Decaffeinated Corpse

Golf all day. Soak up the rays. Here’s to fun in the sun.” He put the glass to his lips before he realized it was empty.

My jaw dropped. The good doctor was sloshed.

Madame rolled her eyes. “Put the glass down, Gary, and Clare will get you a cup of black coffee. A very large cup. With caffeine...”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I replied.

Madame faced her date. “And after that, you’d better call a car. I feel a headache coming on...”

Before the moment became a scene, I moved along.

I spied Breanne, sitting on a loveseat beside Roman Brio, the flamboyantly acerbic food writer for New York Scene magazine. A heavyset man with a broad, round face and large bright eyes, his features resembled the young Or-son Welles—the Citizen Kane filmmaker years. His formidable girth, however, had more in common with the older Welles, the one selling “no wine before its time” during situation comedy network breaks.

“Excuse me, Breanne, I’m sorry to interrupt. But do you happen to know where Matt is right now?”

“Haven’t a clue,” she replied, without bothering to look at me. “Perhaps he’s in the kitchen. I’m sure you know how to find the kitchen.”

As rude as she was, Breanne did have a point. I did know how to find the kitchen, and it was possible Matt was there, so I headed for the stairs—but I didn’t get there, at least not right away. As I moved by the elevators, the doors opened and a friend walked out—Detective Mike Quinn, flanked by a pair of uniformed officers young enough to be one week out of the police academy.

I stared in surprise at Quinn. What in the world is Mike doing here? I’d expected the police to show, but Quinn was part of the Sixth Precinct’s detective squad, which handled Greenwich Village. This area of town wasn’t even close to his beat. Even so, I was relieved to see his familiar face.

Quinn didn’t appear to share my feelings. His frown actually deepened when he spotted me.

“Mike,” I said, walking up to him, “I’m so glad to see you.”

“In another minute, I’m not so sure you will be.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m here to take your ex-husband in for questioning.”

I was all set for this, ready to jump to Matt’s defense in the case of Carlos Hernandez. But the next words out of Quinn’s mouth left me speechless.

“I’m sorry to inform you, Clare, that Matteo Allegro is a person of interest in the murder of Ellie Lassiter.”

“The murder of... ?” I stepped back, stared for a silent, confused moment. “Ellie Lassiter? I don’t understand... you’re saying that Ellie was...”

“Murdered. That’s right.”

“How?”

“She was found in a guest room at the V Hotel. The room was registered in the name of your ex-husband. There was also physical evidence that placed him at the scene of the crime.”

“Physical evidence?” I repeated as my mind raced. What does that mean? Blood? Saliva? Semen? “What kind of physical evidence?”

Quinn ignored my question. “Is Matt here, Clare?”

“Yes. I think so...” I blinked. “Somewhere.”

The news of Ellie’s murder threw me completely. I was still in shock as Mike glanced around the still crowded room.

“Do you know anything about the body on the sidewalk?” he asked. “We saw the activity on our way in.”

“His name is Carlos Hernandez,” I said. “He was here, at our party.”

Just then, a group of people moved around us to board the elevator.

“Stop them,” Quinn said to the rookies in blue. “Secure the area. Don’t let anyone leave. Call down by radio. Tell the detectives from Midtown East to get up here, they’re going to want to question everyone.”

While Quinn spelled out procedures to his young officers, I slipped through the door to the stairs and down to the kitchen. Rushing through the short corridor, I nearly stumbled into Matt, who was walking out.

“Where were you?” I demanded.

“Right here. I haven’t had real caffeine all day. Now I’ve got a withdrawal migraine. I needed aspirin.”

I saw a paper cup of apricot nectar in his hand. Apparently he’d visited the restaurant’s pierced sister of mercy, too.

“Where were you before you came down here?”

Matt shrugged, clearly annoyed. “Sitting in the booth upstairs. I was on the phone.”

“Matt, something’s happened—”

A shout interrupted me. “I saw her go down there, Detective Quinn.”

I looked up the staircase, saw one of Quinn’s rookies staring down through the door. “Ms. Cosi?” he called. “Detective Quinn would like to speak with you—and your ex-husband, if that’s him.”

“Quinn?” Matt griped. “What does that flatfoot want?”

I shushed him. A moment later, Quinn ambled down the stairs with the young officer in tow.

Matt greeted him with a smirk. “Well, well, what do you know, it’s one of Clare’s favorite customers. What brings you here, Quinn? A sudden interest in decaf?”

“Thanks for finding him, Clare,” Quinn said, his tone dryly implying I’d been warning him instead. “You can go now.”

Matt stared at Quinn. His smirk was gone. “What’s this about?”

“Mr. Allegro,” Quinn said, “where were you between four o’clock and eight o’clock tonight?”

“Don’t you want to know where I was before I came down here? She did.”

Shut up Matt, I wanted to scream.

“Just answer the question,” Quinn said.

“I was right here at the hotel.”

“This hotel. The Beekman Tower Hotel?”

“What the hell is this about?” Matt demanded.

“Ellie’s dead, Matt,” I said. “Quinn says she was murdered.”

I saw the shock on Matt’s face.

“I said you can go, Clare.” Quinn didn’t look at me. Instead he met the eyes of the young man in uniform.

The patrolman touched my arm. “Ma’am, come with me, please,” he said quietly. “Let’s go upstairs.”

I didn’t know what else to do, so I let myself be led back to the restaurant.

At the top of the stairs, it was pandemonium. Two more detectives had arrived. One was issuing orders. He was tall, with receding blond hair, round wire-rimmed glasses, and an exceedingly neat appearance.

“Who’s this?” he said when he saw the young officer escorting me.

“This is Ms. Cosi,” he replied. “Detective Quinn asked me to bring her upstairs.”

“Quinn... Quinn... Why can’t I place that name?” He tucked a thumb into the vest pocket of his three-piece suit.

“Lieutenant Michael Quinn,” said the young officer. “He’s from the Sixth, sir. He’s here about another matter.”

The tall detective scowled. “He needs to talk to me.”

The detective then ordered the policeman I was with to start corralling the potential witnesses to Carlos Hernandez’sdrop. He and his men were going to start questioning them. The policeman took off and so did I. I hurried over to the booth I’d seen Matt using when he’d made those final calls.

The slips of paper I noticed earlier were still there, and I snatched them up. There were numbers scrawled on the page. Big numbers, little numbers, no dollar signs. I tucked the paper in my pocket just as a new officer approached.

“Ma’am, I need you to come with me. We have to ask everyone at this event a few questions...”

I nodded. A few minutes later, I saw Quinn again. After speaking with the nattily dressed detective from Midtown East, he and two uniformed officers escorted both Matt and Ric Gostwick to the elevators.