Read Billionaire Blend (A Coffeehouse Mystery) Online
Authors: Cleo Coyle
Billionaire Blend (A Coffeehouse Mystery) (5 page)
“That’s right,” Minnow replied—this time with a tad less attitude. “We’re going to beat Braddock, too. I think even he knows it. Better yet, my teams are creating residual and satellite apps using the same designs, the same programs. A
Slayer Training Manual
app.
A
Field Guide to Dragons
app. We’ll be selling add-ons and extras before Braddock even gets his lame-o
Dragon Whisperer
app off the ground. Before you know it, Eric will have the movie rights sold to
our
dragon characters—”
The phone on Minnow’s desk rattled. Instead of lifting the receiver, she punched a button. “This is Minnow.”
“Garth here,” a disembodied voice said. “Is Clare Cosi with you?”
“Yes, unfortunately.”
“Clare,” Garth continued, “the Junior Rocketeers are setting up for your demonstration.”
“I’ll be right down.”
“Oh, Minnow,” Garth added. “I just wanted to tell you the light sculpture program on the Spectrum Digitizer is beautiful. You should come down and see it.”
“I’ve seen enough of it! I installed the Digitizer myself and fine-tuned the program all night. The ninja ain’t beautiful, Garth. He’s still too herky-jerky.”
I rose. “I’d like to speak with you again, Minnow, if that’s possible.”
The girl swung her chair away from me.
“Sure,” she said, facing her four computer monitors. “But next time, make an appointment.”
S
ixty
F
OR
the first time in her life, Esther Best was dressed for success—and it made her thoroughly miserable. In the bedroom of my duplex above the Village Blend, Esther stared at her reflection in my full-length mirror and shuddered.
“Do I have to go out in public like this?!”
“If you want to catch the person who nearly fried Tuck,
yes
,” I said.
“I look so normal I could be my sister!” Esther cried.
In the pinstriped suit and button-down blouse, she looked ready to officiate a will or manage a hedge fund. In truth, she was going undercover.
“Don’t forget the shoes!” Tucker waved the patent leather pumps. “Heels define the woman. Four inches is optimum in business settings. Any taller and you’re a showgirl. Any shorter and you’ve got the ‘mommy look.’ You don’t want to look frumpy.”
“Call me frumpy again and you’ll see stars!”
Tuck winked. “As long as Channing Tatum is one of them.”
Esther frowned at her hair—what she could see of it, anyway. The flamboyant half beehive had been tamed down and tied back into a neat little bun with a gray, velvet scrunchy.
Nancy stepped up. “I should preserve this moment.” Before Esther could duck, she snapped a phone picture.
Esther glared. “Post that on Facebook and I’ll break your thumbs.”
“What’s the matter? Don’t you need a professional photo for the next Barista Latte Pouring Competition?”
“In this outfit? I look like an espresso idiot! Delete it!”
“No.”
“Then say good-bye to working thumbs.” Now Esther turned to Tuck and pointed at her shoes. “I can’t walk in these, Broadway Boy! I need my Keds.”
“Stop whining,” Tuck said, covering his ears, “or I’ll forward Nancy’s photo to your Boris.”
“Enough!” I clapped my hands. Two days had passed since Tucker’s near-fatal mishap, and my floppy-haired barista was still pallid and walking with a slight limp. I was out of patience. It was time to nail the person responsible. “Okay, kiddies, the cab’s waiting downstairs for Esther and me. Everyone else, back to work!”
On the cab ride over to Chelsea, I reviewed my plan to tap on Minnow’s aquarium and see where the little fish swam.
I knew from yesterday’s surveillance that Wilhelmina Tork took her morning lattes at Driftwood Coffee and hung out at a table for about an hour before reporting for duty at Appland.
Today, a disguised Esther would be waiting for her.
While Esther observed, I would phone Minnow with alarming news. If the girl hung up and followed her normal routine, then Minnow was likely guilt-free. But if Minnow panicked and took off to meet with her accomplice (Joe Polaski’s “they”), then Esther would follow, keeping in touch with me by smartphone until we hooked up.
It was a desperate plan, but with luck I would either learn the identity of Minnow’s accomplice, or eliminate the girl from the suspect list.
*
I
WAITED
in Madison Square Park for Esther’s call. It came on schedule.
“The Minnow has landed,” she reported.
“Time for my call,” I replied. I placed Esther on hold and rang Minnow (it was nice of Eric to provide the directory to his entire organization in my THORN phone). She answered on the first ring.
“What?”
“Minnow? This is Clare Cosi.”
“I
know
. Never heard of
caller ID
? What do you want?”
“To give you a heads-up. Lieutenant DeFasio of the Bomb Squad thinks you were involved in the death of Charley Polaski—”
“Are you mental?” Minnow cried.
“The police have evidence, and it looks convincing—”
“What evidence?!”
“Got to go,” I said, ending the call.
I quickly took Esther off hold. “Well?”
“Oh God,” Esther said in a whisper.
“What’s happening?! Did Minnow spot you?”
“No, it’s this awful Driftwood espresso. The crema is like dish soap. And you should see what passes for latte art. The oak leaf on their maple latte looks like poison ivy—”
“Focus, Esther, you’re undercover!”
“Sorry, boss . . . Yes, Minnow is acting somewhat frantic. She’s holding the phone. She’s sending a text . . . She’s checking her screen . . . Nothing yet . . . Wait! Looks like she got a reply, and now she’s flying—like a bat out of Brooklyn.”
“Stay close to Minnow and stay on the line,” I commanded.
Esther sighed in relief. “Anything to avoid drinking this swill.”
Fifteen minutes later, Minnow climbed the stairs of the 20th Street entrance to the High Line, an elevated freight train bridge over Manhattan’s West Side that had been transformed into New York City’s most unique public park. The High Line ran from 14th Street and the Meatpacking District, right up to 30th Street, to end just four avenue blocks away from Penn Station.
“Where are you, boss?” Esther asked.
“Just down the street. I can see the High Line’s concrete pillars.”
A blast of January cold buffeted me and I missed Esther’s reply. “Say again?”
“This is bad, boss, in so many ways.”
“What’s the problem?”
“First, these heels are killing me. Who wears shoes like this, masochists?”
“Esther!”
“Second, this section of the High Line is very narrow and practically deserted. There are no bushes or trees, and nothing to hide behind. If I follow her, then try to loiter until she meets her secret friend, Minnow is going to spot me a block away—literally.”
“Is she walking uptown, or downtown?”
“Down.”
“Maybe we caught a break,” I said. “Dante moved into that high-rise building near the Meatpacking District, right? Do you think he has a view of the High Line?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Esther huffed. “The jerk hasn’t invited me over yet.”
“Let’s go find out.”
*
D
ANTE
Silva was my nighttime barista and my late-shift superstar rolled up in one charming, tattooed ball. He could pull a killer espresso, and his cool, laid-back artist persona, coupled with his warm smiles, drew lots of coeds from NYU and Parsons School for Design.
He followed in a distinguished tradition of the Village Blend’s struggling artists: barista by night, painter by day—although that was usually
midday
. Dante was plenty peeved when we rousted him out of bed before noon, then dragged him up to his building’s frozen rooftop.
“Best I can do,” Dante said, blowing into his hands to warm them. “I don’t have a view of the High Line from my apartment, or much of anything, so I come up here to the roof when I want to paint.”
It was even windier up here than it was on the street, and railings were nonexistent. Thankfully no one had a fear of heights.
Dante led us across the silver-painted tar to the very edge of the building. Unsteady on her heels, Esther stumbled once and nearly brought down some resident’s satellite dish.
The view was spectacular, but the High Line was a half block away, so Dante handed Esther his Nikon SLR camera with a giant telephoto lens, and kept a pair of opera glasses for himself. He gave me the big guns, a pair of German-made binoculars his grandfather “got in the war.”
“Told you this was a great spot. You can see blocks of the High Line from up here,” Dante said.
“I can practically read lips, too,” I replied as I gazed through the powerful lenses.
“That’s nothing,” said Esther. “With this lens, I can see molecules!”
