousand and 321.”

Quinn snorted. “What’s that mean, Carl Sagan?”

A kid’s riddle
, I realized. “Now I get it!”

Quinn and DeFasio stared at me. “You do?”

“Yes, the seventeen-digit code is actually easy to remember: 12345678987654321.”

Spinelli grinned and nodded as he punched the numbers. “Eureka! We’re in!”

Quinn turned to DeFasio, voice serious. “Dennis, you have to make that call now.”

DeFasio, still looking a little stunned, nodded. “You’re right, Mike. I’m on it.”

As his boss dialed a nearby desk phone, Spinelli’s face lit up. “Wow, this is Thorner’s smartphone, all right. I’m looking at the main menu right now . . .”

DeFasio raised a hand to silence him. “Sorry to wake you, Judge Ansen, but we have a situation involving yesterday’s blast on Hudson Street . . .”

While DeFasio spoke, Spinelli produced a pair of delicate reading glasses, which he perched on the edge of his Roman nose. With those wire-rim specs, and the man’s brace of tattoos, Spinelli looked like a member of an Italian nonna’s biker gang.

DeFasio hung up. “We’ve got our warrant so it’s by the book now.” He turned to Quinn. “Happy?”

“Yes, and you should be, too. I brought you Clare Cosi.”

“I told you I liked her, didn’t I?” DeFasio winked at Quinn. Then he rubbed his hands together. “Let’s go fishing.”

The three cops huddled around the smartphone screen. I peeked in where I could.

“There are a lot of files here, boss,” Spinelli said. “What should I check first?”

“Unless you see a file titled ‘People Who Want to Blow Me Up’—”

Spinelli shook his head. “Don’t see one of those.”

“Then go to the man’s itinerary.”

“Don’t see one of those either—”

“Try looking for a Day-Timer, or maybe he uses an app,” Quinn said.

“It’s an app, and I’ve got it,” Spinelli cried.

DeFasio raced to a nearby cabinet. “Since we can’t download from this phone, I’ll have to snap screen shots. We can analyze the data later.”

The digital camera looked miniscule in DeFasio’s beefy hands. “Start with yesterday’s schedule and work backward.”

While Spinelli manipulated the smartphone, his boss snapped away

“You were right, Clare. Thorner
was
early yesterday. He should have been at a server farm in Clinton, New Jersey.”

Spinelli groaned. “Thorner’s car crossed the state line with a bomb on board. Here comes the FBI.”

“Not yet,” DeFasio countered.

“What’s a server farm?” I asked.

“It’s a group of computers linked together to perform functions a single computer can’t,” Quinn replied. “Most large companies maintain a server cluster. They are very expensive to build, but vital in the computer business. ”

“So blowing one up would do real harm,” I said.

“You bet,” Quinn replied. “That kind of damage could put Thorner out of business, at least temporarily.”

DeFasio continued to snap photos while Spinelli shifted screens. Quinn and I had to step back, so I couldn’t see the display. It was a maddening few minutes.

Finally DeFasio spoke. “This is interesting.”

“What?” Quinn and I cried in unison.

“You’re familiar with a coffeehouse called Joe’s?”

“I’m aware of all my competition. Joe’s is a fine establishment. I highly recommend them.”

“And Driftwood Coffee? How about Gotham Beanery?”

“I’m familiar with those establishments.”

DeFasio raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“My nonna used to say if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.”

DeFasio chuckled. “I’m asking because Thorner visited all of those places on a daily basis, for many weeks.”

I told them about Thorner’s “Quiz Master” routine, and speculated he was pulling the same act at all of those other coffeehouses.

“The others must have failed the test, because for the last two weeks Thorner focused exclusively on your Village Blend.”

“I still don’t know why. He was about to tell me, but the bomb went off and the conversation pretty much ended.”

“You’ll have another chance to ask him,” DeFasio replied. “If Thorner is that interested in your coffeehouse, he’ll be back.”

“The low-battery warning is blinking,” Spinelli warned.

DeFasio lowered the camera “We’re done shooting the itinerary. Anything else we should look at before—”

“Damn!” Spinelli cried. “There’s a large file here titled ‘Clare Cosi.’”

“What?! You’re kidding—” I muscled my way between the men. “Open it, quick!”

“Ready?” Spinelli said, moving his thumb. “Here it comes—”

But it didn’t. The smartphone screen faded to black.

“What happened?!” I cried.

“Sorry,” Spinelli said. “The battery died.”

“Can’t you recharge it?!”

“It’s a prototype,” Quinn calmly reminded me. “They don’t have the equipment to fit the unique pin connection.”

I threw up my hands. “Then how am I supposed to find out why a billionaire has a big, fat file on me?”

“Easy,” DeFasio said with a shrug. “The next time you see the guy,
ask
him.”

S
eventeen

A
N
hour later, Quinn and I were making our way back down Hudson Street to my wrecked coffeehouse.

We’d hung around the Bomb Squad long enough to watch DeFasio act on my information. First he notified his superiors of Thorner’s itinerary and a possible new bomb target. Then he gathered a team, briefing them while they waited for the final green light to cross state lines and make the run to New Jersey.

The lieutenant refused to take me along—although he did bring the rest of my Baileys fudge.
(
Note to self: the next time you bribe an NYPD commander with food, plant a bug in the Tupperware.
)
Consequently, Quinn and I wished the squad luck, waved good-bye to their departing truck, and trudged back out into the cold, January air.

When we finally reached my duplex, the sun was beginning to rise. I thought we’d be dog tired. Instead, we were both wired. I suggested coffee and eggs. Quinn had other ideas for spending our excess adrenaline.

With a half-smile, he guided me away from the kitchen and up the stairs, where he shed his shoulder holster, yanked his tie loose, and kicked shut the bedroom door.

Before I could get a word in, Quinn was dancing me backward. When the back of my knees hit the edge of the mattress, he began tugging off my boots, my pants, my sweater . . .

“You’re
sure
you don’t want coffee?” I teased.

“Don’t you think I’m stimulated enough?”

“Oh, now I see. This is your way of getting me to brew decaf?”

“Bite your tongue, Cosi,” he said, nuzzling my neck. “Don’t ever try to serve me castrated coffee . . .”

I couldn’t guess what sparked this: The excitement of the case? DeFasio’s continually roving eyes? My Irish Cream fudge?

Whatever the cause, I didn’t care. All that weighty darkness in Quinn was gone. No more anxious need or heaviness of heart. Just electric excitement, a thrilling buoyancy that swept me right along with it.

Soon I was the one lacking patience, and I let my fingers do the walking, unbuttoning Quinn’s button-down, unbuckling his belt . . . then my mouth found his and we got busy.

Thirty minutes later, we were both (finally) as exhausted as Eric Thorner’s smartphone battery. Lying on my side, still catching my breath, I touched Quinn’s stubbly cheek.

His unshaven beard appeared darker than his sandy hair. That morning shadow, along with the intense look in his gaze, gave him a dangerous, almost outlaw air—an aspect of himself he let few people see.

I’d seen it plenty.

To most of the world, Quinn was a straight-laced, do-right guy, but I knew he would break rules, even skirt the law, to protect the people he cared about, me included—and I brushed his lips for that. Then I tried to thank him for his help with the Bomb Squad, but he stopped me.

“It’s me who should be thanking you.”

“For what?”

“It felt good to be back at the Sixth . . .” He brushed back my chestnut bangs. “I’d forgotten what being a cop felt like.”

“As opposed to being a bureaucrat?”

Unlike my own post-lovemaking fuzziness, Quinn’s arcticblue eyes were sharp and clear. “You were right, Cosi. Monday morning, I’m going to have a long sit-down with Sully and my squad. No more e-mails and text messages. This time I’m straightening things out face-to-face.”

“What about your boss in Washington? Won’t Lacey be upset?”

“I’ll take the noon express back to DC. Extenuating circumstances.”

“Which are?”

“You should know. You’re the one who helped DeFasio figure out there might have been another target—Thorner’s server farm.”

“But why should that matter to your supervisor at Justice?”

“Because this car bomb incident is now crossing state lines, which means Federal officers must be a part of this case, and since I was involved in helping a witness come forward with new information—”

“I get it. I gave you a late slip for class.”

Quinn smiled and pulled me across his broad chest. “Thanks, Mom.”

I snuggled down and sighed. “You and I may have helped find the real target, but that’s a far cry from finding the real bomber.”

“No,” Quinn said. “It’s not.”

“It’s not?”

“The real target will help DeFasio and his colleagues deduce the real motive. And real motives are some of the best leads we can follow. As much as facts and evidence, a true motive can reveal a true killer.”

I considered that idea along with Sergeant Franco’s private words to me on Hudson the day before: “
. . . the killer . . . must have had a real hate on for his victim . . . because the device wasn’t designed to blow up the car so much as roast the occupants alive . . .”

I lifted my head. “However they catch this bomber, Mike, I hope they do it soon.”

“Me too, sweetheart. Now get some rest.”

I wanted to—I just didn’t know if I could.

Sure, by this time my back was sore, my limbs tired, my eyelids heavy, but what would happen when I closed them?

With a deep breath, I gave it a try. No more airports, clocks, or explosions (thank goodness); the only thing my mind’s eye saw was the perfect peace of blessed black.

E
ighteen

M
ONDAY
morning came far too quickly. Before I knew it, Mike was gone and the long, cold day left me with nothing to focus on but the plight of my badly battered coffeehouse.

We still had no electricity or phone service, and I spent far too much time on my cell, trying to untie Con Edison’s and Verizon’s red tape. Then the insurance adjuster arrived.

I gave the man a tour of our shop’s damage—interior and exterior—and strongly suggested his assessment be generous, especially for an institution as longstanding and beloved as the Village Blend.

“I’ll be in touch with the owner,” he said with an effortless poker face.

Meanwhile, my Tucker checked in and (hour after hour) we turned away customers, which made all of us sad.

“So how long are we going to be closed?” Tuck asked near the end of the day.

“Three weeks. And that’s an optimistic estimate.”

Tuck groaned. “What about the staff? How are we going to earn our living?”

“The Village Blend still has catering jobs scheduled.”

“That’s two days a week at most. It’s not enough income.”

“I know.”

“Can’t you afford to give us vacation pay?”

“Not for long. A week is the most the shop can afford.”

Tucker shook his head. “If you put your baristas on unemployment, they’ll start looking for other work at other coffeehouses—and they may never come back.”

“Believe me, Tuck, I don’t want to lose them.”

“And what about the community groups? Our second-floor lounge is booked three nights out of seven. These groups don’t have much money, and they’ve already spent advertising budgets to draw their crowds. Esther had a big poetry slam showdown scheduled for next weekend. What’s she going to do?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to think of something, I’ll just have to . . .”

*

A
S
WINTER
darkness set in, I lit a fire and some candles. Tucker was gone, off to meet his boyfriend, Punch, for dinner. He felt badly about not being able to invite me, but I understood—their host was an off-off-Broadway producer eager to discuss a new project.

On my own, I took a seat at our blue-marble counter and numbly consumed a meal of sweet-and-sour Chinese takeout—which was way too heavy on the MSG. By my last bite, my head was pounding and my heart aching, but not from the MSG. I was badly missing Mike (as I usually did just after his visits), and I dreaded facing my empty duplex.

Unfortunately, there was little comfort to be found down here in the ruins.

On any other Monday, the vacant tables around me would have been filled by neighborhood regulars, students from New York University, newcomers, and tourists. My staff would be busy behind the counter; the gurgling of the espresso machine would mingle with the soft jazz from our sound system and the quiet buzz of conversation. There would be light, warmth, comfort—and caffeine—with my brick hearth adding its inviting firelight to the cozy scene.

Tonight, my only companions were a sharp chill and oppressive gloom. With slabs of wood replacing the shop’s French windows, the Village Blend had all the ambiance of a cemetery vault. Even the candles I’d scattered about seemed more funereal than soothing.

And then . . . a light went on! (No thanks to the electric company.)

As I boiled water behind the coffeehouse counter, and added hand-ground beans to my small French press, I found myself studying a framed photograph I’d seen a thousand times before.

Seen
, but never understood—until now.

I yanked the photo off the wall and rushed to my cell phone on the counter. The owner of the Village Blend was on speed dial, and she picked up at once.

“I need to see you! When can you come over?”

Madame Blanche Dreyfus Allegro Dubois heard the urgent excitement in my voice, and responded in kind. “Otto and his guests have just finished
il secondo
at Del Posto
,
my dear, but I shall skip dessert and see you
tout de suite
!”

N
ineteen

M
ADAME
Dreyfus Allegro Dubois emerged from the yellow cab wrapped in caramel blond suede. I hurried to open the shop’s front door, but she failed to move toward it. Instead, her slender form stood stiff as an ice sculpture in front of her landmark coffeehouse.

I could almost feel her heartache as she scanned the scorched bricks, burned wood, and blistered paint; then took in the rough plywood covering the shattered French windows, the broken hinges that left our hand-crafted shutters hanging askew.

A bitter gust tried (and failed) to ruffle the firm upsweep of Madame’s French twist. She replied with a snap of her fur-lined collar before finally approaching me.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, closing the dented door behind her.

“Don’t be sorry, dear.” She waved a gloved hand. “Sorrow wastes energy.”

“What should I be then?”

“Be resolved. A little face-lift is all she needs. Rather like her owner.” She sent me a little wink. “Now, where shall we sit . . .”

It wasn’t a question. Before I could reply, my octogenarian employer was moving with regal assurance to a table beside the hearth, where she took full advantage of the crackling fire, pulling off her blond-leather gloves and rubbing her gently wrinkled hands in front of the blaze.

