Latte Trouble

shoulders that indicated they worked for St. Vincent’s, a hospital not far from the Blend (whose sleepless interns also happened to be excellent triple espresso customers). But when this pair tried to move Ricky, Officer Demetrios prevented them from touching the man.

“This is a possible crime scene,” he said. “The victim isn’t going to be moved until the detectives clear it. I don’t want the area contaminated.”

The young paramedic exploded. “What?! Who do you think you are, man? The freaking coroner? This guy ain’t officially dead yet, which means we’re taking him to St. Vincent’s.”

Demetrios stared at the paramedic. “He looks dead to me.”

The female paramedic sighed. She examined the body. “He looks dead to me, too.”

The obviously overwrought male paramedic shot daggers at Officer Demetrios but finally stepped away from the body.

Another commotion erupted at the front door. I rushed over to find a fashionista riot brewing. Members of the crowd were voicing their determination to get to the other Fashion Week parties being thrown by designers tonight—a bellini bash at Cipriani, a sushi soiree at Nobu, and a Proseco party at Otto. The only thing keeping them from their appointed rounds was Officer Langley, who stood like an unmovable Irish seawall against the swelling tide.

“Everyone stay calm!” I cried, downright relieved to have something constructive to do at last. “I’m sure everything will be fine.”

“Fine?!” a woman exclaimed. “For all I know I’ve been poisoned, just like that poor man dead on the floor.”

“Nobody’s been poisoned,” Matteo loudly barked.

I shot my ex a grateful glance, and noticed Breanne Summour sashaying up to stand beside him. He turned and she whispered something into his ear. He nodded. I frowned. Ms. Summour’s high cheekbones and gazelle-like neck were annoying me. Not to mention her forehead, which had to be at least as broad as one of those widescreen TVs at the Twenty-third Street Best Buy.

“Please, everyone calm down and return to your seats,” Officer Demetrios cried over the increasing din of complaints. The crowd ignored his command and more people pressed for the door, forcing Langley’s body inches from the beveled glass. Unfortunately, Demetrios could do no more than yell orders, since he was left to guard the area immediately around Ricky Flatt’s corpse from “contamination.”

Good lord, I thought, Demetrios and Langley certainly had come a long way. When I’d first met them, they’d been so green they’d let me traipse all over a crime scene—that is, before Detective Quinn had shown up and chewed them out.

The thought of Mike Quinn striding through my front door again made me feel a little better, until I heard Esther say, “Maybe everyone would like some coffee?”

“NO!”

Suddenly the front door opened from outside, the frame smacking Officer Langley in the back of his head. He stepped to the side as the portal yawned. The mob began to surge forward, sensing a chance for escape. Then, strangely, they all took a step backwards again and parted with biblical soberness.

A tall, imposing woman in navy blue slacks, a white blouse, and an open gray trenchcoat swept through their ranks. She strode in on three-inch platform heels, an NYPD detective shield dangling from a black strap around her neck. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, her expression hard and sharp as a razor, her blue eyes cold and challenging. She wore no makeup, and her long straw-blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail so tight it seemed to stretch the flesh of her face.

Coming through the door behind the woman was a far less impressive figure. Well into middle age, the wrinkled Asian man seemed nearly as wide as he was tall. Under a flapping beige overcoat, he wore a dark suit, white shirt with a fraying collar, and a wide striped tie that had been out of fashion since Jimmy Carter was president. His expression was bland, neither tired nor bored—more like he was suffering from a mild but chronic case of irritation.

Officer Demetrios let out a soft, unhappy moan at the sight of the pair, but he quickly shook off the momentary distress, straightened his uniform, and corrected his posture. The tall blond detective marched by Demetrios, strode directly to the corpse sprawled on the bare wooden floor, and with silent intensity studied the scene.

Even Esther seemed rattled by the detective’s ominous aura of authority. As the female detective pulled out a pair of latex gloves and snapped them on, Esther appeared to suddenly remember her assigned duty for the night—to keep the coffeehouse as tidy as possible. Worried the detective would reprimand her for allowing debris to clutter up her crime scene, Esther bent down and reached for the crumpled napkins and tall glass mug that had tumbled to the floor when the fashion editor was first stricken.

“FREEZE!”

The crowd seemed to gasp simultaneously. The detective’s latex-covered index finger pointed directly at Esther, whose eyes widened larger than the black glasses framing them.

“Don’t touch anything.”

As Esther shrunk away, the detective’s blue eyes played across the scene as if memorizing it. Then she knelt down and touched Ricky Flatt’s throat with two fingers.

Throughout the woman’s inspection, Ricky’s unseeing eyes continued to stare up at the Blend’s vintage tin ceiling. Beside the victim, the female detective finally turned her attention to the glass mug near the corpse—the one Esther had nearly disturbed. She drew a pencil from an inside pocket of her trenchcoat, carefully touched the interior of the glass with the tip of the eraser, then lifted the writing implement to her nose and sniffed it. Finally, she rose and faced Officer Demetrios. They spoke softly for a minute or two, too softly for me to hear them over the still pounding music. It looked as if the woman was giving Officer Demetrios instructions, because he nodded occasionally, face nervous. Then the woman turned to address the crowd.

“Okay, what happened here?”

Four

A dozen voices spoke at once, mine and Matteo’s among them.

“Quiet!” the woman barked. “One at a time.”

Matteo stepped up to her, taking on the police woman directly. I was suddenly afraid my ex-husband’s inbred antagonism toward authority figures in general and members of the law enforcement community in particular was about to assert itself. I was right.

“Look, lady, I don’t know what you think happened here, but nobody was poisoned.”

This isn’t the right approach, Matt, I silently wailed. Then I stepped between them—while attempting to push Matteo backward with my elbow. Given that he was over six feet and all muscle, and I was under five-five with zero weight training, the effect was nil.

“Hello,” I said, extending my hand. “My name is Clare Cosi. I’m the manager of the Village Blend.”

“Detective Rachel Starkey,” she replied, ignoring my proffered palm. Then she eyed Matteo behind me. “And who’s the big bohunk behind you?”

Bohunk? Who talks like that?

“He’s Matteo Allegro, my—”

“Business partner,” Matteo finished for me with a glance at Breanne Summour.

“Okay, Mr. Allegro. My partner here will get your statement, while I speak with your partner here, and the rest of her staff.”

I realized as I was listening to Detective Starkey that she had the very slight but telling signs of a Queens accent—a drawling of vowels and dropping of Rs. The Blend’s private carting company was based in Queens, and I heard that accent at least twice a week because I always invited the sanitation crew in for a coffee break when they stopped by to empty our dumpster.

Like me, it appeared Detective Starkey had cleaned up well, virtually masking her working-class accent and