The High Line was practically deserted, and for a tense minute I thought Minnow had slipped the net. Then I spied her, huddling on a bench overlooking 16th Street. She was near the stairs to the street, but no accomplice was in sight.
Esther and Dante homed in on her, too. Together we watched and waited.
“Someone’s coming up the stairs,” I said, followed by an “Oh, Lord.”
In a vintage Cossack coat and Russian fur hat, the Metis Man was easy to spot. I watched Minnow wave Garth Hendricks over, and the Metis Man sat down beside her.
“Where did he get that outfit, Nicholas and Alexandra’s Pre-Revolutionary Czarist Boutique?” ragged Esther.
“Isn’t that on Fifth Avenue between Tiffany and Fen?” Dante asked.
“He looks like he just stepped out of
Anna Karenina
,” Esther cracked.
“Nah,” said Dante. “More like
War and Peace
.”
Down below us, Garth and Minnow were arguing. Minnow rose to leave, but Garth pulled her back down for a finger-wagging lecture. Soon they were practically shouting. Though I was too far away to hear, I could guess what was happening: the bad guys were having a falling-out.
“Actually,” I said, “this whole mess is starting to look more like
Crime and Punishment
.”
S
ixty-five
“C
LARE,
this is your programmed alert. You have received a text message from Michael Quinn. Clare, this is your programmed alert . . .”
I yawned, blinked, and reached for the phone to shut off the uber-annoying fembot voice. Finally, I saw the screen.
MISS YOU 2.
“Oh, Mike . . .”
I wanted to write back, tell him where I was and why, but I was already running late.
Within the hour, I was showered and dressed and went looking for Tuck and Punch, but they weren’t in their suite. Down in the lobby, the chauffeur from the airport approached me.
“Have you seen my two friends?” I asked him.
“Mr. Burton and Mr. Santiago have already left for the party, Ms. Cosi. Shall we go?”
It was such a short drive to Gray’s yacht that I could have walked. As I crossed the gangplank, I realized two things: the party was already in full swing, and I was overdressed.
Lights blazed and music blared aboard the 150-foot mega-yacht. And the sundeck on top was crowded with men in beachwear and sweet young things in string bikinis and platform flip-flops.
In my tasteful sundress and wedged sandals, I might as well have worn a nun’s habit.
Oh, Lord. What kind of party is this?
When Chef Harvey invited me, I assumed I was attending an elegant function with food industry professionals. The loud music, half-dressed girls, and half-drunk “dudes” had me ready to turn around then and there, but Grayson spotted me and called out from the deck. In a polo shirt and shorts, he waved me forward with one hand (a cocktail occupied the other).
Well, Clare, you came this far,
I thought.
There are plenty of people around. And you do still have two chaperones, speaking of which—
“Where are my friends?” I asked the moment I stepped aboard.
“Dunno,” Grayson replied. “Probably in the salon with Chef Harvey. That’s where you’ll find the bundy and champers.”
“Excuse me?”
“The booze, darlin’!” He grinned. “You Yanks need to learn the King’s English.”
When I first encountered Gray at the hotel bar, he was drinking beer. At the festival, he’d switched to wine. Now he thrust his glass under my nose; I smelled juniper berries and tonic water.
I considered the billionaire’s inebriated condition and concluded it might actually
help
my cause. In vino veritas, and Gray had already had plenty of vino.
“Want me to skull it?” he asked, shaking the glass until the ice clinked.
“Sorry, I don’t speak Aussie.”
Grayson drained the glass, presumably to demonstrate a “skull.”
“Ready to find your friends now?”
“Yes, please.”
He took my arm. “Follow me.”
We entered the big ship’s interior, made a couple of turns, and walked down a short staircase.
More steps and more doors, and we arrived in a long, carpeted, empty corridor with cabins on either side. It was quiet down here.
Too quiet.
And we were completely alone.
“Where are we going? Where are Tuck and Punch?”
“Truth, Clare? Your friends are across town, at a big cosplay bash.”
“What!”
“My assistant texted them earlier about the change in plans. They think you’re there, too, in costume, but you’re not—because I wanted us to have some privacy.”
“This is
not
what I agreed to—”
“Ah, but it’s what’s you
wanted
, isn’t it? You’ve been trying to get me alone ‘to talk’ since you got to South Beach.”
He tugged my arm, but I dug in, refusing to go any farther with the man. “That’s it, Gray. I’m out of patience. Tell me why I’m here, right now, or I’m leaving.”
The deck lurched under my sandals, and I realized the ship was casting off—a nanosecond later I found myself fighting off a giant, bald, Australian octopus!
“I think you’re awesome, girlie! Crazy wicked—”
“Stop it!”
“And that hard-to-get act’s a corker. I’ve been waiting for this moment all day—”
“Get your drunken hands off me!”
Braddock released me all right, so he could tear off his polo shirt. “Time for a lesson in
Gray’s Anatomy
!”
I took off down the corridor. Gray misunderstood my intentions.
“Lookin’ for a private bedroom, darlin’? Try the door on your right.”
What I wanted was an
exit
, so I opened the door on my
left
—and stopped cold.
The room was hung with red, velvet curtains. A medieval stock loomed beside a whipping post complete with handcuffs, and mirrors lined the ceiling.
Holy cow!
I slammed the door.
“Not your speed?” Gray called. “No worries, darlin’! Try a door on your right,
your right!
”
I lunged for a door on my
left
, and gasped again.
The décor was more mundane, but in the middle of a posh, leather couch I found Minnow locked in an embrace with an inebriated Donny Chu—the young programmer I saw having dinner with Braddock at the Source Club. Donny had worked for THORN, Inc., but was now helping Braddock launch his mobile gaming division.
I sputtered, staring.
This was the proof. Clear as day. Minnow was the traitor in Eric’s organization.
She must have left her phone in New York to fool Eden and Eric and everyone!
Hearing the shirtless billionaire approach, I continued down the hall. There was some kind of commotion in Minnow’s cabin, but I kept running.
I found a flight of steps and climbed them. A moment later, I burst onto an open lower deck, startling partygoers.
Made in the Shade
was just getting under way. The yacht was about fifty yards from shore, and I knew all those hours swimming laps at the Y were about to pay off.
I kicked off my sandals and approached the ship’s rail.
Minnow burst onto the deck a few seconds before Grayson, with Donny Chu close behind.
I climbed over the rail, took a deep breath, and dived. It was a big drop, but no higher than the diving board at the Y. I cut through the surface and came up again, blowing water.
“Girl overboard!” a woman yelled.
“Clare!” Minnow shouted.
Then I heard Donny Chu. “Minnow, where are you going? Don’t do it!”
A body splashed into the water nearby.
It’s Minnow,
I realized.
She’s coming after me!
The girl broke the surface right beside me. As I took off swimming, I heard Braddock’s voice from the deck above—“Forget about Minnow, Donny. There are a lot more fish in the sea!”
I kicked my legs and pumped my arms, but it was no use. The spiteful girl was splashing after me, and she was getting closer!
Minnow killed Bianca Hyde and blew up Charley Polaski,
I thought in terror.
And now she’s going to drown me!
Then everything went black.
S
ixty-seven
O
NCE
again, I was aboard Thorner’s private jet.
Waking up after a full night of sleep, I left the Gulfstream’s master bedroom to find Minnow already up and huddled with Eric over coffee and muffins at a corner table. No doubt she was continuing to fill her boss in on Braddock’s grand plan to undermine Eric’s mobile gaming division.
Rather than interrupt, I poured morning coffee for myself and joined Matt. Like Eric, he’d spent the night in one of the plane’s half-dozen giant recliner chairs.
“When are we landing?” I asked.
“São Paulo–Guarulhos International is only about an hour away now. Brazil, here we come.”
“Great,” I muttered. A four-day detour to South America certainly wasn’t on my schedule. All I’d wanted was a ride back to my coffeehouse.
“What’s eating you?”
“I should have hopped a commercial flight back to New York. I don’t know why Eric insisted I join Minnow. She knows much more than I do. She was the one spying on Braddock and Donny Chu. All I did was avoid an ugly lesson in
Gray’s Anatomy
.”