I set a flickering candle on the table for added light and brought over a serving tray. Then she unbelted her long, suede coat—and I could see I’d interrupted a special evening.

Beneath her fur-lined outerwear, Madame was swathed in a suit of shimmering winter white, which dramatically complemented her silver gray hair. Draped around her neck was her
Starry Night over the Rhone
scarf. The Van Gogh’s palette of sapphire, aquamarine, and purple augmented the striking hue of her blue violet eyes, but the art museum print would have been a fitting accessory for any dinner with Otto, the “younger man” in her life. (He’d been barely out of his sixties when she’d snagged his attention.)

As a gallery owner, Otto was often wining and dining clients and artists alike, and Madame’s years of nurturing the latter through the most colorful decades in Greenwich Village history made her a prized dinner companion.

The only thing about Madame’s appearance that seemed off to me was her jewelry—or more accurately, the lack of it.

My former motherin-law was exceedingly proud of her jewelry collection, which spanned decades and continents, and she seldom missed a chance to show it off. Tonight, however, she wore none of her custom-made bracelets, brooches, or rings. Her only adornment was a platinum chain dangling a single teardrop pearl, its setting delicately sculpted to resemble a plumeria, the Hawaiian flower of welcome.

The necklace was a wedding gift from the late Antonio Allegro—Matt’s father and the great love of Madame’s life. He’d given it to his young bride during their honeymoon in the Kona District on the big island. (Matt and I had spent our honeymoon there, as well.)

I was tempted to ask about her sparse accessory display, but tabled it in favor of a cheerier subject—

“Since you skipped dessert, I’m making it up to you . . .”

“Delightful,” Madame announced after a satisfying bite into my Chocolate-Dipped Crunchy Almond Biscotti. (I’d approached my biscotti-making like the gelato makers of Sicily, working on the recipe until it tasted more like a dunkable stick of chocolate-covered almonds than a cookie.)

From the coffee press, I poured her a freshly brewed cup of my new Fireside Blend. She lifted her cup to sample it, a serious expression on her face. (And I held my breath.)

“I see you’re using Matt’s new peaberries from that Thai hill tribe cooperative.”

“Yes, along with his Guatemalan and Colombian Supremo.” (I’d roasted each to bring out their respective best notes and combined them for the blend.)

“I can taste the caramel and macadamia nut . . .” she noted between appraising sips. She waited for the brew to cool a bit more. “Brown sugar . . . graham cracker, green cardamom, cinnamon . . . and chocolate. My compliments to the chef!”

For the first time since arriving, she actually smiled, and I sat back in relief. I also prayed she’d keep smiling after I made my pitch. Clearing my throat, I presented the framed photo . . .

“Madame, do you remember this?”

“Is this a memory test, dear?”

“Not exactly . . .”

I handed over the frame. The scene depicted appeared to be a Village street festival at night. The shaggy hairstyles, bell-bottom jeans, and polyester prints suggested the seventies. A guitarist played cross-legged on a blanket. Young people were gathered around him, singing and laughing.

I pointed to the edge of the photo. “Aren’t those our Village Blend’s French doors?”

“Indeed they are,” Madame said with a wistful look, then a little smile crossed her face and she moved her hand down the photo frame in an almost tender gesture. “This is one of Nathan’s—”

“Nate Sumner?” I assumed the former New York photojournalist and activist was just one of the renowned artists, actors, and writers who’d frequented our shop. Nate was a professor at the New School now, still a regular customer. But the way she said his name . . .

“Was there something between you two back then?”

“A little something, yes, you could say that. Nathan took this during the blackout of seventy-seven.”

“July nineteen seventy-seven?”

“That’s right. Everything went dark around nine thirty.” She pursed her lips. “Those were dark times for this city, as well, and I don’t just mean the blackout.”

“You’re referring to the recession?”

“And the Son of Sam murders—those insane shootings had terrorized everyone that summer, six dead and seven wounded.” She shook her head. “On top of that, corruption and incompetence were being exposed at all levels of our government. Too many people stopped believing in a civil society. What happened that night was the result.”

“What do you mean?”

“Many of the city’s neighborhoods exploded with violence. Stores were ransacked and destroyed. Buildings were set ablaze. There was so much looting and chaos that the police were helpless.”

“But there’s nothing like that in this photo,” I noted, tapping the glass. “Tell me what went on here . . .”

“After the blackout hit, I was planning to close. It was Nate who came in with this family—a mother, father, and three adolescent children. He’d found them stumbling through the streets in abject fear. They were tourists from a small town in the Midwest who’d taken the subway to the Village so the kids could see ‘where the hippies lived.’ Now they were lost, stranded, and frightened, with no train, bus, or taxi to take them back to their hotel.”

“So you stayed open for them?”

“Yes, and that’s when Nate made me realize more people were wandering around our neighborhood with no way to get home. Most of the businesses around our shop—the restaurants, delis, even the bars—had locked up shortly after they lost power.”

Madame sighed. “Our neighborhood needed us, and I couldn’t say no. Within an hour, our shop was filled to capacity. I didn’t want to turn anyone away, so I came up with a solution.”

“Your catering tent.” I pointed. “That’s it in the photo’s background, right?”

“Yes, Nate and his friends erected it over the alley beside the coffeehouse. They put Chinese lanterns on poles and our regulars showed up with folding chairs and milk crates.”

“Looks like you were the hub of the Village that night.”

“Yes; young people spread blankets, played guitars, read poetry—but the blackout made us more than an improvised party, Clare. Those who needed serious help came to us, too: victims of crimes; people with medical conditions. Police officers began stopping by every thirty minutes to pick up new cases.”

“What you did was wonderful.”

“We did it together, our staff, my Nathan, and his ‘hippie’ friends—” She gave me a little wink. “Many of the stores that closed were looted, but not ours. Instead of shutting ourselves off in fear, becoming victims—part of the problem—we became a solution.”

“A
solution
!
This is exactly”—I tapped the photo—“what we should do.”

“What do you mean?”

“This shop is blacked out again, but our staff and community need us to reopen. I say we do it, the very same way you did back then.”

“My dear, have you been drinking something
other
than coffee? This is January, not July. It’s positively freezing out there.”

“I phoned Matt already. I’m borrowing one of his emergency generators from the Red Hook warehouse. We can erect our catering tent over the alley, bring out tables and chairs, warm the space with portable heaters—”

“But how will you serve the Village Blend’s signature drinks?”

“Our coffee truck is garaged in Matt’s warehouse for the winter, but we can take it out . . .” I was so excited I jumped up and began to pace. “We can park it at the curb and use the truck’s espresso machine to bring our entire menu back to life.”

I paused. “What do you think?”

“What do I think?”

Once again I held my breath, watching Madame’s blue violet gaze grow wide then tearful. “I think you truly are the daughter I never had!”

Madame opened her arms, and I happily stepped into them. Then we hugged each other tight. But not for long—

BA-BOOM!

The violent noise wasn’t a bomb, but it may as well have been, because we both nearly jumped out of our shoes.

What was that?!

We whipped around to face the shattered French doors, where the noise had come from. Then—

BAM!

In the flickering firelight, we watched one of the long plywood planks covering the broken glass violently shudder then fall away. With a hollow
BONK,
it fell to the coffeehouse floor.

The black rectangle that appeared looked like a postal slot to the abyss.

Madame and I stared at it in dead silence. We sensed movement beyond the darkness. Suddenly the bright beam of a flashlight appeared and slowly began moving around the shop.

“It’s a looter,” Madame whispered.

I froze for a moment, but Madame was already moving toward the counter.

“Call the police, dear,” she calmly advised. “I’ll get the baseball bat.”

T
wenty

D
ESPITE
Madame’s instructions, I didn’t phone the police.

Yes, the minor vandalism scared us, but what if this “looter” was simply a curious Village Blend customer? Before I put some poor patron in handcuffs, I had to be sure there was truly a threat.

“Who are you?” I called. “Who’s there?!”

The flashlight beam stopped moving for a second. Then it zigzagged wildly around the wood-plank floor until it found my feet, then my torso, and finally—
my eyes
!

Blinded, I raised my hand. “This shop is occupied!”

“I can see that . . .” The voice sounded male, not young, maybe middle-aged? And somewhat hoarse.

“So what do you want?” I demanded.

Dead silence and then—

“Were you there?”

“I’m right here! Don’t tell me you can’t see me. Your flashlight is burning my retinas!”

“Were you
there
when the
bomb
went off?” The man sounded irritated, as if I should have understood him the first time.

By now, Madame was by my side, bat on her shoulder like Mickey Mantle. “Say the word and I’ll take a swing,” she whispered.

“Not yet,” I whispered back.

“Did you
see
it?!” the man pressed, his voice quiet but emotional. “The bomb?”

“Yes, I saw the bomb go off. Why do you want to know?”

“Then you saw her?”

Her?
I took a step closer and saw dark eyes, dark hair, and a red knit cap. “Who?”

“Don’t play games with me!” The man’s sudden roar rattled me—and Madame.

“I’ll have you know we’ve called the police!” she cried. (Okay, we hadn’t, but
he
didn’t know that.)

The flashlight beam vanished. I ran to the open slot in the boarded-up French door, saw the back of a man, and heard his heavy footsteps moving away, down the sidewalk.

As the man passed under a working streetlight, I took a quick mental snapshot. He wore construction-like, tan work boots, dark blue denims, and a light gray parka. The parka was bulky so it was hard to tell what his build was like. His height appeared several inches less than Mike Quinn but taller than most New York men (about my ex-husband’s height of six feet). His hair was probably short because the bright red knit cap covered it completely. There was something written on the cap in white lettering—
ARE
was all I could make out.

“Give me that bat!” I grabbed the weapon and took off.

“Where are you going?!” Madame demanded.

“After him! That man was no looter . . .”

I sprinted to the front door, but it began opening before I got there.
Holy cow! How had he doubled back so fast?!
Planting my feet, I lifted the bat high and cursed my decision to delay the police. Madame was like a mother to me, and I’d do anything to protect her.

As the door swung toward me, I cocked the bat back, ready to swing it forward when—

“A little early for spring training, isn’t it?” (The voice was male, but it wasn’t the stranger’s.) Standing on our doorstep in black jeans and a battered leather bomber was Matteo Allegro, my ex-husband.

“Get out of my way!” Off and running again, I lunged for the sidewalk as Madame called—

“Stop her, son!”

Unfortunately, this was one time Matt listened to his mother.

T
wenty-one

“F
OR
heaven’s sake, Matt, let me go!”

“Forget it.”

“That man is getting away!”

I tried to break away, but Matt’s grip on my waistband rivaled the one on his bank account.

“You don’t even know why you’re stopping me!” I cried, squirming. “Be reasonable!”

“Be reasonable?!” He tightened his hold. “You’re running out into a freezing-cold January night, swinging a baseball bat after some ‘man’—and I’m the one who needs to be reasonable?”

With a grunt, I finally twisted with enough force to dislodge his hand.
Freedom!
Unfortunately, Matt’s other hand had already snaked around my torso. Before I could get away, his muscular arm jerked me back against his hard chest. I wasn’t going anywhere.

“Listen to me,” I snapped, “I’m not going to assault him or even try to stop him. I only want to talk to him!”

“Him who?” Out of patience, Matt addressed his mother. “Will you translate
crazy
, please?”

“Some awful looter tried to break in . . .” she explained. “I told Clare to call the police, but she wanted to speak with the man for some reason.”

“Not for
some
reason! For a
very specific
reason. The guy was emotional—and his questions were bizarre. I think he may have been the bomber!”

Matt let out a groan. Then he wrapped his other arm around me, lifted me off my feet, and swung me back into the shop. When he finally released me, there was nowhere to go. He shut the door firmly, leaned against it, and crossed his arms.

I threw up my hands. “You’re being ridiculous, autocratic, tyrannical—”

“I’m fine with that—as long as the mother of my daughter is safe.”

“You’re not my husband anymore.”

“No, but I’m your business partner, and your friend. And it’s
your turn
to act reasonable. That man, whoever he was, is long gone by now.”

“I should at least tell the NYPD Bomb Squad.” I pulled out my cell phone.

Matt grabbed it. “Tell them what? That some poor slob got tipsy, got curious, and when you caught him in the act, decided to pull your chain?”

“Arsonists are famous for watching their fires. Criminals often return to the scene of the crime. Even if he’s not the bomber, I think he may know something, and—”

“And it’s not your job to solve this crime. It’s the NYPD’s job, and the police don’t need your help.”

I should have bit my tongue. Instead, I blurted the truth. “They already did!”

“What?” Matt frowned as he studied my face. “Oh no. I know that look!” He turned to his mother. “What are you two up to?”

“I’m not entirely sure.” Madame arched a curious eyebrow at me. “What are we up to, my dear?”

“Over the weekend, Mike Quinn introduced me to the head of the squad, that’s all. I had some pertinent information, which he was happy to get. He told me to contact him with any leads. This might be one—”

“Well, it’s not,” Matt cut in.

“You don’t know that.”

“Come on, Clare, think it through. By now, the police certainly have some person of interest under surveillance. If it’s this looter guy of yours, there’s probably a tail on him already. Tell me you can live with that.”

I folded my arms.

Matt sighed. “Please.”

“Okay . . .” I took a calming breath. “Like you said, he’s gone by now . . .”
But he’ll probably be back,
I silently added,
and that’s when I’ll talk to him.

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!

This time it was Matt who jumped. Bracing himself for a fight, he pulled open the door. Otto’s driver tipped his cap—

“Good evening, sir, I’m here to pick up Madame Dubois.”

“I’ll be right there!” she called. “Otto’s hosting nightcaps at his gallery,” she explained as she gathered her things. “It’s an intimate gathering of international buyers. I’d invite you both, but . . . I believe you two have things to
discuss
.”

