Most likely marital woes, I decided. Off and on over the past year, we’d spoken of his troubles, of his cheating wife, of his indecision over seeking a divorce, and of all the custody issues that would subsequently involve his two children—
But I put thoughts of Detective Quinn aside. He wasn’t here and he wasn’t going to be, so it was up to me to focus on the problem at hand. “What do you know about those two?” I asked, gesturing to slick Detective Starkey and her hapless partner Hutawa.
Demetrios’s eyes were guarded as he whispered his reply. “You heard of that good cop, bad cop thing—the one they use on television shows?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“With these two, it’s more like bad cop, worse cop. Starkey and Hut don’t cut anybody any slack.”
“Starkey and Hut? You’re joking.”
“For chrissake, not so loud, Ms. Cosi. And you didn’t hear those names from me,” he rasped, then hurried away as if I had the plague and was on fire.
I noticed the huddle by the corpse had finally broken up. Detective Starkey was heading back toward the coffee bar, her face impassive. My staff and I formed our own huddle as we watched the woman approach.
“The Medical Examiner’s early conclusions match my own. Richard Flatt was the victim of foul play,” Detective Starkey informed us. Her eyes drifted to Tucker. “And since Mr. Burton here denies your latte recipe uses Amaretto—”
“Amaretto?!” Tucker and I cried together, perplexed.
“Ms. Cosi, the M.E. and I both smelled the scent of bitter almond. The victim’s skin has a distinctive pink hue, so if it isn’t Amaretto in the latte your barista here has been serving up, then it’s prussic acid—that’s cyanide.”
Moira and Esther paled. I felt sick. Tucker stumbled and nearly fainted. Detective Starkey clutched his arm to steady him. When she spoke, her tone was calm but firm. “Mr. Burton, I’m going to have to ask you to accompany me back to the station—”
“No…I won’t go,” Tucker cried, his eyes like a wounded animal’s. Two uniformed officers I didn’t know, a young one and an older one, stepped up to Tucker’s side, took hold of his wrists. “Don’t resist, son,” warned the older one.
“But I didn’t do anything,” Tucker protested, struggling. “Please, let me go….”
“Look at me, Mr. Burton,” Detective Hutawa demanded, stepping right in front of him. Tucker stopped squirming to stare at the stout detective.
“Can you hear me?”
Tucker nodded.
“I asked if you can hear me, Mr. Burton?”
“Yes, yes, I can hear you.”
Hutawa’s face was grim as he began to intone, “You have the right to remain silent…”
“Oh, god, no.” Tucker closed his eyes.
“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”
“No. Please,” Tucker begged.
“This is wrong!” I insisted.
“You can’t do this,” Moira sobbed. She pushed forward, trying to get to Tucker. Esther Best restrained her.
Detective Hutawa’s gravelly voice rumbled on. “You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one…”
“Clare! Do something,” Esther Best cried as she held Moira.
I searched the crowded room for Matteo. He stood rigidly watching the arrest, frowning in fury, and it seemed to me he was about to barrel across the floor to raise living hell—but the light grip of Breanne Summour was apparently enough to hold him. Her French manicured fingers looked bone white against the fine black material of his Armani-clad arm, restraining him with bloodless insistence. Her glossy lips vigorously formed words, gripping his ear in a rapid whisper.
I turned my gaze from my ex and squared my shoulders. “Tuck,” I said in a voice I hoped was calm and reassuring. “I’ll bail you out. I’ll find you a lawyer. Don’t worry, I promise I’ll do everything I can.”
Which was, at that moment, not a thing. For now, I was forced to stand by and watch as the detectives placed handcuffs on Tucker’s wrists and led him through the doors to a parked squad car.
As the police vehicle drove away, two detectives commanded me and my staff to step away from the counter. Then I helplessly watched as they wrapped my espresso machine, sink, and pastry case with fat rolls of police tape—the bright yellow color providing an incongruously sunny backdrop to the death black words that gave my coffee bar its new name: CRIME SCENE.
Five
One by one, the police questioned the partygoers. Most were sent on their way, but others who’d been standing near Ricky Flatt were forced to stay behind to sign written statements attesting to what they’d witnessed.
Evicted from the coffee bar, my staff and I huddled near the fireplace. Esther Best settled into a morose funk while Moira tearfully wrung her hands. I turned from trying to comfort the sobbing girl and saw the sour-faced Detective Hutawa walking my way.
“Do you have somewhere we can talk in privacy, Ma’am?” he asked.
I nodded. “My office.”
I led the detective up the staircase and through the coffee lounge on the second floor to my small, brick- walled office tucked away in a corner. My battered desk chair creaked as he settled himself into it. I pulled up a second chair and tightly crossed my legs and arms.
Hutawa focused weary eyes on me. “Officer Demetrios tells me you’re a friend of Mike Quinn’s. Met him through another case connected with this establishment.”
I blinked in surprise. “Detective Quinn is a regular customer,” I said guardedly.
“That I know,” said Hutawa. He finally smiled. “Mike tells me the coffee is really great here. Something special.”
“Yes, but I’ve never seen you in here. Why don’t you stop in sometime for a cup?”
Hutawa’s smile faded. “Never touch the stuff.”
I frowned.
Hutawa sighed and looked away, his eyes scanning the bulletin board on the nearby wall. “He’s being processed, Ms. Cosi. His arraignment before a judge will most likely take place in the next twenty-four hours. If bail is set at all, it will be done at the arraignment. But if you really wish to
“Fine.”
The detective then proceeded to ask me a lot of questions, most of them about Tucker. I was honest, though not to a fault. When he asked me if I’d known of a prior relationship between Tucker and the victim, I hedged. “If such a relationship existed, Tucker never mentioned it to me.” My answer was
“Would you say Mr. Burton was acting normally today? Was he upset, agitated or angry about something?”
“Of course not. Tucker was…well, he was
Detective Hutawa was obviously fixated on Tucker and Ricky’s previous relationship as a motive. I knew he’d be questioning Esther—so I finally did confess that Esther had mentioned Ricky and Tucker had known one another “socially.” He didn’t press the matter, simply jotted down that fact in his notebook.
But I was firm in adding another obvious detail. “That latte on Tucker’s tray, the one Ricky grabbed and