Matt shot me a look. “You know why Eric wanted you aboard: ‘propinquity and intensity.’ That’s his philosophy on romance, isn’t it? He still thinks if you spend enough time with him, you’ll fall in love.”
“Well, he’s got to get over it.”
Matt smirked. “I don’t know, Clare, play your cards right and you could be the most famous cougar since Demi Moore.”
“What if I don’t want to play cards
or
be a cougar?”
“Consider your options before you try to survive on a flatfoot’s salary.”
“Let’s not go there. I’ll only get cranky.”
“Don’t you mean cranki
er
?”
“Give me a break. A mere eight hours ago, I was fending off an Australian octopus and nearly drowned after a beaning by a nearsighted beach bimbo.”
“Sounds like
intensity
to me. Too bad for Thorner he wasn’t there to save you instead of Minnow.”
I glanced at wide-eyed Wilhelmina Tork—the only completely contented passenger aboard this aircraft. She was basking in Eric’s undivided attention. It didn’t matter what they were talking about, Minnow was just happy to be with the man she adored.
“It’s a tragedy,” I whispered. “Eric wants me, but I’m in love with Mike. Meanwhile Minnow is obsessed with Eric, and has been for years.”
“Yeah, sure.” Matt rolled his eyes. “It’s a recipe for misery.”
“Your tone is heartless.”
“You expect me to shed tears over a boy billionaire’s love life?”
“What about poor Minnow? Oh, Matt, she’s the perfect girl for him, if only he could see it. She can be difficult on the surface, but down deep she’s so brave and beautiful. She reminds me of our daughter. I
wish
there was something we could do.”
Matt glanced at Minnow and fell silent for a minute. “You know what?”
“What?”
A devious little smile crossed his face. “Eric Thorner’s not the only guy on this flying RV who can grant your wishes.” He pulled out his smartphone. “Maybe we can do something . . .”
*
T
H
AT
afternoon, the four of us piled into a rented Land Rover and headed out of the city and into the Brazilian countryside. Our destination: Terra Perfeita, the notorious “forbidden” coffee plantation.
I admit, I was a little nervous as we pulled up to the farm’s chained front gate. The plantation had been put on lockdown by the government for its recent role in assisting traffickers of
oxidado
(aka Brazilian crack)—and I wasn’t sure how Matt planned to get us in.
After shutting off the engine (and the air conditioning), Matt warned me, Minnow, and Eric to
stay put
in the vehicle. He got out and approached two of the four police officers guarding the farm’s entrance with fairly serious-looking automatic weapons. For a good fifteen minutes, Matt spoke to them (in fluent Brazilian Portuguese).
I rolled down my window. It was summer in this hemisphere, and the afternoon sun baked the dusty dirt road, but the cool breeze flowing down from the green hills brought relief, and a riot of fragrances. I closed my eyes, inhaling blossoming flowers and ripening pineapples, bananas, mangoes, and the exotic local jabuticaba.
“What are they talking about?” Eric whispered.
“I’m sure they’re haggling over the price of admission,” I said.
Minnow’s eyes widened. “A bribe?”
I nodded. “They might be speaking Portuguese, but discussions of money are universal.”
Matt was all smiles when he finally climbed back in the Land Rover. “We have the plantation to ourselves for the rest of the day.”
“What did that big guard say to you?” Eric asked.
“He warned me about the drug gangs. They’re still prowling the area.”
“Drug gangs!” Minnow cried. “But this is the middle of nowhere!”
“Punks from São Paulo and Rio sometimes take over abandoned farms, where they set up
oxidado
labs,” Matt told her. “The gangs go unchallenged because rural cops aren’t equipped to deal with them.”
The officers removed heavy chains from the front gate and motioned us through.
“Welcome to Terra Perfeita,” Matt declared, “coffee’s Garden of Eden . . .”
He glanced at me and I nodded. (I certainly hoped it would be.)
After bypassing the large plantation house, we headed into the coffee fields, clouds of dust rising in the Rover’s wake.
“The best plots are up that hill.” He pointed. “We can unpack our picnic then scout for plants. After lunch, we’ll head back—”
Sudden gunshots exploded behind us, long bursts of automatic weapons fire followed by a flurry of individual shots.
Matt swerved off the dirt road, into a shallow valley. He drove along the bottom of a bumpy gulch until we reached a small stone building, where he cut the engine. In the distance, more shots rang out, followed by an explosion. Smoke filled the sky in the direction of the front gate and big, main house.
“Grab the food and blankets, get into that little stone building, and stay there!” Matt shouted. “I’ll find out what’s happening.”
Matt disappeared into the thick brush as we emptied the Rover of its supplies and scrambled into the darkened hut. Huddled beside a rustic fieldstone hearth, we listened while the shooting continued.
“Maybe we should have brought our own security,” Minnow moaned.
“You remember what Matt said at the hotel,” I whispered. “Security would have made you a flashy target for kidnappers. Better we look like clueless American tourists than a billionaire and his entourage.”
After another bout of yelling and gunfire, things got ominously quiet.
Minutes passed before Matt burst through the stone hut’s wooden door. He was panting and his khaki vest was covered with blood.
“Oh, my God. You’re shot!” I cried.
“No, no . . . this isn’t my blood. I’m okay. But the two policemen I spoke with aren’t. They’re dead. The drug dealers have taken over the plantation’s big, main house and they’re blocking the road. We’re not getting out of here in the Land Rover.”
Minnow whimpered. Eric paled.
Matt reached into his pocket and held out a gun. “Take this, Eric. I pulled it off one of the dead officers.”
“What the hell!” Eric cried but Matt thrust the weapon into his hand.
“I know this area and I can get us out of here alive,” Matt promised. “You just have to do what I say.”
Eric and Minnow nodded.
“Now listen carefully: I’ll divert the gang away from this building and ditch the Rover. Then I’ll double around on foot and slip past the roadblock. The hike to town will take me a couple of hours, but with luck I’ll hitch a ride, and when I come back it will be with a SWAT team.”
“What do we do in the meantime?” Eric asked, one arm around a now-sobbing Minnow.
“Stay put. This little farmhouse is boarded up and hidden. The gang is using the big, main house. They’re not going to bother with this little hut—unless you make noise or show your faces. And
do not
use any phones or electronic devices. These drug gangs use scanners to keep tabs on the movement of police. If they see your signal, they will seek you out. Remember, kidnapping and extortion are big business down here.”
Before Matt could leave, I jumped up and threw my arms around my ex. “You’re not going alone, Matteo! You’re the father of my daughter and I’m going with you! Better we die together than spend our lives apart.”
I kissed Matt
hard
, and he kissed me back. When we broke the lip lock, I clung desperately to my ex. Eric appeared devastated.
“Sit tight,” Matt said. “Wait it out till morning. You have a blanket, food, water, wine . . . you’re all set.”
As we turned to leave, Eric gripped Matt’s arm. “I appreciate the risk you’re taking to get us out of here safely. Thank you.”
“I’ll do everything I can,” Matt vowed.
With that, my ex took my hand and we slipped through the door. A few moments later, we were in the Rover again, driving away from the farmhouse and toward the drug dealers.
*
“C
ARE
for another drink, Matteo? Clare?”
The man asking was Jorge, the man in charge of the Brazilian police officers who were supposedly “killed” by drug dealers in the firefight.
Of course, nobody was killed.
What they were, however, was happily paid off (with a relatively small sum in U.S. dollars). For that “performance fee,” the rest of Jorge’s pals agreed to remain back at the plantation, shooting off guns every hour or so to make Eric and Minnow believe they were surrounded by deadly gangsters.
I yawned and stretched on my poolside lounge chair, smiling my thanks to Jorge. “No more alcohol or I’ll pass out. I’m going for another dip; then I’ll dress for the restaurant.”
I was treading blue water when Matt appeared. He sat down on the edge of the pool. I swam up to him.
“How do you think they’re doing?” I asked.