On the word
discuss
, she sent Matt a meaningful look. Then she pecked his cheek, waved at me, and headed out the door.

T
wenty-two

“S
O?”
I asked, holding out my hand.

“So?” Matt echoed, slapping my mobile phone back into it.

“What exactly are we supposed to ‘discuss’?”

“Got anything to eat?” Matt said, ignoring my question.

“I have some extra Chinese takeout,” I said and offered to reheat it.

“You didn’t cook something special for the flatfoot?”


Mike
ate every bite—but I did bake up a storm for his kids and his squad meeting. Your mother ate the last of the biscotti.”

“Damn.”

“But I still have a few Chocolate-Bottom Banana Bars upstairs.”

“Lovin’ from the oven . . .” He clapped his hands together and rubbed. “Now you’re talking!”

Matt always did look forward to my home cooking. His new wife, Bree—disdainer-in-chief of
Trend
magazine—was many things, but a baker of banana bars wasn’t one of them.

“Sit tight,” I said.

Unfortunately, he didn’t.

After climbing the stairs to my duplex apartment and venturing into the kitchen, I heard Matt’s familiar footsteps. Turning, I found my ex-husband leaning against the doorjamb, hands in the pockets of his tight black jeans.

“What are you doing up here?”

He shrugged, a bad-boy look on his black-bearded face.

“Matt?”

“It’s warmer up here.”

“No, it’s not. Go back down to the shop.”

“Why?”

“Because you don’t
live
up here. Not anymore.”

Matt’s slow-spreading smile was beyond smug.

“What’s so funny?”

“The reason you don’t want me up here,” he said. “It’s obvious: you don’t trust yourself around me.”

“Oh, please!”

He crossed his arms. “Prove it.”

“You’re a child sometimes, you know that?” I expelled a frustrated breath. “Fine! Sit down, then.”

“Not here. We’ll be more comfortable in the parlor. I’ll start a fire for you there . . .” He caught my eye as he peeled off his jacket. “Unless you’d like one in the bedroom.”

“Don’t get cute or I’ll put you on the sidewalk—by way of a third-floor window.”

“Just checking.”

Ten minutes later, I was sitting by a roaring blaze again, this time on the rosewood-framed sofa in the duplex’s well-appointed salon.

Matt’s mother had decorated the place herself, collecting and placing gorgeous pieces over many decades. The main room—with its carved rosewood and silk sofa and chairs, jewel-toned Persian prayer rug, cream-marble fireplace, and French doors opening to a narrow, wrought-iron balcony of flower boxes—felt more like something you’d find in a Paris arrondissement than a New York walk-up.

As a girl who grew up in a Pennsylvania factory town, I continued to feel grateful and blessed for the privilege of sitting here amidst this Old World elegance, sipping my hot, fresh cup of Fireside Blend. Matt, who had grown up in a sophisticated world of beauty and culture only to become an extreme sports nut and cocaine addict, was acting as he usually did in his mother’s apartment—aloof to civilization.

Barely chewing, he stuffed three of my Chocolate-Bottom Banana Bars into his mouth inside of two minutes.

“Didn’t you have dinner?”

“Many hours ago,” he garbled mid-chew and brushed crumbs from a black, cashmere V-neck just tight enough to show off his sculpted pecs. “Bree and I went to her favorite sushi bar before she hopped a flight to LA. But, I’m sorry to say . . . no matter what Bree treats me to, it seems I’m never completely satisfied . . .”

He threw me a suggestive smile. I rolled my eyes.

Matt and Bree had an open marriage, and when the cat was away, Matt loved to play. But there was no playing around here, which I’d made clear enough
multiple
times.

“Enjoy the baked goods,” I told him, “because they are the
only
goodies you’ll get from me tonight.”

Unfortunately, the thickest muscle in Matt’s body was in his head. All he did was smile wider.

“Okay, talk already,” I demanded. “What did your mother want you to discuss with me?”

“The artwork.” The swipe of a napkin wiped his smile, too, and his mood shifted. “I know it’s not a happy conversation, Clare, but you have to make the decision.”

“What decision? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What do you mean, ‘you don’t know’—” He stopped abruptly, studied my perplexed face, and cursed (in several languages). “She didn’t tell you!”

“Tell me what?!”

“I can’t believe she dumped this on me,” he muttered.

“Matt, explain!”

He closed his eyes and took a breath. “The insurance adjuster called Mother this afternoon. The news wasn’t good, Clare . . .”

“How bad is it?”

“Bad . . .”

He went over the numbers with me, and my heart sank.

“Our insurance company contacted Thorner’s insurers. They’re hiding behind their legal skirts. They refuse to pay a cent until the legal issues surrounding the case are resolved.”

“You mean the bomber needs to be caught?”

“And convicted. Then they can go after the guilty party in civil court to claim damages.”

“But even if they arrested someone tonight, the trial wouldn’t come up for at least a year!”

“I know. Our insurance company is prepared to cut us a check and wait for Thorner’s insurers to reimburse them, but it’s nowhere near what we need . . .”

Because our coffeehouse was located in the Village historic district, exterior restoration would have to comply with strict codes. We’d need to hire construction companies with specific expertise, which meant repairs wouldn’t be cheap. The estimate was astronomical.

“Mother refuses to mortgage the place or sell any of the furniture, but she is going to have a fire sale with her jewelry collection—”

“So that’s why she only wore one piece tonight?”

Matt nodded. “The rest is being appraised. In a few days, she’ll select which pieces to sell—”

“That’s going to break her heart!”

“And she wants you to number the pieces of artwork from the coffeehouse and the duplex. Give her a list of items you’re willing to part with, in descending order. Otto will appraise them and you can make the final decision.”

“Decision on what?” I gawked in horror as it hit me. “On which ones to
sell
?”

“Or auction, yes. We’ll only sell off what we have to until we reach the amount we need.”

“But, Matt—it’s a hundred years of Village Blend history!”

“I know.”

“I can’t believe this is happening to us . . .”

“Believe it.”

I couldn’t sit still any longer. On my feet, I began to pace. “Your mother should be the one to choose which pieces.”

“She wants you to do it, Clare.”

“But she’s the one who has the most personal attachment to it all! Oh, Matt, imagine her memories!”

“That’s why she wants you to do it. It’s too painful for her, and Mother said . . .” His voice trailed off.

“What?” I whispered.

Matt’s expression looked sadder than I’d seen it in a long time. “Mother said you’ll be the one living with the remaining artwork for the next thirty years, not her—and that’s why the choice should be yours.”

His voice was even, but his eyes were damp. The words made me think of losing her, too, which made my own eyes well.

“Aren’t you going to help me choose?” I asked, my voice barely there.

“Clare . . . I’m no art expert. I spent most of my adult years traveling the globe. You’re the one who went to art school. You and my mother—that love was something you two shared from the beginning.” The firelight flickered, casting shadows of regret across Matt’s olive complexion. “It was always your thing, not mine . . .”

He rose. “So you’ll let me know? Give me the list sometime tomorrow, then?”

I moved to the door with him, swiped the moisture off my cheeks. His strong arms reached for me; I stepped back.

“Sorry,” he said, slipping into his bomber. “Old habits die hard . . .”

The words made something inside me lurch. More than anything, I wanted to fling my arms around the father of my daughter and cry my eyes out, but I held myself in shaky check.

Matt would be happy to give me comfort with his hard body, and I would gladly take it—possibly too far. I’d never admit it, but he was right. Alone and hurting, seeing that tenderness in his liquid-brown gaze, feeling that desire to console me in his soft touch, I didn’t trust myself.

“Good night, Matt,” I said stiffly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Chin up, okay?” He cleared his throat. “I’ll bring that generator from the warehouse, like you asked. We’ll set up the catering tent and you can start serving our customers again. That’s something to look forward to, isn’t it?”

“Sure.”

I closed the door, bolted it, and faced the apartment—four walls and two floors that contained a bounty of treasures from more than three-quarters of a century of Greenwich Village history.

There were pen-and-inks, portraits, cityscapes, prints, sketches, poems, manifestos, even doodles on napkins from legends of the New York art world—and each and every piece carried a memory of a wonderful tale Madame told me (once, twice, a dozen times) about how she and the Village Blend were connected to it.

Every piece in this building was an irreplaceable gem. Like a curator, I proudly cycled them in and out of the main shop downstairs and its second-floor lounge to delight (and educate) young and old about this neighborhood’s indelible place in art history.

Selling off these pieces would be like parting with tangible parts of my dear friend and mentor, my daughter’s beloved grandmother, a woman who’d been like a mother to me for the past twenty years.

How can I choose? How?

“I can’t . . .” I whispered. “Not tonight.”

I doused the fire and blew out the candles.

The night felt black and cold as death as I trudged up to bed. Numb as a zombie, I changed into my nightshirt and slipped under the pile of covers. Only when my face kissed the pillow did I let the tears flow.

T
wenty-three

M
Y
heart nearly stopped the next morning when I heard it again.

BA-BOOM!

I was shivering in the shower, reliving pioneer days with a rustic sponge bath when the downstairs tremors began. In my haste to get to my cell phone, I knocked over my pail of stovetop-heated water. I didn’t care. If that heavyset “looter” in the light gray parka and red knit cap was back, I needed to find out fast.

Without a stitch of cloth covering my curves, I raced across the freezing parquet floor of my bedroom and speed-dialed my ex-husband.
Voice mail—

“Matt, get over here! It’s an emergency!”

BA-BOOM! BA-BOOM!

The pounding was getting stronger, rattling the glass panes in my window frames—in broad daylight.

That’s it, I’m calling 911.

The dispatcher would need a description of the man assaulting our shop. With the sun up, I could probably get a decent look at him from up here.

Throwing on my short, terry robe, I raced to the window. Using two hands, I ripped open the long drapes—and came face-to-face with a telephone lineman.

What the . . . ?

The big, burly guy with a battered Verizon hard hat stood staring at me from a cherry picker bucket on a crane that had him nearly bumping up against my fourth-floor window.

Dumbfounded, I stumbled backward, and my loosely tied robe fell open. For a mortifying second, I just stood there, generous curves naked as a newborn to the man’s widening eyes.

Flashed before breakfast, the big Verizon guy nearly fell out of his bucket.

I screamed and shut the drapes.

Blushing and cursing in tandem, I yanked a shapeless wool sweater over my head, tugged jeans over my hips, and dived into a pair of power flats. I’d just grabbed the shop keys when my cell went off.

“Matt?!”

“No, boss, it’s your favorite barista—and I am in the weeds here! Help!”

“Esther? Where are you?”

“Downstairs!” Clearly in a state, she was shouting into the phone over sounds of pounding and whirring. “Can you hear me? We’re suddenly surrounded! All Tucker and I did was unlock the dang shop and the cast of
This Old House
descended like locusts!”

“Hang on! I’m coming!”

*

I
RUSHED
into my shop to a blast of cold air from the wide-open door and an army of workers in bulky jackets.

“There she is.” Esther and Tucker pointed. “That’s her!”

“Miss Ko-see?” A workman in a hard hat approached, clipboard in hand. “You the shop manager?”

The man was speaking loudly, trying to be heard over a jackhammer in the street. Behind him, men were cutting a hole in Hudson, surrounded by a half-dozen trucks and a forest of emergency orange cones.

Con Ed, Verizon, the Department of Environmental Protection (aka the water company) were all represented. A glazier’s truck pulled up with taped-up windowpanes strapped to its flanks.

“Yes, I’m Ms. Cosi!” I yelled back.

“I’m Stan, your project manager. I have all the permits ready to go. The electricians have already started working. The job’s urgent, we understand, and we’re on it . . .”

Is this Matt’s doing?
I wondered in astonishment.
How can it be? We haven’t even raised the funds for this yet!

I noticed a yellow cab dodge several construction vehicles as it pulled up to the curb. A well-built, black-bearded guy in jeans and a leather bomber emerged from the backseat.

Speak of the devil . . .

Matt threw bills at the driver, dodged a gauntlet of construction workers, and raced to my side. “Are you okay? What’s the emergency? And what the hell is all this?!”

“You didn’t arrange this? Did your mother?”

“No!”

“Then who?” I waved over Stan, the project manager. “Sir, can you tell us please—who’s footing the bill for this work?”

As my question hung in the air, Matt, Tucker, Esther, and I drew closer, waiting for his answer.

“You don’t know?” Stan asked in surprise.

“No!” sang our curious chorus.

“THORN, Inc., arranged the construction. The certified check came through Sunday morning, signed by Eric Thorner, the CEO himself. We received your building owner’s approval to do the work about an hour ago—a Mrs. Dubois. She signed the papers.”

Tucker, Esther, and I gaped in happy awe.

But for some reason, Matt was grimacing.

He confronted Stan: “Are you telling me that in some mystical fashion, you and Mr. Thorner acquired all the necessary construction approvals and licenses from the appropriate city agencies in record time?”

Stan smirked. “I think the magic word you’re lookin’ for is
money
.”

“How long are these repairs going to take?” Matt fired back.

“We guaranteed Mr. Thorner the work would be completed in three days.”

“Three
days
!” I nearly fainted.

“Oh my goodness!” Tucker cried. “I thought it would take three to four
weeks
!”

“And that’s not even the best part . . .” It finally sunk in that I no longer had to choose artwork to sell. All the artifacts of precious Village Blend history could stay with us now. “Isn’t Eric Thorner a wonderful man?!”

Esther whooped and we all hugged—all except Matt.

“Don’t be such Pollyannas,” he snapped. “The jerk was probably scared.”

“Of what?” I asked.

“Of us taking him to court, suing him for damages.”

Okay, that annoyed me.
“Why would a man like that be afraid of a lawsuit? He has a team of lawyers on retainer, and you said his insurance company was handling it.”

“I did, but . . .” Matt looked away.

I shook my head, tears of happiness blurring my vision. “I was about to put the staff on unemployment and sell off precious pieces of our Village Blend history. Now we’ll be open for business in just a few days! I’m sorry, but this is astonishingly decent of Thorner, and you should be grateful, too.”

“Why? Thorner’s the one who caused all this damage.”

“No,” I said. “Thorner was a
crime victim
, just like us . . .”

After a few more minutes of verbal Ping-Pong, Stan interrupted us with a tap on my shoulder.

“Good news, Ms. Cosi. You now have hot water and electricity.”

“It’s Christmas!” I cried.

“No, Clare, it’s January.”

“And you’re still in Grinch mode. Why?”

“Because you’re acting like this is some kind of generous gift, and it’s not. You should be angry at Thorner, Clare. He brought that bomb here. Fixing our shop is something he
owes
us!”

“Ms. Cosi, excuse me,” Stan interrupted, “but we also have a special delivery for you. They’re rolling it in now . . .”

T
wenty-four

“I
T”
turned out to be a wooden crate the size of a small refrigerator laid on its side. Strapped to a wheeled cart, the box was pushed by a smiling man in a ski parka.

“It’s bigger than a bread box,” Esther declared. “But what is it?”

John F. Kennedy Airport air cargo tags were stamped on the box, one marked
SEATTLE to NYC: SAME DAY AIR
. Then I read the sender’s name and address.

“My God,” I sputtered. “Is this . . . ? Could this be . . . ?”

The deliveryman extended his hand. “Ms. Cosi? My name is Terrence. I’m here to install your brand new Slayer.”

Esther’s scream of unbridled joy halted construction for a moment. Tucker staggered backward, clutching his heart in a mock swoon. When Esther stopped jumping up and down, she grabbed Tucker and they did a barista tribal dance around the wooden box.

“Slayer! Slayer! We’ve got a Slayer!”

My eyes were too blurry with tears to join them so I pumped the deliveryman’s hand. I had to ask, though I already knew the answer.

“This espresso machine was ordered for us by . . . ?”

“THORN, Inc. Mr. Thorner insisted on immediate delivery.”

I turned to Matt. “He didn’t owe us
this
.”

Matt glowered. “Slayers are handmade to order. How could Thorner possibly buy one so fast? Isn’t there a waiting list?”

“You’re right, sir, there is,” Terrence replied. “This Slayer was scheduled for a coffeehouse in Cambridge. Apparently Mr. Thorner bought out their contract.”

“Apparently, huh?” Matt speared me. “I wonder what else he’s
apparently
planning to buy around here.”

I reached up and shook my ex by his hard shoulders. “For goodness’ sake, man, don’t be so cynical! It’s Christmas in January, and Eric Thorner is our Santa Claus! So, ho-ho-ho!”

“Sorry, but I think the guy wants to turn us into his ‘ho.’”

“Enough. I’m going upstairs to take a hot shower—”

“Before you go, Ms. Cosi,” Stan interrupted again, “there’s a Bubba from Verizon who has a question for you.”

Bubba? Uh-oh.
“He wouldn’t be that big, burly guy who was up on that cherry picker crane, would he?”

“That’s the fellow. He, uh . . .” Stan’s expression turned sheepish. “Well, he wants to know if you’d like to go out with him on a bowling date Friday.”

I groaned.

Matt frowned at me in befuddlement. “You know the guy?”

“Let’s just say he’s
seen
me around—”
(A little too much of me.)

I turned to Stan. “Please tell Bubba that I have a boyfriend, but I wouldn’t mind a break on my next Verizon bill. He’ll know why.”

“I have a package for Clare Cosi!”

More?!
The announcement came from a man in a private courier uniform. He handed me a large, long box. I broke the tape seal and opened it, to stare at white paper.

“Flowers?” Esther guessed. “Who’s your secret admirer?”

Matt chuffed.

“Let’s find out.” I ripped the paper away. Esther and I both gasped.

Tucker came over to investigate and nearly swooned, for
real
this time! “Are those
blue
roses? Actual, real-life blue roses?”

Apparently they were, though the word
blue
was too prosaic to describe the brilliant beauty of these blossoms. The only hybrid “blue” roses I’d ever seen were in a flower show, and they had been more lilac in color.

These were a striking cobalt, a vibrant hue that, until now, I’d thought impossible to produce in a flower—unless you were Claude Monet with a brush in your hand.

“I found instructions.” Esther untied a string which released a small plastic card. “How to Care for Blue Velvet Roses,” she read.

“They’re so lovely,” Tucker said with a sigh. “He must have sent you three dozen. And the name is so romantic—
Blue Velvet
.”

Esther rolled her eyes. “Don’t gush, Broadway Boy, they’re Franken-flowers—”

“What?”

“It says on the card that these roses are genetically engineered and not yet available commercially.”

“Prototype flowers?” Tuck cried. “They must be priceless!”

“What makes you so sure? Are you a horticulturalist in your spare time?”

“No, Snark Queen, a
dramatist
, and when I played Laura’s gentleman caller in the off-Broadway revival of
The Glass Menagerie
, the director wanted every audience member to leave with a blue rose. He insisted that nothing else would do. The set designer priced those Suntory True Blue Roses from Japan, and informed the producer that if they used them, one-fourth of the daily box office take would go to the florist.”

While Tuck shared his backstage anecdote, I discovered a gold-embossed envelope secreted among the blossoms. The missive was hand-addressed to me in an elegant script.

“Open it! Open it!” Esther chanted.

Matt loomed over me, but not to admire the flowers. “What’s in the envelope?”

“I can’t believe this. It’s an invitation—Eric Thorner wants me to have dinner with him at the Source Club on Thursday night.”

“The Source Club,” Tuck said in awe. “Whoa . . .”

Mouth gaping, Esther was speechless (a rare occurrence).

Matt didn’t share my baristas’ shock or enthusiasm. Instead, with a glower, he announced, “There is
no way
you are going to dinner with that tech brat!”

His voice was so loud that the men installing our new windows stopped to stare.
Oh, for heaven’s sake . . .

I grabbed the box of roses with one hand, hooked Matt’s arm with the other. “Come help me put these in vases,” I said, and dragged my ex into the back pantry.

“Stop making a scene,” I hissed.

“Better than watching you make a fool of yourself.”

I nearly hurled the flowers at him. “You want to see a fool? Look in the mirror!”

“You’re too naïve to know what Thorner is really after.”

“Don’t make me slap your face.”

“Slap away; it wouldn’t be the first time. I just don’t want you involved with this guy—”

“Listen to me. There’s a very good reason I’m going to dinner with Eric Thorner. When I was with the Bomb Squad, they accessed his private smartphone files—and he had a file on me.”

“You?!” Matt’s eyes bugged.

“Before that bomb went off, Thorner said he wanted to make me an offer—”

“Offer? As in proposition? It really is
ho-ho
time!”

“Will you please get your mind out of the gutter? A billionaire wants to do
business
with us.”

“With you, you mean.”

“Me
is
us—I mean this coffeehouse, the Village Blend. And you know we could really use that kind of business.”

“Says who? We were getting along fine before the Quiz Master showed up—”

“You have a short memory, Matt. Before any of this happened, we were having major money problems. That’s why I’m going to dinner with Thorner—”

“Not while this guy has a big, fat target painted on his back. We don’t even know who wanted to blow him up or why!”

I began to separate the roses. “Okay, then why don’t you let me find out?”

“Don’t get cute.”

“I’m not kidding. Going into business with this man could resolve all of our financial woes. The only problem is—”

“Somebody is trying to bump him off!”

“Yes, that’s right—and I can be of assistance.”

“Assistance? We’re not talking about mopping up spilled coffee here. We’re talking about a killer who used a firebomb!”

“You know I’m good at asking questions, finding answers, uncovering—Ouch!”

I shook my finger as bright red droplets appeared. “You’d think the science that created these blue roses could have eliminated the thorns.”

“Oh, no . . .” Matt blanched.

“It’s not that bad,” I said, washing the wound. “Anyway, the guy’s company is called THORN, Inc., so I guess I should have known, right?”

Matt didn’t reply. He was mumbling in Spanish while clutching the talisman hanging around his neck.

“What are you doing?”

“Warding off the bad luck.”

“What?”

“You pricked your finger on the man’s flowers. That’s an omen, Clare.”

“Of what?”

“In Ethiopia they’d inform you of an Arabic legend about a man who stole a prince’s bride by pricking her with a thorn from a
zizouf
—”

“Ziz-who?”

“A magical lotus. And then there are the Yanomami, who’d warn you about their tribal beliefs through the story of a woman held in thrall to a lustful man after being pricked by a thorn from a Brazilian spider flower—”

“I think you’ve been in the bush too long. Don’t turn native on me.”

“Sorry, but I don’t want you anywhere near the man who gave you those.”

“It’s not your decision. The billionaire is sending his limo for me at eight o’clock Thursday night, and I’m going to be in it.”

“A limo?!” Matt’s face turned so red I thought he was going to pop an artery. “And I’m the one with a short memory? It was his limo that exploded in front of our coffeehouse, remember?”

“Yes, so what are the chances it could happen again? Astronomical, probably.”

“No! The mother of my daughter is not getting into Eric Thorner’s limousine. Not Thursday night, and not any night! Do you hear me? I absolutely forbid it!”

T
wenty-five

“A
ND
that pretty much brings you up to speed, Mike . . .”

I switched the cell phone to my other hand and gazed at the city lights rolling by the limo’s window. It was Thursday evening, and I was Cinderella, on my way to the most exclusive club on the Eastern Seaboard—and in vintage style. Even jaded New Yorkers were gawking at the antique Rolls that Eric sent for me.

“Don’t you think this invitation is a little rushed?” Quinn’s deep voice rumbled in my ear. “Thorner was injured in the bombing. What’s the damn hurry? There’s got to be an ulterior motive—”

“For all I know, a nurse is going to wheel Thorner to the table and right back into an ambulance after dessert. If he’s willing to take such pains to be gracious, then how could I refuse?”

“Your powers of deduction are failing you, sweetheart. Or maybe the air in that limo is a little thin—”

“Don’t patronize me. I have Matt Allegro for that. He actually forbid me to go to this dinner. Can you believe that? I reminded him we were living in the twenty-first century, not the sixteenth.”

“Sounds like the guy was worried. I know how he feels.”

“There’s a security escort in a black SUV, right behind this limo as I speak. And Eric’s driver assured me both vehicles were checked for bombs, by a member of the NYPD Bomb Squad, before they picked me up. And speaking of bombs, do the police have a person of interest yet?”

“I know they haven’t arrested anyone,” Quinn replied.

“Well, I plan to ask Thorner about it.”
Along with a whole lot of other things
. . .

A traffic light switched to green as the limo approached the intersection, and the mute driver turned onto Water Street.

“The Source Club is just up ahead. I have to say good-bye.”

“Well, order something expensive, thank him, and part company. I’ll give you a call at eleven or so—just to make sure you’re home safe and sound.”

I knew that tone. “You’re not fooling me with that ‘safe and sound’ stuff. Like I said, this is a business dinner.” I lowered my voice. “Really, Mike, if I were going to step out on you, would I call you to tell you about it? If you think so, then
your
powers of deduction are slipping.”

I knew I’d said the wrong thing the moment I said it. Only now, I couldn’t set things right. The limo had stopped at the curb, and an usher in a tux opened the door for me.

“Good evening, Ms. Cosi,” he said, extending a gloved hand. “May I escort you to Mr. Thorner’s table?”

“We’ll talk at eleven. I love you,” I whispered into the cell. But Quinn had already hung up.

T
wenty-six

I
T
was a good thing Eric Thorner stood as I was shown to his table or I might not have recognized him.

I was no expert on the Tribe of Tech, but one thing I did know about the young lords of the digital domain was that they had an aversion to formalwear. Business attire was anathema, jackets seldom worn, and neckties were as welcome as a silver cross on a Victorian vampire.

This club, however, had a dress code for dinner service and Thorner had mothballed the denims, flannel shirt, and Yankees cap in favor of a gray, London-tailored wool suit and a buttoned-up shirt so white it seemed luminous in contrast to the ebony-silk tie knotted tightly around his neck.

“Mr. Thorner, I can’t believe how fabulous you look—”

“Wow, Ms. Cosi! You look amazing—”

We halted our overlapping compliments and laughed.

“I guess it’s a good thing we both clean up so nicely,” I said and meant it because I still couldn’t believe I was here.

Last year, the
New York Times
magazine had done a splashy spread on the Source Club, highlighting its art, architecture, spa, cigar room, and world-class wine bar. The membership roster was a who’s who of Wall Street’s most successful investment bankers; the digital world’s newly minted tech founders; and the actual world’s wealthiest aristocrats (the ones who maintained a pied-à-terre with a 212 area code, anyway).

Tucker had drooled all over the
Times
spread, bringing it in for me and the rest of my baristas to shake our heads over. (The palatial enclave carried annual membership dues north of $50,000—and that didn’t include the costs of drinking, dining, squash court time, personal trainers, plastic surgery, overnight accommodations, intimate concerts with rock legends, lectures by Nobel laureates, or anything else the club offered.)

As for the architecture, the street entrance through which I’d been escorted was sufficiently grand (no surprise, since the century-old building was once a bank). Its vaulted, stone archway and busy Beaux Arts base felt like a nod to the more traditional private clubs of New York like the Harmonie, Metropolitan, Knickerbocker, and the oldest of them all, the Union Club, with a “past members” list that included John Jacob Astor, Cornelius Vanderbilt, William Randolph Hearst, and Ulysses S. Grant.