Matt shrugged. “We’ll find out in the morning. Right now we have another problem. This little hotel is short on space. We’ll have to share a room.”
I slicked back my wet hair. “Nice try.”
“I mean it, there’s only one bed in this whole joint.”
“Listen, Allegro, this cupid setup is for one couple, not two. If there’s only one bed, then you take it. I’m fine on an inflatable pool raft.”
My ex frowned, defeated. “Fine. You’ll get your own room.”
“Don’t sulk, Matt, it’ll give you wrinkles.”
*
T
H
E
next morning we pulled up to the farm’s little stone house and peeked through two loose boards in a front window. Minnow and Eric were under a blanket beside the hearth, wrapped in each other’s arms.
“Nice job,” I whispered in Matt’s ear.
“Thanks, but I have to credit my mother for this one.”
“Madame is a real player, I’ll grant you that. But I didn’t know you called her for advice.”
“Didn’t have to. I’m her son. I grew up with her sayings.”
“What?” I cocked my head. “Love comes from ‘propinquity with intensity’? She said that?”
“No.” He smiled. “‘
Turn up the right heat at the right time and you can brew up almost anything.
’”
S
ixty-eight
O
N
the plane trip home that evening, Matt spoke excitedly to Eric about the Ambrosia cuttings he’d bagged from Terra Perfeita, but the billionaire was only half listening. It was clear he was more interested in refocusing his attention on his newly discovered passion—for Wilhelmina Tork.
The next morning, when the two emerged from the privacy of the bedroom area, I made fresh coffee.
“We should be back in New York in another hour,” Matt declared, checking his watch.
“And back to work,” Minnow added with a beaming grin for Eric. “I’d better check my in-box.”
When Wilhelmina pulled her THORN, Inc., smartphone out of her backpack, I did a double take.
“Minnow, did you have that phone with you in Florida?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“You didn’t leave another phone in your Manhattan apartment?”
“This is my
only
phone,” Minnow replied. “Thank goodness it’s waterproof and shockproof, because I jumped off Braddock’s yacht with it in my pocket!”
Waterproof! Shockproof!
Rocked by the double shocks, I fell into one of the plane’s recliners.
My
first
shock: Eric’s sister, Eden Thorner, was a liar!
When I’d called from Florida, Eden assured me Minnow was in New York. But why lie?
“Oh, my God!” Minnow cried.
“What?”
“It’s Darren . . . Darren Engle. My alerts for THORN, Inc., sent me to the news story. They found his body in
my
apartment with his head bashed in. They say there was no forced entry. He was murdered by multiple blows to the head from
my
dragon slayer resin statue.
I’m
wanted for questioning!”
*
T
W
O
hours later, we were back on the ground and Eric was driving Minnow straight to his lawyers’ downtown offices.
The billionaire was bringing an army of high-priced suits to One Police Plaza to help untangle the web that had ensnared his brand-new beloved.
My goal was the same: to free Minnow of any charges and throw a net over the true guilty party. But I had no patience for untangling. I was going to cut straight through this mess, and I couldn’t do that picking apart legal threads at police headquarters.
My destination was the West Village—and not my Village Blend, even though (regardless of the early hour), I really needed one of Matt’s double espressotinis.
What I needed even more was face time with my favorite NYPD Bomb Squad commander, Dennis “the Menace” DeFasio.
*
“W
ELL,
if it isn’t the Queen of Coffee!” DeFasio’s greeting was one of wary cheer. We sat in his cluttered office in the Sixth Precinct. “I never thought I’d see you again. Not after we arrested your pal, Nate Sumner.”
“How is that case going for you, Lieutenant?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation.” He lowered his voice. “Off the record: Things have come to a dead stop. Right now the investigating officers are looking at other angles.”
“Other
suspects
, you mean?”
“No other suspects. Not yet.”
“Then you must be referring to ‘angles’ like Charley Polaski’s heavyset husband, Joe? The guy who fell—or was more likely
pushed
—off the High Line the other night? Anyone check him out for dart marks from a tranquilizer gun? The kind wildlife enthusiasts shoot wolves with in Wyoming to track their migration patterns?”
DeFasio’s eyebrow rose. “How could you possibly know—”
“I’m guessing the very same kind of dart was just used in a Chelsea apartment to render the very tall Darren Engle unconscious enough for his head to be bashed in by a dragon slayer statue.”
DeFasio went quiet for a long moment. “No wonder Mike Quinn’s so sweet on you. Have you got hard evidence, Cosi?”
“I have a way to get it. Or rather,
you
might. You just don’t know it yet.”
And this is where my
second
shock was about to pay off.
When Anton Alonzo had handed me my THORN phone, he described it as fireproof and shockproof. I hadn’t thought much about it until Minnow’s phone had survived a major dip in the Atlantic.
That’s why I asked DeFasio to get his hands on Charley Polaski’s smartphone, the one they’d retrieved from the burned-out remains of Eric’s car.
When Charley’s phone arrived at his desk, we looked it over. As I suspected, it was a THORN phone. It was also scorched and drained of power with a heat-cracked screen.
“What do you want with this, Cosi?” DeFasio challenged. “We already have what was on it . . .”
As he explained it, the e-forensics people hadn’t bothered tinkering with the phone itself because they’d already downloaded a duplicate of its digital files from the backup server at THORN, Inc.
“Please, Lieutenant, humor me. I want to see what’s on this phone.”
“That phone’s not going to start, Cosi, look at its condition.”
“You don’t understand. It’s a THORN phone. It’s built to be indestructible. I’m sure, even with the external damage, the data will be accessible once the device is recharged.”
“Okay, you got me. But how do we recharge the thing? The pin configuration won’t fit a standard—”
“Try this.” I handed him the charger for my own THORN phone.
“You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”
“I try.”
“Then why do you think we’ll find new evidence in the dead chauffeur’s phone?”
“You know Charley was more than a driver, right?”
“Yeah, she was working undercover as a PI.”
That’s when I told DeFasio what Joe Polaski had told me—I finally understood what he meant that night he grabbed me. Charley had a routine. She gathered information, took coded notes, and stored them on her THORN phone. Then she transferred those notes to Joe, who agreed to keep them safe for her.
After the info was safely transferred, she deleted the data before the THORN server performed its daily backup, pulling the day’s data into its archives.
“The backup happens at midnight, according to the instructions for my own phone, so Charley was erasing her phone logs daily to make sure no one at the company, not even Eric, could read her files and find out what she’d learned.”
“I get it . . .” I could feel DeFasio’s excitement. “Charley was killed before she could erase what she’d discovered on the day of her murder.”
“Exactly.”
“You really think that phone is still functional? And the data is still there?”
“Let’s hope.”
“Okay, then. Let’s see . . .”
I thanked DeFasio and he saw me to the door, adding a sheepish request of his own. “Some of the guys wanted me to ask: can we get a few more samples of that Baileys Irish Cream Fudge?”
“Listen, if your squad can help clear Nate Sumner and Minnow Tork, I’ll personally deliver enough to get all of us bombed.”
S
ixty-nine
S
O
much happened over the next two days that my impromptu trip to Brazil felt like ancient history.
After DeFasio fully recharged Charley’s THORN phone, he found incriminating evidence.
Just as I’d thought, the evidence pointed to Eric’s sister, Eden Thorner.
Eden must have sensed it was over because she’d completely disappeared. She’d ditched her credit cards and deactivated her phone, along with its GPS tracking, leaving no way to trace her movements.
When Eric returned from Brazil, he and Anton Alonzo searched for Eden in her Manhattan apartment, her summer house in the Hamptons, and her country home in Connecticut, but she was gone without a trace.
*
“I
WONDER
where she went.”
Matt shrugged, gaze glued to his smartphone. “Probably some country without a U.S. extradition treaty.”
We were back at the Village Blend, and things had finally returned to normal—normal for my coffeehouse, anyway.
The morning rush had ended, and I took a break. As I sunk into a stool beside Matt, Esther approached, two espresso cups in hand.
“You’ve got to try this, guys! Don’t ask what it is. Just taste it.”
Esther set the steaming demitasses in front of me and Matt, then stepped back to gauge our reactions.