While those old-guard clubs were primarily located in Midtown, downtown was the new place to be, and the barely ten-year-old Source Club was considered the hippest haven in New York.

The dramatic River Room, in which I now sat, was an architectural marvel. An ode to modern minimalism (and maybe Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater), the three-story-high structure of one-way glass had been built to extend off what was once an old pier along the Manhattan side of the East River.

Beneath our feet, the river ran. Beyond the glass, boats floated by and fast-moving ferries crossed to Brooklyn’s shore where lights twinkled from the high-rises of hipster Williambsurg and the tech town that ate DUMBO (no, not the adorable little Disney elephant but the shorthand way New Yorkers referred to the area “Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass”).

I couldn’t help feeling nervous when I walked into this glittering dining room of crystal and orchids, but Thorner’s earnest greeting put me at ease.

“Thank you for coming, Ms. Cosi.”

“Please, call me Clare.”

“I’ll grant that wish, as long as you call me Eric.”

“Of course . . .”

The last time I saw Eric, he had had a jagged eight-inch thorn of glass pricking his neck. Mere days later, there was no outward sign of injury—no bandages, slings, and no stiffness. His movements appeared fluid as he elbowed the maître d’ aside to pull out my chair himself.

As he smiled down at me, Thorner’s expression was all warmth and camaraderie (no smirking this time). His golden, surfer hair had been trimmed, making him appear older—until those killer dimples flashed, revealing the boy inside the man.

He returned to his own seat and for a long, uncomfortable moment he studied me without speaking. Embarrassed, I glanced away, only to be reminded that pretty much everyone else in this dining room was staring at me, too.

Stranger still, some of those gawking were public figures themselves—a network news anchor; an award-winning actress; the scion of an Italian fashion house.

Why in the world are they curious about me? Do I look freakish? Out of place?

On my way to the dining room, the usher had led me across a transparent sky bridge, and I caught my reflection in the tinted glass: the beaded Chanel dress looked stunning. Madame had selected it for me from her own vintage closet. Her seamstress friend had speedily custom tailored the garment, letting it out here and there (and there!) to accommodate my curves.

Maybe it’s simply the dress they’re staring at . . .

“Does everyone merit this sort of attention?” I whispered to Eric.

“You’re a beautiful woman, Clare, inside and out, and you should be admired. But . . . I think they’re staring because tonight you’re a mystery woman—to them, at least—and you happen to be my date.”

That’s when I understood.

Thorner was of no particular significance in this company, just another billionaire member of the club. But a week ago, the bomb in his limo made him worldwide news, and this was his first appearance in public since the explosion.

“Honestly, I’m not convinced you really are Eric Thorner. You might be a corporate double, or a clone. Or was it the clone that was taken away from my coffeehouse in an ambulance?”

Eric laughed, loud enough to turn heads. “I assure you it was me, and I can prove it.” He lowered his voice. “Later, I’ll show you my scars.”

The waiter delivered the menu, but I hardly glanced at it. “Are you as uncomfortable as I am with all this . . . attention?”

“Ridiculous, isn’t it?” Eric’s gaze remained on the menu card. “Is there anyone not staring at us? I can’t look. You’ll have to tell me.”

I raised my menu in front of my face and peeked over it.

Though scrutiny seemed intense, I discovered that not everyone was paying attention. There was a young prince from the House of Saud who didn’t seem interested in anything more than the model-perfect trio of women who were his dinner guests. Another table had a pair of Hong Kong businessmen who hadn’t stopped talking (in Cantonese) since I arrived, leaving their ignored wives to sip their drinks with bored expressions.

Then my eyes were drawn to a raised table in the corner, where a broad-shouldered man in an exquisite, black, pinstriped suit was holding court with a pair of tieless younger men in sport jackets.

In his mid– to late fifties, the big man was bald and blustery, a larger-than-life rooster type. It was the deliberate manner in which he ignored us that made me curious. It felt like a ruse—as I watched his table, I noticed his companions stealing glimpses in our direction, and then the rooster himself snuck an intense peek.

“There’s a Mr. Clean in Caraceni across the way—” I subtly tilted my head. “He’s dining with a young pair of techie types. They seem to be trying very hard
not
to stare at us.”

Eric masked his smile with his menu. “I’m impressed with your powers of observation. That’s Grayson Braddock, and the guys with him are his nephews. More than anyone else in this room, those Aussies would kill to know what I’m up to.”

“I’m sorry, did you just use the word
kill
? Given what happened last week, you don’t actually think . . . ?”

“I do, Clare.” He met my eyes. “And I’ve told the authorities as much.”

I blinked a moment, unable to believe what Eric had so easily admitted—and as coolly as if he’d just conveyed the weather.

I glanced around, wondering where the undercover detectives were. If Braddock was a person of interest, he had to be under surveillance by the NYPD. Not quite sure how to act, I followed Eric’s lead, tried to remain calm, and cleared my throat.

“Can you tell me why Braddock is so angry with you?”

“He and I are competing head to head on a time-sensitive project. So I’m sure the man would poison us both with Mulga snake venom if he thought he could get away with it.” Suddenly Eric grinned. “By the way, enjoy the food. It’s a very special night. Grayson Braddock is hosting this dinner service. His favorite celebrity chef is cooking.”

I nearly dropped my menu.

“I’m joking, Clare. Chef Harvey wouldn’t dare poison us. Not here. For one thing, it would ruin the sales of his new cookbook—Braddock’s publishing company released it just last week. All bets are off when it comes to his boss though.”

“If Braddock blew up your server farm, he would have the advantage in this race of yours, wouldn’t he?”

Eyes on the menu, Eric nodded. “He would. Braddock is a legacy mogul, a gatekeeper of the old order. His latest social networking venture failed miserably—remember the jokes?
The InZone is out.
And, of course,
Who’s in the InZone? Nobody!

I had no idea what Eric was talking about, but when he laughed I smiled and nodded appropriately. “I guess that failure embarrassed him?”

“Big time. His systems thinking is outdated, and his empire is crumbling. It matters not that he’s launched Interweb equivalents for his magazines and newspapers because he can’t monetize sufficiently to plug the leaking revenue—and he detests the very idea of me. In his
Forbes
magazine profile last month, Braddock had the nerve to call me a ‘baby billionaire in a carnival business.’”

I wanted to know more—about exactly what they were trying to get to the market and who exactly might have planted that bomb (certainly Braddock wouldn’t have done the dirty work himself)—when I saw movement from Braddock’s direction.

“Heads-up,” I warned. “Your favorite legacy mogul is approaching this table right now.”

T
wenty-seven

G
RAYSON
Braddock loomed large as he approached our table. Standing well over six feet, the Australian-born magnate had draped himself in hand-sewn Italian silk.

If Mike Quinn were here, he would have mumbled something about an easy target. That would have been true on the firing range; in this dining room, I wasn’t so sure. Men like Braddock didn’t get where they were without learning how to dodge a few bullets.

“Good to see you, Thorner.” Braddock’s tone was formal, but he didn’t offer his hand.

Eric didn’t bother to rise. “Good to be here, Braddock.”

While the two exchanged vague pleasantries, I studied the man. The cut of his dark jacket accented his broad shoulders and thick-muscled arms, and Braddock’s beefy hands, though manicured, would have done a professional boxer proud. (Actually, if it wasn’t for his expensive clothes and the civilized surroundings, I could easily mistake the billionaire for one of the bodybuilding stars of
Live Studio Wrestling,
a show my cigar-chomping pop watched every Saturday when I was growing up in western Pennsylvania. I could almost imagine Braddock, with some name like the Aussie Annihilator, going toe-to-toe with Bruno Sammartino at the old Civic Arena.)

“Rough business the other day,” Braddock was now saying, “but I see you’ve recovered nicely.”

“Yes,” Eric returned, “I
couldn’t wait
to get back to work on a
certain project
.”

“Well, you’re not working
now
, are you?” Braddock rested his hand on the back of my chair. “Good to see you finding new . . .
diversions
.”

The tone of Braddock’s voice pricked me into risking a glance up. I found his gaze fixed on my cleavage.

From this angle, only I could see his little invasion. He didn’t appear bothered that I’d caught him in the act. Instead he slowly moved his attention from my breasts to my eyes, finishing his bit of fun with a leer.

The message was clear
—a man like me does what he wants and feels no shame about it.

Another woman might have blushed or looked away in embarrassment. But I’d taught my daughter (just as Madame had taught me) never to allow any man to make you feel uncomfortable for simply looking like a woman.

Natural interest and admiration was one thing, lack of respect another, and I returned the man’s open leer with a disdainful smirk worthy of any self-satisfied tech brat.

Grayson Braddock arched an eyebrow when our gazes locked. My reaction had surprised him, and he faltered for the slightest second.

“Anyway . . .” He glanced back across the table. “I find it’s always better to move on and forget the things you
can’t control
—ah, I see my guest has arrived. You know Donny Chu, don’t you, Thorner?”

Eric’s eyes widened at the approach of a stocky, young Asian man with a buzz cut and an open-collared shirt under a navy blue blazer.

Braddock gripped the newcomer’s hand, then hooked a possessive arm over Donny Chu’s shoulders and led him back to the raised table. Braddock’s corporate cronies greeted the Asian man like he was a long-lost relative—hugs, pats on the back, laughing grins.

Eric gritted his teeth and quietly cursed.

“What’s wrong?”

“Donny Chu was my special projects director until I fired him about a year ago. We were working out of Los Angeles then—”

“Why did you fire Chu?”

“We clashed over . . .” He waved his hand. “It was personal stuff. Anyway, last I heard, he’d gone back to Silicon Valley to launch his own start-up, but I always knew Donny didn’t have what it took to go it alone.”

A burst of laughter erupted from Braddock’s table. “Looks like Mr. Chu found a new employer.”

Eric nodded. “His nephews must have brought him in, probably met him at Stanford. It seems they’ve joined forces to combat me, but I’m not going to let that happen. Maybe you could help me with that?”

I raised my palms. “I shouldn’t be involved in a corporate throwdown.”

“You’re involved already, Clare. Braddock just saw you with me.”

“But he doesn’t know who I am.”

“Believe me, by the end of the evening he will.”

“What does that mean?” I glanced around. “Does this restaurant have some kind of face recognition system I should know about?”

“No . . .” Eric flashed me a cryptic smile. “Let’s just say . . . you’re bound to make
an impression
.”

I was dying to know what prompted that remark, but Eric quickly changed the subject. “See anything you like on the menu? Chef Harvey’s featuring
Poulet de Bresse
—the real thing, too, not Blue Foot chickens from Canada. They’re flown in special from France.”

I groaned (couldn’t help it).

“What’s the matter? You don’t like chicken?”

“No, it’s my daughter.”

“Your daughter doesn’t like chicken?”

“Bresse chickens are the reason my daughter is too busy to do more than text me a string of trite abbreviations.”

I briefly told Eric about Joy, her apprenticeship in Paris, and the Bresse chicken incident, which resulted in her promotion to saucier. The story made him laugh till he cried (I guess flying chickens and irate French chefs can do that).

Wine appeared and soon we were both laughing. Eric was so easy to talk to that I ended up telling him all about Joy’s relationship with Sergeant Emmanuel Franco—a good man and a good cop—and my wish to sprout wings and fly to Paris to talk some sense into her before she lost him.

And the wine
kept
flowing . . .

Looking back on it now, I’m firmly convinced the Source Club waitstaff mastered some sort of service kung fu mind trick where they refill your wineglass without your ever noticing. Whatever the case, their superb service made drinking effortless, and before I knew it, nature called.

T
wenty-eight

I
F
I had known the challenges that would come with one trip to the powder room, I (frankly) would have held it.

The first challenge was finding the room itself.

A waiter discreetly pointed toward one end of this giant, glass cage, but I was lost until another waiter explained that the twenty-foot waterfall in the corner was a hologram, complete with falling-water sound. As I approached, I could see it was a canard—a mere display of dimensional lighting, and I walked right through (staying dry as a bone, thank goodness).

On the other side, I found an empty corridor, eerily backlit by that holographic spigot. One end of the corridor appeared to house the men’s facilities with faux-stone columns guarding the darkly lit lounge of leather sofas and heavy oak paneling.

In the other direction, I saw a flowery bower of an archway. Inside was a lounge of sumptuous sofas and antique, gilt-edged mirrors where twin girls gently strummed identical harps, their sweet strains mingling with the sounds of that holographic waterfall.

Okay, now I really had to go!

Moving faster, I found the stalls.

Everything was gilded in here—the sink, the mirror, the TP dispenser, even the . . . well,
everything
. Frank Lloyd Wright might have been the inspiration for that dining room, but someone had gone all Donald Trump on the ladies’ lounge—1990s-Atlantic-City-casino Trump, to be exact, which brought to mind one of Madame’s many axioms:

“Wealth is not a singular idea, dear, and money does not equal taste.”

True, taste was never a given where money was concerned, but wealth could certainly buy you
space
. These bathroom stalls were bigger than some Manhattan apartments, with amenities catering to a girl’s every personal need.

On the way out, I paused at one of the antique mirrors to check how the seams in this vintage dress were holding out against my formidable curves. Gazing at my reflection, I noticed a blond Amazon enter the ladies’ lounge and storm right up to me.

Draped in a jewel-trimmed gown of aquamarine with a daring slit up one leg, and a décolletage nearly to her navel, she seemed wobbly as she walked, but I couldn’t tell the cause—the six-inch fetish heels on her pedicured feet? Or the oversized martini in her manicured hand?

Her loose, flyaway locks formed a blunt-cut Jazz Age halo of yellow fire around her scowling face. Looming over me, she tossed her sun-kissed crown and addressed my reflection in the mirror.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Excuse me?” I turned to face her.

“Eric’s last fling is hardly out of the morgue, and he’s already sniffing up a new cougar?!”

The strident pitch of her voice might have embarrassed me, but this wasn’t the kind of restroom with an echo. The pink-fabric wallpaper (thick as soundproofing), effectively absorbed the ear-splitting decibels, and I noticed those twin harpists began to strum louder. (Now I knew why they were here—to drown out the catfights.)

I also solved another mystery: the blonde’s wobbling wasn’t caused by her Everest heels. She fairly reeked of overpriced gin.

“How do you know Eric?” Her eyes, the same aqua shade as her gown, had narrowed into pissed-off slits. “Are you his maid? The cook? Or just another hired babysitter like that sniveling rat Anton?”

“I don’t know who you are, but stop it,” I replied, voice level but firm. “You’re causing a scene.”

With a crooked smirk, she placed an index finger on her chin and looked me over like I was a horse at auction. Her appraisal was so obvious I half expected her to check my teeth.

“I’ll admit you have more class than his last piece of trash. But hopping from a B-list actress to a divorcée—well, it’s no wonder someone tried to blow him to kingdom come.”

How does she know I’m a divorcée?
I thought, and then I realized,
She doesn’t.

The “B-list actress” was clearly Eric’s late girlfriend, Bianca Hyde. But who was this other woman, this divorcée?

“Back up,” I said. “Exactly what divorcée are you talking about? And who are
you
?”

“Age before beauty—I asked
you
first.”

“Look, whatever you think is happening, it’s not. Eric and I are having a business dinner—”


Monkey
business, you mean!” Aqua eyes flashed, and her scowl morphed into a smug grin. “I’ll bet Eric’s already sent you those damn blue roses, hasn’t he?”

My silence was all the reply she needed. The martini glass slipped from her fingers and shattered on the pink-marble floor. I leaped back to dodge flying glass as an attendant rushed over to make the mess vanish.

The blonde was already gone, heading for a vacant stall.

“Bad things seem to happen to the women around Eric,” she called over her shoulder. “Keep your distance, honey, or something bad might happen to you.”

As soon as she closed the carved (and, yes, gilded) stall door, I bolted for the dimly lit corridor. But I was so busy watching my back, I accidentally smacked into a solid wall of Outback muscle.

“’Ere, hold up there, sheila,” a voice both masculine and familiar commanded. “What’s the rush? You and I have some things to discuss.”

T
wenty-nine

I
WAS
astonished at how much larger Grayson Braddock appeared with my nose buried in his chest. I took a quick step back—away from the aroma of expensive cigars and even more expensive cologne (a little too much of it).

“Been meaning to ask since I saw you with junior. Didn’t I see you skiing in Telluride over the holidays? Or maybe it was that New Year’s bash at Lighthouse Bay in Barbuda? You look mighty familiar.”

“I work for a living, Mr. Braddock, and I spent the holidays here in New York. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“If you spent December in this dismal town, you must have been working, and it must have been profitable.” He folded his arms, tapped his cheek. “Finance? Hedge funds? No, I would have heard of someone like you.”

“I really have to get back to Eric’s table.”

Braddock sidestepped, using his larger body and outspread arms to block my run to the end zone. He must have seen my reaction because he threw up his enormous hands.

“Easy now, sheila. Just want to talk, that’s all.”

“My name is Clare, not Sheila.”

“Aw, don’t take offense. That’s just my Down Under showing. Beautiful name you have, Clare. Please call me Gray. All the ladies call me Gray . . .”

I didn’t feel threatened—
yet
—but I checked my surroundings. Though the restaurant was populated, this area behind the faux waterfall was out of sight and nobody was in this dimly lit passage at the moment. (Where was a sloshed, angry blonde when you needed her?)

“We must have met before, Clare. Give me a hint.”

“You’re fishing, Mr. Braddock.”

“Fishing, eh? Okay then, tell me: What will it take to reel you in?”

“Better manners.”

He chuckled, a deep rumble. “In my experience, that’s
not
what women want, but . . .” He stepped closer. “As heuristics go, trial-and-error should find me the right bait.”

Maybe I should bait him.

“Have the police paid you a visit yet . . . Gray?”

He stopped laughing. “Is that what
he
told the police? I’m not surprised; I make a mighty convenient scapegoat.”

“You’re also an unconvincing victim.”

“Don’t believe everything that baby genius says. Have you ever heard the real story about how that first little mobile phone game of his became a hit? Little Donny Chu gave me the scoop. Quite a tale . . .”

“You’re talking about the game that launched his business?
Pigeon Droppings
?”

“That’s the one.” He laughed again. “Bet the story of how he got those birds off the ground was never a subject of your pillow talk.”

“Don’t make assumptions, Mr. Braddock.”

“What? You’re not Junior’s girlfriend?”

“No.”

He rubbed his prodigious chin. “You don’t strike me as a techie, and you’re not a member of this club . . .” He thought a moment and smirked. “Oh, now I get it.”

“What?”

“That boy . . .” He shook his head, tossing the infuriating insult before swaggering away: “He just can’t keep his hands off the help, can he?”

T
hirty

I
returned to the table with a strained smile, attempting to shake off the slimy encounter with Braddock by way of a vow to nail the SOB for planting that car bomb.

As soon as I sat down, the main course arrived. Eric dug in, and so did I . . .

“So tell me, Eric, how is the investigation going?”

The straightforward inquiry changed his mood. He shifted on his chair. “Let’s enjoy our dinner, Clare, and skip the dark talk.”

“Let’s not.”

Eric blinked, surprised at my bluntness.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I have some stake in the situation. My coffeehouse was wrecked, my life disrupted, I was injured, and my baristas nearly forced into unemployment.”

“You were injured?” He looked stricken. “Nobody told me.”

“Just some shrapnel in my back, it’s practically healed now.” I lowered my voice. “That’s why I couldn’t go strapless.”

“I’m so sorry . . .” Eric set his glass aside. “And you’re right. You deserve an explanation, though a little bird told me you’ve already been briefed.”

“That bird wouldn’t have a military crew cut, would it?”

“You know DeFasio?” Eric shook his head and chuckled. “Now I understand.”

“What’s so funny?”

“The lieutenant had his dog sniff up my limo
twice
when I told him who my dinner companion was going to be.”

“I noticed you have extra security watching your car, as well.”

Eric shrugged. “That’s the way I’m going to have to live from now on. One driver with bodyguard training isn’t enough.” His expression went from serious to glum, and I suspected he was thinking about the death of Charley, that former NYPD officer.

“If you’re sure Braddock was the one who had the bomb planted, he had to have hired someone, right? You fired Donny and he’s now obviously working for Braddock. Could anyone else in your business have a bone to pick with you?”

Eric snorted. “I’m on top of a thirty-billion-dollar-a-year industry, Clare. I didn’t get here without stepping on a few toes. And I’m not alone. The digital domain is like the Wild West. There aren’t any rules, only winners and losers. The winners are sitting all around us. And because we’re the winners, we’ve made enemies. Sometimes we
are
enemies.”

“Well, someone got access to your limo—and your schedule. Could someone in your company be working with Braddock, behind your back?”

“No way.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I staked my family fortune to start this corporation, and the people with me now were with me in the beginning. We all worked together and we all got rich together. My company is like a family . . . hell, some of us
are
family.”

“What about old girlfriends?”

Eric looked stricken. He stopped eating and put down his fork. “What do you mean by that, Clare?”

“One of your ex-lovers confronted me in the restroom.”

“Who?”

“That one there,” I said, pointing to the sloshed blonde with the daring gown who’d just emerged from behind the holo-fall.

“Eden?”
Eric laughed. “That’s
my sister
, Clare! Eden Thorner-Gundersen—she used to manage my late father’s business, but she works for me now. She’s my New York office manager.”

Eric glanced at the shaky woman, and then met my gaze. “You’ll have to forgive Eden for any misunderstandings. She’s protective of me; and she’s really only unreasonable when she drinks. You’ll meet her again soon—under better circumstances. I think you’ll find her quite likeable.”

Hard to imagine
, I thought.

Eric noticed my expression. “I mean it. Eden is a very interesting person. One of her passions is protecting wildlife. She just came back from tagging wolves in Wyoming.”

That did sound interesting, but it failed to win me over.

With a wary gaze, I tracked the woman’s less-than-steady course to a table across the room. She sat down with a single dinner companion, a lean, middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper ponytail. He wore the required jacket for the club’s River Room, but the embroidered blue green Nehru didn’t look anything like the business attire around him.

“I’m glad she’s having dinner with Garth,” Eric said, tilting his head toward their table. “A talk with the Metis Man will straighten her out.”

I blinked. “Did you just say
Medicine Man
?”

“No, but you’re not far from the truth. Garth Hendricks is a very important person in my organization. Sometimes I think of him as the Energizer because he inspires me and my staff. Sometimes we joke that he’s the Ventilator—because he allows my people to vent. He’s like a father confessor and court jester rolled into one. But his official title at THORN, Inc., is Metis Man.”

“Metis . . . that’s from Greek mythology, isn’t it? Metis was a goddess?”

“Goddess of wisdom, spouse of Zeus . . .” He smiled and nodded. “I’m totally impressed that you know that, but somehow I’m not surprised.”

Of course you’re not surprised,
I thought.
You probably have my whole life outlined in that secret file of yours.

“So Garth doesn’t mind being named after a goddess?”

“He chose the name! And he’s always been big on gender equality. Garth was a mentor of mine before I ever met him.”

“How could that be?”

“I read his books—more like devoured them.
New
Management for a New Century
,
Make It Don’t Break It
,
Puncturing the Donut
—”

“Did you just say
Donut
as in coffee and—?”

“It’s part of a bigger philosophy. In that sense, Garth is like a medicine man. He runs our youth outreach and talent scout programs,
App This!,
and the local chapter of the Junior Rocketeers, and he’s the unofficial company psychologist. I’ll introduce you.”

“I’d like that.”

And for a very good reason . . .

If I was going to learn this company’s secrets, including who might be working with Grayson Braddock to undermine Eric, then this ponytailed father confessor was clearly the “Metis” man to ask.

T
hirty-one

B
Y
the time the dessert menu arrived, I was starting to feel fatigued (the night had thrown me more to deal with than I’d bargained for), but Chef Harvey’s whimsical selections managed to perk me up, including something called the Billionaire Twinkie.

“Now, that I’ve got to try.”

“Oh, yes, me too—”

Unfortunately, we never got the chance. Before we could order, a waiter arrived with a silver tray.

“Excuse me, Mr. Thorner, I have a special dessert tray prepared just for you and your lovely guest by Chef Harvey himself.”

“A surprise?” Eric said, slightly wary. “What’s on it?”

“Chef Harvey has titled his offering Baby Carnival Treats, and it comes with the compliments of Mr. Grayson Braddock.”

Eric’s eyes narrowed with anger, but he quickly masked it behind a stiff grin. The waiter set the tray in front of us along with a special mini dessert card, which described the beautifully presented entrees.

“We have two candied apples, glacéed with Calvados and raw honey, and garnished with shredded Tanzanian coconut and crushed macadamias. These sweet, tiny apples are a Fuji and crabapple hybrid grown in Chile. Beside them are mini–cotton candy clouds in flavors of pink champagne, candied Meyer lemon, and sweet jasmine tea . . .”

While the waiter spoke, I glanced in the direction of Braddock’s table. The bald billionaire lifted his wineglass. The predatory grin rattled me enough to miss the skinny on the gourmet popcorn balls, the Sno-Cones laced with flavored vodkas, and the cute, little funnel cakes drizzled with roasted white chocolate.

“Shall I carry a message to Mr. Braddock, sir?” the waiter asked.

“In a bit,” Eric replied through gritted teeth. “For now, could you please bring us a coffee service? The chef’s special selection, please.”

“Right away.”

As the waiter departed, Eric faced Braddock and lifted his own wineglass, returning the shark’s grin with a bitter smile of his own.

“What’s this about?” I whispered. “Should I expect the candy apples to be injected with Mulga venom?”

“Braddock doesn’t need to poison us,” Eric whispered back. “His insult was enough; the news is already traveling.”

Eric was right. The little “special dessert” menu cards were being distributed to every table and people in the know were taking out their smartphones. The gesture reminded me of the
Forbes
magazine profile he’d mentioned earlier—the one where Braddock had called Eric a “baby billionaire in a carnival business.”

Eric gestured toward the goodies. “He just doubled down on the insult with this tray of ‘Baby Carnival Treats.’”

Before I could reply, the coffee service arrived. The waiter French-pressed, poured two cups, and waited for us to taste. Eric hadn’t touched the dessert tray, now he ignored the coffee.

“Tell me what you think, Clare.”

With Eric waiting and the waiter hovering, I quickly sampled the brew. I found the coffee smooth and generally flavorful, but unbalanced and one-dimensional.

“It’s fine.”

Eric narrowed his eyes. “What’s the problem?”

“I’m your guest, Eric, and my nonna always told me, if you can’t say anything nice . . .” I shrugged. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry for having an opinion, Clare, especially about something on which you are an expert.” Eric tasted his own cup and frowned at the waiter. “This is not what I ordered. I asked for the chef’s selection coffee.”

“Yes, sir,” the waiter replied. “This
is
our guest chef’s coffee selection for the evening—Ambrosia.”

“What?!” I couldn’t believe it. “You can’t be serious!”