I sipped, and found the espresso rich, dark, nutty, with hints of walnut
and
almond, topped by an amazing crema. As it cooled there were notes of raspberries, maple syrup—and was that pancake batter?!
“Brilliant!” I said after my third compulsive gulp.
Matt nodded. “Very nice.”
“This cup tastes like a country breakfast,” I said. “What did you do, Esther? Break into the Red Hook warehouse and roast one of those rare beans Matt imported for Eric?”
“It’s just our own Morning Blend, boss. I’ve been practicing 24/7 with the new Slayer; I can vary the pressure and express time so even those old, familiar coffees we’ve always served have flavors we never knew existed.”
“FEI,” Nancy said. “Weekend business picked up plenty since we started using the Slayer. Dante and I had to close an hour late on Saturday because we had so much last-minute traffic.”
“FEI? Nancy, don’t you mean FYI? As in
For Your Information
?” Esther asked.
Nancy shrugged. “What I said was for
everyone’s
information.”
I laughed, Esther slapped her forehead, and Tucker rushed through the front door—accompanied by an early spring breeze and the excited tinkling of our old familiar doorbell, lost after the explosion wrecked our shop but found again by intrepid members of the NYPD.
The Bomb Squad located the dented brass bell in the evidence bin when they retrieved Charley’s phone. Sergeant Spinelli returned it to us and I handed over a double batch of my Baileys fudge—a happy trade for all parties.
“Hot off the presses!” Tuck said, dropping an open
New York Times
in front of me, Matt, Esther, and Nancy before shedding his coat.
I read the headline and scanned the first few paragraphs, but as an insider, I already knew everything in the report.
Officially Eden Thorner was wanted for embezzlement, because she pilfered millions of corporate dollars in the months before she fled. Unofficially, she was the prime suspect in the murders of Charley and Joseph Polaski, and Darren Engel—her intern.
My theory: the brilliant, young rocketeer had made the car bomb for her and even helped her murder Joe.
“Your wish is my command, Milady . . .”
The words I’d heard at THORN’s Appland echoed sadly in my mind.
Darren must have been in love with Eden, and she’d used him to her own ends. Everything was fine with Nate arrested, but when her brother started working in Nate’s defense, she clearly became nervous about how much Darren knew, so she killed her accomplice in an attempt to frame Minnow for all of the murders.
Of course, this whole murderous mess started with the death of the young, gorgeous actress with a drinking problem—Bianca Hyde, the girl who’d gotten bombed before she got bashed, which resulted in the LAPD ruling the death accidental.
I still wasn’t sure why Eric’s sister had killed Bianca. I had my theories, but I didn’t care about espousing them any longer because my personal quest was over.
Little Minnow was off the hook. And all charges against Nate Sumner were dropped. The head of Solar Flare would be released from jail by noon.
Madame was planning to meet Nate at the courthouse, and she was probably going to wear go-go boots, too.
I was very pleased. Madame and Nate had a happy ending and so did Eric and Minnow.
Unfortunately, my detective boyfriend (turned Justice Department G-man) remained out of touch, so I was still waiting for mine.
*
A
N
HOUR
later, I was working behind the counter again when the bell rang over the door. A cheerfully familiar voice called out—
“Hey, Coffee Lady!”
A giddy grin was plastered across Sergeant Emmanuel Franco’s rugged face; his muscular arms were hauling several suitcases and a shoulder bag.
“Manny, what’s going on?” I asked, worried. “Are you leaving town?”
“Wrong conclusion, Madam Detective. I’m here to make a special delivery.”
He set the suitcases down and tugged a pink backpack off his arm. I saw the Hello Kitty logo emblazoned across that bag and my heart stopped.
“That’s not yours! That pack belongs to—”
My daughter’s grinning face peeked around Franco’s muscular shoulder.
“Hi, Mom!”
“Joy!”
We couldn’t rush together fast enough.
“See, Mom, you’re not the only one full of surprises!”
After more hugging and a few tears, Franco cleared his throat.
“I hate to interrupt this sweet reunion, but I have to get back to the precinct.” Then his eyes met Joy’s and he lowered his voice. “Will I see you tonight?”
Joy glanced at me uncertainly. “I don’t know, I just got home and—”
“Of course, Joy will see you tonight,” I said. “If you pick her up after eight, my daughter and I will have the whole afternoon to catch up.”
*
O
V
ER
lunch in my duplex above the Blend, I asked Joy
The Question
—
“When are you coming home for good?”
Her answer was clear—and complicated.
Joy absolutely planned to move back to New York City to settle down. The complicated part was
not yet.
As she explained it, her work situation in Paris had improved a great deal. The night she impressed the chef at L’Ambroisie, he offered her an apprenticeship. She didn’t want to take it, but (being Madame’s grandchild) she used the situation to her advantage. She told her current boss at
Les Deux Perroquets
about the offer, and he hit his vaulted ceiling.
Without Joy and her contributions to his menu, the man knew that Michelin Rising Star might not be so easy to attain. To keep her in the fold, he granted Joy’s requests: her cancelled vacation time was immediately reinstated; her temporary promotion was made permanent; and the owner actually agreed to hire more kitchen help to give his brigade a reasonable chance of keeping up with the customer crush—and having restorative time off.
I did ask Joy why she passed on the chance to apprentice at a Michelin four-star restaurant to stay at one with a lowly Rising Star award.
Her logic was simple. “It will mean much more to me to help earn that Michelin star for everyone at
Les Deux Perroquets,
and for my adopted home of Montmartre. I’ve made so many friends there . . .”
But I knew Joy needed to earn that star for herself, as well. The victory would prove she’d risen to the challenges of moving to France. Then she could return to her chosen field in her hometown and put her troubled past behind her with her reputation restored.
“I’ll give it a year, Mom. If we earn the star, my standing will be huge, and I will easily find a place in a Manhattan kitchen. If we lose, I’ll come back home and take any job I can find—I’ll even work for you if you’ll have me.” She grinned. “Either way, I promise I’ll come back in the next twelve months. Believe me, I made the same promise to Manny.”
As I brushed away a tear, Miss Phone’s fembot voice delivered more good news—
“Clare, this your programmed alert. You have received a text message from Michael Quinn.”
With shaky hands, I snatched the phone to call up the message, which I read aloud to Joy.
Out of touch for the rest of the afternoon. Meet me at Dynasty Pier on the West Side at nine o’clock for an intimate dinner cruise. Love, Mike!
There was no stopping my tears now, but they were tears of relief.
“Looks like we both have dates tonight, Mom!”
I nodded and immediately sent a return note to him—
Looking forward to our big date at Dynasty Pier! See you tonight!
“Thank goodness,” I whispered. “Now Mike and I can finally get back on track.”
S
eventy
W
HEN
I exited the cab, Dynasty Pier’s front gate appeared brightly lit and its boathouse glowed cheerfully in the night.
Next door, Chelsea Piers had been docking transatlantic ocean liners and cruise ships for over a century. Dynasty was designed to accommodate much smaller vessels. The pier was little more than a concrete walkway extending a hundred feet into the dark waters of the Hudson River.
As I approached the entrance, I delighted in the sound of the tide slapping against the piles. A frosty spring wind came off the dark river, giving me a slight chill. My new black silk dress was dripping with lace; elegant, innocent, and sexy all at once—but not much for warmth, and I tightened the belt on my wool coat.
I saw no one, but someone must have seen me because a buzz sounded and the steel gate automatically unlocked. I pushed through and the door clanged behind me. I walked eagerly toward the boathouse, my high heels clicking on the concrete.
The boathouse door was locked, so I firmly knocked. When no one answered, I peeked through the slats. I spied a desk and a radio, but the single-room structure seemed deserted, so I approached the only ship at the pier tonight. It wasn’t very large, maybe a forty-footer, and I doubted the vessel could accommodate more than fifteen people.
Mike wasn’t kidding when he said this would be an intimate meal. Did he charter this boat all by himself? More likely it’s a VIP cruise. Maybe his DC colleagues are joining us . . .