“Perhaps madam does not understand,” the waiter replied with a sniff. “The cup of coffee you have been served was prepared via the French press method from a single-origin bean harvested from a plantation in Brazil. The Ambrosia was sourced and roasted by the Village Blend, a landmark coffeehouse here in New York.”

With a condescending smile, the waiter departed.

I racked my memory, but could not recall ever selling the Source Club or Chef Harvey a consignment of the now-unavailable bean.
Could Matt have done it without telling me?

Gripping my cup with shaky hands, I drank again. Rolling the warm liquid around in my mouth, I searched in vain for the perfectly balanced brightness, the notes of berry, of shortbread, of cherry lambic—notes that sadly, never came.

I swallowed, shuddering. I was horrified, mortified, and temporarily speechless as I set my cup aside.

How can it be? This club of the rich and powerful has been completely duped. Someone’s passed off this dud of a bean as the Village Blend’s signature Ambrosia, which it decidedly is not! Not even close!

“Clare?” Eric said, obviously sensing my distress.

Scene or not, I could not let this situation stand. “Please call the waiter back.”

“Another question, madam?”

“No. Just a simple statement. I’ll say it loud and clear so you understand . . .” I placed my hands flat on the table and locked eyes with the haughty man. “This is
not
Ambrosia.”

The waiter paled.

Eric’s reaction was instant outrage (almost too instant). “Not Ambrosia?” he cried. “Are you sure, Clare?”

“This is not Ambrosia,” I repeated, but a moment later, I was sorry I had.

Eric rose to his feet, threw down his napkin, and spoke loudly enough to be heard in every corner of the glittering dining room.

“This coffee is a fraud!”

Oh, my God, what is he doing?

“Management had better explain this
insulting deception
to everyone dining here tonight!” He eyed the waiter. “Get
Grayson Braddock’s guest chef
out here—
at once
!”

T
hirty-two

E
RIC’S
public act of outrage ended with a gaggle of waiters stampeding our table, followed by the flame-haired firecracker known to America’s food TV aficionados as Chef Clarke Harvey.

A Down Under version of a certain world-renowned British chef (minus the profanity), Chef Harvey speared us with steely gray eyes. Jaw outthrust, the chef placed his hands on his hips and frowned down at us.

“’Ere now, mate, what seems to be the problem?”

“The problem is the coffee,” Eric replied. “My guest tells me that what you are serving is definitely
not
Ambrosia.”

Chef Harvey faced me. “You’re familiar with Ambrosia?”

“Intimately,” I replied. “You see, I—”

“This is Clare Cosi,” Eric interrupted, “manager and master roaster at the Village Blend.”

In a world where chefs were suing importers for passing off inferior oils as extra virgin and billionaires were hiring private eyes to nail vintners for selling them fake vintages, my charge was serious business, and Harvey knew it.

Without hesitation, the chef turned to the nearest waiter and snapped his fingers. “Take this coffee away and bring out a fresh service for three. You make damn sure it’s Ambrosia. I’ll press it myself.”

The old coffee and cups were whisked away, and a pair of waiters set up a portable tray beside our table. The new coffee service appeared after a few uncomfortable minutes.

We were an open show now. Everyone in the dining room was craning his or her neck to view the Source Club Coffee Showdown. Some of the people in the back were on their feet and moving closer for a better look.

Grayson Braddock and his cronies, including Donny Chu, had fluttered over from their perch. Braddock glared at me until I felt goose bumps appear on my arms.

Meanwhile Chef Harvey poured three cups and, without asking, pulled up a chair and sat between Eric and me.

“Shall we try again?” he challenged.

Again, Eric ignored his cup, his expression strained.

I placed the cup to my nose and sniffed, swirled it a little, then sipped. I let the coffee wash over my tongue, breathing with an open mouth to aerate.

Chef Harvey didn’t bother to test the aroma; he just gulped and swished the hot liquid around in his mouth, cheeks bulging.

I finally swallowed and set my cup down. Chef Harvey spit his coffee back into the cup and frowned.

“Ms. Cosi is right,” the chef declared. “This is not the coffee I sampled when I made the purchase. The vendor pulled a switcheroo before delivery. I humbly apologize to Mr. Braddock, and to everyone who’s dined here tonight. I shall amend the menu accordingly!”

Chef Harvey rose and shook my hand. “I
have
sampled Ambrosia, though apparently that’s not what I bought for the club. In any case, I congratulate you on an amazing cup. I hope we meet again, Ms. Cosi, under cheerier circumstances.”

The chef hurried back to his kitchen. Eric rose and faced a stunned Grayson Braddock.

“Sorry about the
carnival
atmosphere, Braddock.” Thorner’s tech brat smirk was back. “This must be quite embarrassing for you, given that tonight’s menu was your
baby
.”

Braddock’s reaction to his chef’s confession, Eric’s taunt, and the curious gaze of nearly every diner in the room was to spin 180 degrees in his wingtipped Guccis and stride away so fast that he left his associates to play catch-up.

Eric held himself erect until the group was out of sight and the diners’ attention was back on their whimsical desserts; then he slumped back into his chair.

“That felt
so
good,” he said with a relieved sigh.

I frowned at the sudden pallor in his complexion—the change was alarmingly dramatic. “For someone who ‘feels good,’ Eric, you look terrible.”

Dark circles had appeared under his eyes, but this was more than fatigue. His expression had gone rigid, as if he were in great pain. Now he leaned forward for a sip of water and winced. When he sat back again, he actually gasped and cursed.

“What’s wrong?” I whispered.

“It must be close to midnight. Anton warned me not to play Cinderella tonight.”

I glanced at the vintage Cartier watch Madame had lent me. “It’s eleven forty-five.”

“Damn. The painkiller wore off fifteen minutes ago—”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I’m saying it now. We’d better go, Clare, before I turn into a passed-out pumpkin.”

“I’ll call the waiter to help you—”

“No,” Eric said sharply and winced again. “I’m going to have to tough this out, I can’t show weakness.”

“But you can hardly stand.”

“Oh, I can stand . . .” He smiled weakly. “It’s the walking I’m not so sure about . . .”

“Please, lean on me then.” I rose. “Put your arms around my waist. I’ll put my arm around you, too, and we’ll fool everyone.”

Eric pressed against me, but managed to make the gesture look lusty, not wobbly. “Hey, I like this,” he whispered.

But someone else didn’t. From her corner table, Eden Thorner-Gundersen glared glass splinters at me. This “business dinner” appeared to be ending as anything but.
Great, now she’ll assume I was lying to her in the ladies’ lounge. Oh, well . . .

“Should I call your car?” I asked Eric.

“I’ve got it . . .” He brought his wrist to his lips and spoke into what looked like a large watch. “Bring the car, Anton.”


Rrrri
ght away, Mr. Thorner,” a tiny voice replied with an impressive Castilian
R
roll.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” I couldn’t help murmuring.

“What?”

“Are you old enough to get a Dick Tracy joke?”

“Dick who?”

“Oh, never mind.”

“Mr. Thorner . . .” another voice beckoned from the watch, this one with military crispness.

“Yes, Walsh?”

“We have a situation, sir.”

“What?”

“I’ll apprise you in the lobby, sir.”

“Very good,” Thorner replied tightly, but I got the distinct impression it was anything but.

T
hirty-three

W
ITH
Eric clutching me, we crossed the dining room, sky bridge, and finally entered the grand lobby area. As we paused by the cloak room to wait for our wraps, an unsmiling, tall, lean African-American man in a dark suit greeted us.

“Good evening, Mr. Thorner, madam . . .”

“What’s the issue, Walsh?”

“Paparazzi, sir, and Solar Flare.”

Eric frowned. “You’ll get us through?”

“Of course.”

As Walsh turned to lead us to the grand oak doors, I felt myself tensing.

“It’s midnight,” I whispered to Eric. “How could the paparazzi possibly know you were here?”

“Remember all those smartphones in the River Room? Either someone there informed the press or Braddock tipped off his own reporters.”

“And what exactly is Solar Flare?”

“You’re about to find out.”

*

W
H
EN
I’d first arrived this evening, the Source Club’s vaulted stone archway was lit so expertly it glowed golden, but I didn’t get a second chance to admire the architecture. The moment we stepped outside, I was blinded by the sudden glare of dozens of photo flashes exploding at once.

With quiet authority, Eric’s bodyguard led us into what (at first) seemed to be a civil crowd. Like a linebacker, he used his shoulders to push a path through the bodies.

I could see Eric’s antique Bentley on the street. But it seemed so far away, and impossible to reach with the human tide in front of it.

Meanwhile, Walsh was doing a good job clearing a space on the sidewalk; we stayed behind him and kept moving forward. More cameras flashed, and I had to blink blue spots out of my eyes as we continued walking.

Keeping my head low to avoid the glare of camera flashes, I heard a few angry voices begin to shout. More voices joined in until it became a chant—

“Turn off. Tune out. Unplug!”

We were maybe six feet from the limo, the chauffeur waiting with the door open, when I heard grunts and caught movement to our right. Like a human bulldozer, three burly men with arms interlinked surged forward. I thought for a second that Eric and I were going to be crushed, but they weren’t aiming at us. Their target was Walsh.

With a collective roar, the trio slammed into the security man, and all four tumbled to the sidewalk in a tangled, chaotic bundle of flailing arms and legs.

The security wall broken, the mob surged forward. Signs and placards came out, and I felt rough hands on me, heard Eric moan as we were jostled. Flashes exploded, turning night into day. Blindly I lashed out, pushing the flat of my hand into a hairy, bearded face. More people crowded us, but I continued to push the man back.

Finally my eyes cleared and I discovered I had my hand in the elderly face of Village Blend regular and Madame’s old flame, Professor Nate Sumner from the New School! (Not that he noticed.)

“Nate!” I cried. “What are you doing?!”

With a quick brush of his arm, Nate knocked my hand aside and lunged at Eric, shouting, “Unplug!” and “Get real!” as loud and passionately as the rest of the pack.

In the end, the biggest shock wasn’t the presence of Madame’s ex-boyfriend, or the naked aggressiveness of this political demonstration. What really rattled me were the identical wool caps Nate and the rest of the demonstrators wore.

Each and every placard-waving member of this group had a red cap with white lettering that spelled
Solar Flare
.

My mind flashed on the “looter” who’d come to the Village Blend the other night. The man had worn a red wool cap just like these. I’d even caught three letters on his cap:
ARE
. . . as in
Flare
!

That’s when I absolutely knew. That looter was no looter. He’d been a member of this organization—one whose enraged members had swarmed us!

Then all of a sudden, the crowd began to scatter. A wild man was now flailing among them. In the next moment, I realized the wild man was the same formerly quiet chauffeur who’d brought me here. Transformed into raw energy unleashed, he rushed the protestors.

“Back off, all of
jou
!” the Spaniard shouted.

Ducking, diving, kicking, and swinging his fists, the chauffeur effectively cleared the area around us without actually striking anyone.

Some of the snapping paparazzi regrouped, but Eric’s manic chauffeur would have none of it.

“No pictures! Stay away from my man, you stinking
rrrr
ats!”

As the driver continued to threaten the mob with karate chops (and Castilian
R
rolls), Walsh regained his footing and was joined by a second security man. As the two formed a barrier around us, the chauffeur helped Eric into the rear seat. I jumped in beside him, the door closed, and the driver gunned the engine.

Protestors shouted, running after our limo, and a new chant began: “Analog, analog, analog!”

Analog? What the—

“Who are those people?” I cried as we sped away. “They made no sense! And they’re all wearing red wool caps!”

“Red wool caps?” Eric blinked. “Did you get cracked in the head, Clare?”

“I’m fine. But listen. This is important. Those nutjob protestors were wearing the same cap as a man who came to my coffeehouse the other night. He tried to break in, scanned the place with a flashlight, and scared the life out of me. From the way he acted, and the questions he asked, I got the feeling he was connected to the bombing. Maybe he
was
the bomber!”

I took a breath. “Now people wearing the same caps attack you? It can’t be coincidence.”

“Forget about Solar Flare,” Eric said as he sank into the soft leather. “Let the police handle it. I, for one, don’t want to think about those Luddites tonight.”

Maybe Eric was willing to forget, but I wasn’t. First thing tomorrow, I would speak with Professor Nate Sumner. And after I got some answers, I was going to the police.

“How is he?” the chauffeur asked, eyes on the road.

Eric gave me a feeble thumbs-up, but I didn’t buy it.

“He’s in pain,” I told the driver. “His eyes are dull, and he’s too weak to sit up. He should see a doctor.”

Police cars roared past us, going in the opposite direction.

“They’re heading for the Source Club, I think . . .”

Sirens drowned out the rest of the chauffeur’s words.

In the light from the passing police cars, I could see that Eric was sweating, so much that he didn’t protest as I loosened his coat and tie. That’s when I saw the bandages he’d kept hidden under his stiff collar, and that they were bright with fresh blood.

“Anton, I want you to take Clare home,” Eric called.

“For heaven’s sake, forget about me. You’re bleeding. You need medical attention. Let’s get you to a hospital.”

“No hospital. I mean it.”

“Then at least let me help you.”

Eric sank deeper into his seat. “Okay, but no hospital. Take us home, Anton.”

A moment later, I was wincing at the look of Eric’s bloody bandage when I caught him smiling up at me.

“Looks like I’ll be keeping that promise,” he said.

“What promise?”

“I told you I’d show you my scars.”

T
hirty-four

T
HE
Bentley rolled into an underground garage beneath a spanking-new luxury apartment tower overlooking Central Park. Anton drove the limo through a second set of automatic security doors, into a paneled car park that contained several other luxury vehicles and a dark SUV with tinted windows.

Thorner’s security detail pulled in with us and parked beside the second SUV, but neither bodyguard emerged from the vehicle.