With a few more steps forward, I noticed the name on the ship’s bow.
BLUE ROSES.
I stopped dead. On the black water, a lone barge blew its horn as it floated past, and I got a bad feeling.
Something’s very wrong here.
There was no way Mike would have invited me aboard a ship christened with that name, not after the poem he’d sent.
Roses red and white are best . . .
I quickly turned to leave—and found the Metis Man blocking my retreat.
Wearing a fur-trimmed sealskin parka, high boots, and a bandolier slung over one shoulder, Garth Hendricks looked like an Alaskan native on a bear hunt. The very large gun he clutched in one gloved hand told me he was loaded for bear, too.
With my exit blocked, I had nowhere to go but the water. I was willing to jump, but I never got the chance.
He shot me.
The dart pierced my coat and sunk into my shoulder. The impact of the flying syringe rocked me, and the needle stung, too—but only for a second. Then my right side went numb.
I knocked the dart aside with a clumsy swipe of my left hand and the empty syringe bounced off the concrete.
“You won’t get away with this,” I told him—only it came out sounding more like “Ooop coat way be fist,” because my tongue had stopped working.
I was having trouble breathing, too, and my mouth gaped like a fish out of water. Finally my knees got wobbly and I sank onto the frigid concrete, paralyzed but still conscious.
“I shot you with a tranquilizer gun,” Garth explained, his tone matter-of-fact. “You’ll have some trouble breathing—Etorphine affects the respiratory system—but you probably won’t die. Not from the sedative, anyway.”
Garth nudged me with his boot. Then he placed the barrel of his gun against my forehead.
“Eden used this dart gun to shoot wolves in Wyoming.” He smiled. “She also used it to paralyze Joe Polaski, so that dumb obedient Darren could help me chuck him over the side of the High Line. Joe was just like you, Clare. Conscious, but completely helpless.”
Garth stepped out of view and I heard a rumbling sound. A moment later he wheeled a flatbed dolly into view and parked it beside me. With a grunt, he rolled me onto it.
“You see, Eden ruined a good thing when she acted on her own initiative, and tried to electrocute you with Darren’s help. It’s only a matter of time before OSHA discovers how the electrical system was rigged, but dear dead Darren can take the fall for that. I’ll miss the boy—he was so eager to please—but there are plenty of young, eager interns out there . . .”
Of course. Fits right in with your “fun sweatshop” philosophy!
Garth continued his arrogant babble while he wheeled me up the gangplank and onto the deck.
“Did you know? As soon as Eric inherited his father’s business, he sold it out from under his older sister. There was nothing she could do. Her father left the little freak everything. Then Eric used his stake to make himself a billionaire . . .”
Garth untied the ropes, releasing the ship from its moorings.
“Eric made up for his lost youth, too, by serially dating bimbo models and starlets. He even wanted to
marry
one of those tramps. She didn’t like me much or Eden—and Eric actually started
listening
to her and cutting us out. We couldn’t let that happen, so Eden and I made a plan—and a pact. She and I would control Eric through his women. That’s why we dangled Bianca Hyde in front of Eric—and like a good fish, he took the bait. Bianca might have been sleeping with Eric, but Bianca was working for us . . .”
I tried to muster my voice, but all I could manage was a rasp.
“What’s that, Clare? Oh, no, we didn’t have to use the tranquilizer gun on Bianca. That stupid little whore managed to kill herself right in front of Eden. I wasn’t there at the time, but it turned out to be a lesson for both of us.
Murder
could be the solution to any problem—the Occam’s Razor that would cut through human tangles with elegant finality.”
Garth rolled the dolly through a narrow door, into a room off the boat’s main cabin. With a sharp kick to my ribs, he knocked me off the flatbed and onto the carpeted floor.
“Bianca didn’t love Eric. She barely liked him, but she was a very good actress, and she figured the act would pay off—if she did exactly what Eden and I told her . . .”
Garth stepped out of range, and I heard the rasp of a zipper.
“With a few carefully planted surveillance devices, we gained access to Eric’s secret bank accounts and began to siphon money. A few million here, a few there. You’d be surprised how fast it all added up. Once we had access, losing Bianca didn’t matter so much. Then Charley came snooping, and she had to go, too.”
Garth dropped a heavy object on the floor. Then he stood over me, a hypodermic needle in hand.
“And now here you are,
another
nosy snoop. Oh, yes, Clare. I read Eric’s file on you, and I know all about your little hobby. I don’t know if you’re working for the police, the Feds, or some private individual, and I don’t care. You can’t be around Eric any longer, watching his back, asking questions. In time, I’ll take care of his new little infatuation with Minnow. But right now, it’s time for
you
to go—”
I felt a slight sting as the needle bit into my arm. Then Garth’s smirking face disappeared and my world faded to black.
S
eventy-one
C
ONSCIOUSNESS
crashed down on me like a hammer and I awoke to the sound of my own scream.
I sat upright, felt spiderwebs tickling my arm, and hastily slapped them away. Garth’s syringe, marked
Diprenorphine
, dropped to the carpet beside me.
I didn’t have a clue what diprenorphine was meant to do, but I was happy the needle didn’t contain arsenic or strychnine. I had a disquieting feeling Garth wanted me awake and alert.
My mouth was papery and I felt hazy from the drugs. Standing was an issue, too. The boat rocked under my high heels, and the gentle motion was enough to throw me off balance, so I kicked off my high heels and gripped the carpet with my toes. Garth had already pulled off my coat and scarf, so I added my footwear to the pile.
Illuminated by the dim glow of scarlet emergency lights, the cabin was free of furniture. I peeked through the only portal (too small to crawl through, alas). Nothing was visible beyond dark skies and black water.
Crossing to the exit, my foot brushed a large bundle on the floor. Ignoring it, I continued to the door, which was, of course, locked.
I pounded on the door and yelled for Garth, but the silent response was eerily complete. Not even the rumble of the engine could be heard above the muted sound of slapping water.
I had the sudden, sickening realization that I was alone.
I stumbled back to my coat, desperate to find my purse. But my bag was missing along with my wallet, keys, my IDs and credit cards, and my THORN phone.
That damn phone!
I thought back to my day at Appland and how Darren Engle had “fixed” my phone for me. Sure, he’d unblocked calls from Mike Quinn, but he’d obviously added an alternate phone number under Mike’s listing in my address book.
Garth must have used that number to send the fake text message as Mike—and I fell for it!
I was so angry (and freaked out and groggy) that I didn’t notice the steady, ominous sound of a ticking clock. Not right away. But when I did . . .
Oh, no.
I crawled to the bundle I’d nearly tripped over—it was a worn canvas knapsack plastered with airport stickers and comic book superheroes. The name
Darren
was embroidered on the flap.
My hands were trembling from the double-dose of drugs, and the zipper was stubborn. When I finally got to peek inside, my worst fears were confirmed.
I was no expert, but I knew I was staring at a bomb.
The digital alarm clock displayed the time at seventeen minutes to midnight. The alarm was set to go off at twelve. Quick calculation: I’d been missing for nearly three hours, and I had seventeen minutes to live.
I fought down a panicked urge to tear the bomb to pieces, and studied the device instead. Three wires led from the clock to a little black box. The box was connected by more wires to a bunch of green bottles filled with clear liquid.
In the movies the bomb defuser always cuts a wire. But it is always the right wire, and I had nothing to cut with, anyway.
I blew on my cold hands, thought about putting on my coat and gloves—
Gloves! Oh, thank God. I have my glove phone!
My gloves were still in my coat pocket, and I slipped the left over my trembling hand, then put it to my ear. “Miss Phone?”
For a chilling second I thought I might be out of range.
“Hello, Clare. Would you like to make a call?”
“You bet I would.”
Lieutenant Dennis DeFasio answered after the first ring.
“Where the hell are you?” he yelled. “Mike Quinn has been tearing up the docks looking for you! He said you were set up?”
“I was!”
“We’ve got FBI, Homeland Security, even the freaking Coast Guard crawling all over this town. How could you do this to me, Clare? You know how I feel about Feds—”
“I sympathize with your plight, Dennis, but right now I need to defuse a bomb.”
“What!” DeFasio muttered a particularly nasty obscenity. “Talk to me—”
In fifty words or less, I explained my dilemma. Once or twice DeFasio interrupted me to talk to someone on his end. I heard words like
triangulation
,
signal strength
, and
Coast Guard
.
“Describe the bomb,” DeFasio abruptly commanded.
“There’s an alarm clock connected by three wires to a black box, which is connected to nine little green bottles containing some kind of liquid. Is this a firebomb like the one that blew up Charley?”
“Unfortunately, no,” DeFasio replied. “Our boy graduated to the big leagues.”
“Our boy?”
“Darren Engle. I’ll tell you more after you follow my instructions. Tell me, do you have any flexible rubber on you?”
“You mean—”
“I mean a condom. You know, like some ladies carry in their purses in case they get lucky on a—”
“No! I do not have a condom!”
“Okay, how about non-conductive cloth—”
“My dress is silk, and I have a wool coat and scarf.”
“Won’t work. We’re trying to avoid a spark. Even static electricity could set off the nitroglycerine.”
“Nitroglycerine?!”
“How about cotton. Honey, are your undies made of cotton?”
“Yes,” I reluctantly replied.
“Great. I want you to take them off—”
Oh, good grief.
“Condoms, panties—this call’s starting to sound like Bomb Squad phone sex.”
“Cut the wisecracks and take off your panties!”
“Oh, all right . . .”
I reached under my dress, slipped off my pantyhose, then my cotton panties. Yes, it was embarrassing (and chilly), but I had less than eight minutes before the ka-bloom, so I threw modesty to the wind.
“Now what?”
“Tear your panties into strips. Enough to cover all three wires leading from the clock to that nasty black box, which is the detonator. That’s what you’re going to do, wrap each wire in cotton so there is
no possibility
that their ends will touch when you pull the wires out.”
“Use one hand, one finger if you can, and work carefully. You want to avoid a spark, and you don’t want to jar those wires too much, either.”
“I’ll wrap with my right hand, and talk to you with my left. Now, please distract me by telling me more about Darren Engle.”
“Engle built the bomb that killed Charley and framed Nate Sumner. The investigators found evidence that the sneaky little punk attended Solar Flare meetings, and after each one he collected Sumner’s discarded iced tea cans, with the professor’s fingerprints all over them. Darren used those cans to build his bomb.”
While DeFasio spoke, I covered one wire and I started working on the second. I had six minutes left.
“You said Darren graduated to the big leagues?”
“He used his rocket-building skills to construct his first bomb. Two iced tea cans filled with liquids that combine to produce a flammable explosive in a third can. It’s just like a rocket engine, but it’s meant to explode, not propel. The little bastard even used compressed air capsules to push the liquids into the mixing chamber. Really ingenious—”
“Can we focus on my bomb, Lieutenant?”
“I’m getting to your bomb. We found traces of nitroglycerine in Darren’s apartment. We think that’s where he built the device you are defusing right now.”
“Darren’s dead. I wonder what this bomb was supposed to be used for . . .”
DeFasio paused to listen to someone on his end.
“Good news!” he cried. “We’ve pinpointed your signal. A Coast Guard helicopter has been dispatched to your position, and a boat is on the way. They should both arrive in five minutes—”
“Which is two minutes after this bomb goes off.”
“We’re not going to let that happen, Clare.”
“I hope you’re right, Dennis.”
“I better be. I’ve got a whole squad waiting for more fudge.”
I took a breath. “I’ve covered all the wires. What do you want me to do now?”
“You’re going to pull those wires out of that black box in one clean yank. I want you to place your left hand on top of the box, and tug the wires free with your right. Pull it real hard. I’ll talk to you when it’s over.”
I paused. “Dennis?”
“Yes?”
“If I don’t do this right, I want you to tell my daughter that I love her and want her to be happy. And please tell Mike Quinn that I loved him, with all my heart. And tell my ex-husband that I never—”
“You tell them, Clare. You have less than two minutes.”
I got into position, and closed my eyes. Trembling now, I held my breath and yanked the wires as hard as I could.
Cautiously, I opened one eye, then the other. The clock dangled from the wires in my hand. I heard lapping water, the sound of a distant helicopter, and no explosion!
Brrrrring!
The alarm clock loudly jangled.
I screamed and smashed it against the bulkhead. Then I steadied myself, and gave DeFasio the good news.
I heard cheers erupt around him.
Never knew a bunch of guys so excited about getting Irish Cream fudge.
Outside the night was rocked by the blast of a boat horn. Through the portal I spied a white hulled speedboat pulling up beside
BLUE ROSES
. Then footsteps pounded on the deck. Thirty seconds later, something heavy slammed against the cabin door.
“I’m here!” I screamed. “The bomb is defused. Please get me out!”
Another crash, and the door sagged. A final kick smashed it open, and a familiar silhouette filled the doorway.
“Mike!”
“Clare . . .” For a nanosecond, he stood staring, the look of fear still on his face. Then he opened his arms, and I couldn’t run into them fast enough.
S
eventy-two
“M
ACBETH,”
I said, lying in bed the next morning. “That’s what it all comes down to—the struggle over control of a crown.”
Mike yawned. “I buy that theory . . .”
“Of course, that crown turned out to be one of THORN.”
“Ouch.”
“I hope that’s exactly what Garth Hendricks said when they arrested him.”
“I’m sure he said a lot more—and then clammed up. It won’t help. You’re still alive, and are now the star witness against him.”
“You bet your sweet nitroglycerine knapsack I am.”
“And I’m sure they’ll find plenty of physical evidence on Eden Thorner’s body . . .”
The cops found her corpse under a tarp near the stern. Garth had planned to blow her up with me—continuing his frame job on Eric’s sister.
Garth’s so-called “pact” with Eden Thorner had ended the day she acted on her own (with Darren’s help) and tried to electrocute me at Appland—unsuccessfully.
Garth knew Eden had blown it then. And when she and Darren continued their bumbling, trying to frame Minnow (again, unsuccessfully), the Metis Man knew what he had to do: frame Eden Thorner for everything and then kill her to make sure she never talked.
“That nitro-packed knapsack I defused was built by Darren,” I noted, “but he was already dead, which is why I think Garth and Eden were planning an even more sinister crime.”
“I can guess exactly what they were planning.”
“When Eric disappeared with me and Matt on that world coffee tour, they must have panicked. They’d lost control of Eric yet again—over a woman. So they decided to cut through all of their problems with the most elegant solution of all.”
Mike nodded. “They decided to kill the boy billionaire. With a nitro pack that size, they were probably going to blow him up in his plane or that yacht.
“
Boom
, no more headaches trying to control him.”
Mike grunted. “Without a wife or children, Eden would inherit the company and all the money.”
“Garth was her partner in crime, and likely the bedroom, so he would run the company, which he clearly thought he was better at than Eric, anyway. And Darren was the kid they were going to frame—and kill—after they’d assassinated the young King of Appland.”
“You’re right.” Mike stretched and rolled toward me. “It does sound Shakespearean.”
“Except for the sliding boards.”
He nuzzled my neck. “Well, I for one am glad you had cotton panties . . .”
“And I’m glad the first thing you did when you got out of that committee hearing was check your text messages . . .”
Mike had been on Capitol Hill when I’d replied to his text message about meeting him at Dynasty Pier. The hearing was top secret, the room secured from external signals. By the time he got out, I’d already been
tranked
by Nanook of the North.
When Mike couldn’t reach me, he confirmed my “plan to meet him at the pier” with Joy—and went absolutely nuts. He’d been in law enforcement long enough to know a setup when he saw it.
In my own defense, my guard was down for a simple reason. I thought the bad guy was gone . . . or rather, the bad girl. And she
was
gone. Garth had sent her to an early grave; I simply didn’t realize that the infamous “they” Joe Polaski had tried to warn me about weren’t Eden and Darren. It was Eden and Garth Hendricks.
“So . . .” Mike said, between delicious little kisses, “are you done with world coffee tours, South Beach yachts, and forbidden plantations?”