Thorner lifted his watch to his lips. “Walsh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’re good.”

“Ring if you need us, sir. We’ll be here, on call.”

“See you in the morning.”

Anton pulled up beside a private elevator. Then he and I helped Eric out of the backseat. With Eric’s arms draped over our shoulders, we paused long enough for Anton to press his thumb against a glass sensor.

“Anton Alonzo cleared for entry,” a robotic female voice declared.

The doors opened, and we entered the compartment. The myriad reflections inside the mirror-lined elevator (coupled with more wine that I was used to) made my head spin.

As we rapidly ascended to the thirty-fifth-floor penthouse, Eric wasn’t looking so good, either.

“Almost there, boss,” Anton whispered reassuringly.

When the doors opened, lights sprang to life in a thick-piled entryway. The same robotic voice greeted us.

“Welcome home, Eric, Anton, and . . . guest.”

“House, activate the master bedroom, please,” Anton replied. “Lights low, blinds drawn. Adjust the temperature to a constant 78 degrees Fahrenheit—”

“House, turn on the fireplace, too,” Eric added, voice weak.

“Affirmative,” the fembot replied.

“And House, please double-filter and boil two quarts of water,” Anton added.

“Immediately, sirs.”

Eric was steadier now, but he gripped my hand as we moved through the expansive penthouse.

The entranceway opened into a glass and chrome wet bar stocked with bottles of premium wine, liquors, and soft drinks. The ultramodern steel and glass motif continued in the spacious living room, where a freestanding staircase ascended to a second-floor gallery.

Lights snapped on as we moved through each chamber, muted and recessed in the living room so as not to interfere with the view of Central Park. The vista was spectacular, of course, but I didn’t get more than a glimpse of shadowy parkland ringed by the city’s twinkling lights, before we entered another dark hallway.

Everything was so futuristic, so
Streamline Moderne
. . .

“You wouldn’t have a neighbor named George Jetson, would you?”

“Who?”

“Never mind . . .”
(Just another antiquated reference.)

The invisible fembot spoke up again. “Master bedroom is ready for occupation . . .”

“That’s it!” (
I couldn’t help it.)
“If a robot teddy bear appears in a Napoleonic outfit, I’m looking for an origami unicorn.”


Blade Runner
!” Despite his pain, Eric snorted. “That one I got.”

“Not to worry, Ms. Cosi,” Anton quipped. “Our house may be smart, but I am no replicant.”

Like the rest of this apartment, the bedroom’s décor was minimalist chic, with high ceilings, windows for walls, and sheer shimmering-pearl curtains that only partially veiled the panoramic view. Cozy flames flickered in a hooded fireplace in the center of the room, and concealed lights illuminated the room with a warm glow.

I helped Eric stretch out on the largest bed I’d ever seen. As I took off my coat, Anton used scissors to ruthlessly cut away the tailored jacket and starched shirt. Finished with that, the jack-of-all-trades chauffeur examined the wound and hurried off “to fetch the medical kit.”

Eric reached for my hand again and tugged me close. I sat on the edge of the bed.

“How are you feeling?”

Eric’s smile was tortured. “I don’t know what’s worse, the painkillers wearing off or the crash after the amphetamine rush.”

“You’re kidding. You took amphetamines?”

“I checked myself out of the hospital against the doctors’ advice, so I needed a little something to get through dinner without collapsing.”

“That’s crazy. Why did you risk going out in public if you were in such bad shape?”

“To prove to the world that I’m
not
in bad shape and, in fact, I’m perfectly fine.” Eric chuckled—then gritted his teeth. “I would have stayed fine, too, if I didn’t get jostled by those extortionists from Solar Flare.”

“How exactly are they extortionists?”

“It’s a strategy employed by many activist groups. They say they have a mission, but what they’re really angling for are dollar donations, or a paid ‘advisory position’ on some board of the very companies they claim to despise, including mine.”

Anton arrived pushing a metal cart with medical tools and supplies spread across a virgin white cloth. Without a word, he thrust a hypodermic needle into the muscle around Eric’s torn stitches. Then he donned a pair of rubber gloves.

“You’ll be floating in a minute, boss, and I’ll stitch you up again.”

“But don’t you need a doctor?”

“Anton is a doctor—well, sort of,” Eric replied. “He was in Timmy’s Uncle’s Opera Cone Special.”

“I’m sorry—is that some kind of drag show?”

Eric smacked his lips. “Sowwy . . . the shot made my mouf numb. Tell her, Anton.”

The wiry man was threading a needle, but paused to look at me through darkly flared eyebrows. “I was a medic in the
Unidad de Operaciones Especiales
, the Spanish special forces.”

“See,” Eric said, flying now, his pronunciation improved. “Anton can do everything!”

The shot appeared to lower Eric’s inhibitions, not unlike truth serum—and I decided it was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up.

“You were telling me about Solar Flare?” I prompted.

“Publicity hogs and camera hos,” Eric said with a dismissive wave. “They showed up tonight because they knew the press was sniffing around, and the press is only interested in me because of that car bomb.”

The stress lines on Eric’s face faded as the painkiller worked through him.

Meanwhile, Anton cleaned the wound with hot water, applied an antiseptic, and started sewing. Eric was so numb he hardly flinched.

“The night was worth it,” he said dreamily. “It felt great to get one up on Braddock for a change.”

“Glad I could help, even though you did trick me into it.”

Eric frowned. “Tricked?”

“Don’t play me, Thorner. You knew about the fake Ambrosia ahead of time. You were waiting for my reaction, hoping I’d cause a scene.”

Eric tilted his head. “Actually, sweet Clare, I was counting on it . . .”

Anton cut the thread, added more antiseptic, and finally applied a fresh bandage. “Fit as a fiddle, boss. I’ll be outside.”

Anton took the medical cart with him. When the door closed, I faced Eric.

“On the day we met, you said you wanted to make me an offer. That Ambrosia stunt was my final job interview, wasn’t it? A last test from the Quiz Master?”

Eric had not released my hand since he hit the mattress. Now he squeezed my fingers, gazed up at me with little boy eyes, and smiled.

“Congratulations, Clare, you’re hired.”

“What is it you want me to do, exactly
?”

“Two jobs,” he said, flashing fingers on his other hand. “First I want you and your staff to cater the launch party for THORN, Inc.’s Appland.”

“Appland?”

“Our Chelsea office. We open in a few weeks, and my people will finally be moving out of that crappy cinderblock bunker at the server farm. I want a real celebration.”

“It would be my pleasure—”

“Don’t thank me yet. Half of my staff won’t touch wheat gluten or dairy. The other half lives on junk food. Good luck pleasing everyone.”

“No sweat. Pleasing everyone is practically the definition of a good barista.”

“Anton will supply you with a list of my gang’s likes and dislikes. You can start there.” He noticed my frown. “You look worried. Is the job too intimidating?”

“It’s not the catering. Look, Eric, I want to be straight with you. My partner in the coffee business actually forbade me to have anything to do with you, or your organization.”

Eric frowned. “Is it because of the bomb?”

“Partly . . .”

“Partly, huh?” Eric sighed. “I get it. It’s the testosterone thing, which is a shame, because Matteo Allegro is a very talented coffee hunter, one of the best in the business. I could use his expertise, and yours, for a very special project—that would be the
second
job.”

“I’d like to help, but you don’t know my ex-husband—”

“Actually, Clare, I think I do. And I believe I have an offer even Mr. Allegro won’t refuse.”

I listened intently as Eric explained why he really wanted to hire us.

I couldn’t believe it, but Eric was right. No matter how threatened Matt’s ego was by this incredibly successful baby billionaire, there was no way any self-respecting coffee hunter would refuse this challenge.

T
hirty-five

H
OLDING
my hand the entire time, Eric finished outlining his proposal for me and Matt before falling into a deep sleep. I gently detached myself, left his bedside, and quietly retrieved my things.

As I opened the door, the bedroom lights automatically dimmed until the flickering fireplace and glow of the city were the only illumination. The view was stunning, and I couldn’t help lingering another few minutes to imagine what it would be like waking up to this vista each and every morning.

A little voice answered (but it wasn’t robotic).

Like much in life that becomes commonplace, dear, this, too, would be taken for granted.

“Yes, it would, Madame . . .” I whispered in reply, and with a little smile, I turned away.

I’d barely crept into the darkened hallway before stumbling into Anton Alonzo. “Goodness, you startled me.”

He looked at me strangely. “But I informed you that I would be waiting outside, did I not?”

“Indeed, you did.”

Anton smiled, his white teeth luminous in the low light. “It appears everything went according to Mr. Thorner’s plan, so I suspect you never received your after-dinner coffee service?”

“Actually I was served two, but neither was worth drinking.”

“I could prepare some for you now, if you wish?”

This compact, intense man, who I thought a mere chauffeur at the start of the evening, was obviously much more. The Spaniard seemed to know Eric and his business better than anyone I’d encountered.

And who knows?
I thought.
He might even dish over a cup of Joe.

“Thank you, Anton, I would love some coffee.”

Anton lifted his chin and spoke to the invisible fembot. “House, heat thirty-two ounces of filtered water to a constant of 196 degrees Fahrenheit. Grind seventy-seven grams of beans from coffee basket three, medium fine.”

“Yes, Anton.”

The lightest whirr of a burr grinder sounded from another part of the penthouse.

“Please excuse me a moment, Ms. Cosi, I must freshen up after my medical duties.”

“I should visit the powder room, too.”

“The door to your right,” Anton said. “When you are finished, simply ask Miss House to lead you to the kitchen. She will point the way.” Anton bowed. “I will expect to see you in ten minutes, Ms. Cosi.”

He began pushing the medical cart through a nearby door.

I slipped in and out of the lavish, marble– and copper-fixtured bathroom in record time. Back in the hall, I saw Anton had left the medical cart lodged in the door, wedging it open. I called Anton’s name, but there was no reply. I called his name again, this time pushing the cart through the doorway and all the way into the room.

Lights turned on and my jaw dropped at what I saw.

The walls in this side room were lined with row after row of dolls—Ken dolls, to be exact—placed side by side on backlighted glass shelves. Each little plastic Ken sported a different outfit, and some even had accessories. A quick survey revealed a heavy emphasis on casual wear.

One Ken had been placed on a center podium, and I realized this doll was clad in a miniature version of Eric’s formalwear for the evening, down to the ebony silk tie.

Okay, that’s creepy.

Though they all wore the same painted smile, I couldn’t help but think that these were a lonely bunch of Kens, for there was nary a Barbie in sight.

A peek through an inner doorway revealed that this space was part of an immense closet, which explained the lack of furniture. On the wall, I noticed some pictures.

One framed photo showed Anton Alonzo armed to the teeth in camouflaged combat fatigues, surrounded by other soldiers. A second showed his small frame in combat, lifting a man twice his size in a fireman’s carry. A third featured him in dress uniform, Spain’s flag draped off a flagpole behind him. A final picture also featured Anton. Snapped on the nude beach at Fire Island, he romped with a different set of manly companions. Their snug swimsuits (or lack thereof) revealed that these tanned, muscular men were certainly
special
, but they weren’t Special Ops.

Interesting . . .

I glanced at Madame’s jeweled watch.
I’m supposed to rendezvous with Anton in three, so I’d better hustle.

Back in the hall, I turned my eyes skyward. “Oh, Miss House? Hello there?”

“Yes . . .” Miss House paused then added (to my shock), “Clare.”

Okay, yes, that was creepy, too.

I cleared my throat, feeling silly, but—“Would you show me the way to the kitchen, please?”

“Certainly, Clare. Follow Mr. Arrow, please.”

“Mr. Arrow . . . ?”

A holographic blue arrow appeared in the air three feet from my nose. About the size of a bread knife, it pointed to the end of the hall, where another transparent, floating arrow directed me to turn left. Following several more of the ghostly beacons, I descended a chrome and glass staircase so delicately constructed it seemed almost ephemeral.

The kitchen, as expected, was immense, and filled with a wonderland of gadgets, from a soda machine to a pair of deep fryers, to gas pizza ovens, and a grill and smoker combination.

I didn’t require any more holographic arrows to find Anton. I simply followed my nose and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

Anton waited at a small breakfast nook by the window. He directed me to a chair.

“It smells delicious.”

“Thank you, Ms. Cosi. But my compliments go to the roaster.”

About then I recognized the aroma of my Wake Up the Night roast, and acknowledged the compliment.

Anton sat across from me. The formerly intense ball of energy seemed more relaxed now that he’d replaced the starched chauffeur suit with loose, black chinos and a soft, cocoa brown cashmere sweater.

“To your health,” he said, lifting his cup.

“Perfect.” I sighed after a satisfying sip.

“This is Eric’s favorite roast. He thinks it’s amazing.”

“You’re pretty amazing yourself, Anton. You make superb coffee, you’re a chauffeur, a bodyguard, a butler, and a paramedic, too.”

“I have an exceptional patient,” Anton replied. “Eric is no stranger to pain.”

“Oh? How so?”

“He was born with a spinal deformation that worsened with age. It took a dozen operations over many years to correct. He suffered acutely through childhood and adolescence.”

I could hear the empathy in Anton’s voice as he related Eric’s ordeal, and I had to ask, “You and Eric seem awfully . . . tight. Just how close are you two?”

“I would never let anything happen to my man.”

“No, I mean are you really,
really
close? You know, are you . . .”

“Are we lovers?” Anton finished for me.

I nodded.

“No, Ms. Cosi. Eric is as straight as Mr. Arrow.” He gave a wave of his hand. “His tastes are really quite prosaic.”

“I’d hardly call Bianca Hyde ordinary.”

BOOK: Billionaire Blend (A Coffeehouse Mystery)
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