“For the time being. Are you done with top secret conferences?”
“For the time being.”
“Then how about we take some time for ourselves and make the most of it?”
“Billionaires and bosses be damned?”
“Exactly.”
“Sweetheart, you’ve got a deal.”
“I
N
honor of the work he has done to improve our island nation, I present Mr. Eric Thorner with the Gold Cross of Costa Gravas!”
Behind the podium, a grinning Eric accepted his award from the island’s ambassador. After a short speech, Eric departed the embassy’s stage to enthusiastic applause.
Matt, Madame, and I watched the presentation from the front row. Mike Quinn was beside me, my oh-so-handsome G-man date, looking dashing in his formalwear. (I was back in Madame’s vintage beaded Chanel—and happy to say Mike couldn’t take his eyes off me.)
After the presentation, we all moved to the reception room.
Another round of applause greeted Eric when he entered, Wilhelmina Tork on his arm.
Wearing a blue velvet dress that elegantly showed off her lush figure, Minnow drew many appreciative stares. Even Matt did a double take, astonished at the girl’s Cinderella-like transformation from techie tomboy to self-confident princess.
Anton Alonzo appeared, bearing champagne for me and Mike. The three of us toasted the couple.
“You know I had that gown made for you, Clare Cosi,” Anton informed me.
“It suits Wilhelmina much better,” I said, glancing uneasily at Mike. “She looks so amazing. Eric can’t take his eyes off of her. And . . . am I right to suspect there’s a Barbie among all those lonely Ken dolls now?”
“It’s true,” Anton said, then shook his head. “But though Wilhelmina has her virtues, she is still very inexperienced and unsophisticated. Minnow has much to learn.”
I touched his champagne flute with mine. “She’ll find no better teacher than you, Anton.”
“But when will I find time for tutoring?” Anton complained. “Eric’s gaming division is now merging with Grayson Braddock’s publishing group, so Minnow has a host of new properties to manage. Did you know Eric’s promoting her to lead the entire Braddock-Thorner digital gaming unit?”
“You’ll both manage. I expect great things from Minnow, and from you.”
Anton took my hand and bowed over it before excusing himself. “I do hope we meet again, Ms. Cosi.”
“Me too, Anton. Me too . . .”
Minutes later, Mike pointed out another lovely couple: Nate Sumner with Madame at his side. The head of Solar Flare had been invited to attend the afternoon reception by the group’s new corporate sponsor, THORN, Inc.
Though Eric insisted that Nate’s organization would remain an independent advocacy group, Matt rather cynically reminded me of Michael Corleone’s famous maxim: “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”
Nate Sumner was certainly in a better place than Garth Hendricks, the man who tried to frame him and kill me.
Garth was now officially charged with multiple murders. Of course, he hired the best criminal defense lawyer in the business. But he’d been denied bail because he was a flight risk, and the evidence against him was overwhelming. This morning’s
Washington Post
reported a plea deal was imminent, one that would likely put Garth away for a very long time—enough time to write more books, no doubt, although I didn’t think anyone would be listening to his business philosophies. After all, he didn’t get away with anything. Maybe he’d try his hand at crime fiction.
By now, I’d finished my champagne, and Mike headed to the bar to get us refills. He’d barely stepped away before a glass brimming with bubbly appeared in front of me, courtesy of Eric Thorner.
“You’re always giving me things. It’s a bad habit. Spoil Minnow from now on.”
Eric laughed. “I just gave her the whole gaming division.”
“And the lifestyle apps?”
“I’m still in charge. The Billionaire Blend debuts at the potluck, and we’re releasing the exclusive billionaire lifestyle app that same week. The Billionaire Blend will be the very first product we offer.”
It was hard to believe, but after an astonishing amount of money, and untold hours of experimentation, our Billionaire Blend was finally going on sale. It was
the
most monstrously expensive coffee on the planet. That’s what Eric wanted, because he knew his consumers.
Only the wealthiest portion of the human race could afford to sip a cup of it, which didn’t sit all that well with me. But I took comfort in the knowledge that the farmers who grew those special, select cherries would ultimately benefit more than the billionaire connoisseurs who consumed it.
“Of course, being in charge these days doesn’t mean I’m stuck at corporate headquarters,” Eric continued. “I’m building a digital infrastructure on Costa Gravas and I’ll be spending a lot of time there, so I decided to buy a fallow plantation to cultivate Ambrosia beans.”
“Freed from the tyranny of the sliding board, eh?”
Eric laughed. “I’m free from a lot of things, thanks to you. I would have never known about Minnow if—”
“Propinquity and intensity, Eric. You and Minnow worked side by side for years. It would have happened someday.”
“Not with Garth around . . .” He fell silent a long moment, and I knew the blackness of Garth’s crimes—and his sister’s, too—were still weighing heavily on him. “I didn’t see it coming,” he said softly. “Not from that direction.”
“Neither did I—but it’s over now, and you can start over with Minnow by your side. She deeply loves you, Eric. And she’s the kind of girl you can truly count on to watch your back.”
“Like you, Clare Cosi.”
“Well, we
were
both Girl Scouts.”
“I know.” Eric arched an eyebrow. “It’s in my file.”
“Speaking of that file—the one you have on me? Did it happen to include reports of my past amateur sleuthing activities?”
Ever the player, Eric shrugged. “Could be.”
“That wouldn’t be the real reason you chose my coffeehouse to create your Billionaire Blend, would it?”
“Let’s just say . . . it was a contributing factor.”
Members of the press were finally admitted, and they ringed Eric, peppering him with questions.
I wandered off, searching for Mike and found him by the bar, speaking with a stunning woman in her thirties.
She was tall and lithe in a shimmering gray sheath. Her skin was alabaster, her long strawberry blond hair coiled into a twist. When Mike saw me approach, he paused and smiled.
“Michael?” snapped the woman, realizing she lost his attention.
“Give me a minute,” he replied.
The woman’s steel gray eyes stared daggers at me as Mike bussed my cheek. “You look beautiful tonight, sweetheart, did I tell you that?”
“Yes. Who is that woman, Mike?”
“My boss.”
“
That’s
Katerina Lacey? You told me she was a battle-ax!”
“She is.”
“She’s gorgeous—and young!”
“Listen, Cosi, I told you before. You’ve been gallivanting all over the world with a boy billionaire. The fact that my boss is a woman shouldn’t be an issue, no matter what she looks like.”
“But I’ve been honest. You have
not
.”
“I trusted you,” Mike shot back. “I gave you the time and the space it took for you to come to your senses. Now the question is: Do you trust me?”
“There’s really nothing going on between you and your boss?”
“No. And there never could be.”
“Not even with plenty of propinquity?”
He grunted. “You don’t know her, Clare. Lacey’s a creature. A political animal, completely focused on the next rung up the ladder with very little regard for who she steps on as she goes. I could never give my heart to a woman like that.”
At the mention of his heart, Mike took my hand—the one wearing his Claddagh ring—and gently caressed it.
“Michael!” Lacey impatiently called, snapping her fingers as she waved him over.
“Clare!” Eric suddenly beckoned from the opposite side of the room.
Mike put his lips to my ear. “Let’s you and I get out of here. Right now. Together. What do you say?”
I didn’t hesitate. I took his hand and tugged him toward the embassy’s front door. Outside, in the fresh spring air, we paused long enough to inhale the aroma of cherry blossoms—and send our bosses identical text messages.
Called away on personal business. See U Monday.
Then we shut off our smartphones (for a little while anyway), left the cyber-world behind, and set out to enjoy the real one.
Blue Roses
Roses red and roses white
Plucked I for my love’s delight.
She would none of all my posies—
Bade me gather her blue roses.
Half the world I wandered through,
Seeking where such flowers grew;
Half the world unto my quest
Answered me with laugh and jest.
Home I came at wintertide,
But my silly love had died,
Seeking with her latest breath
Roses from the arms of Death.
It may be beyond the grave
She shall find what she would have.
Mine was but an idle quest—
Roses white and red are best.
—RUDYARD KIPLING
