equaling Hawaii’s output.”
Matt took out a pen and started writing on a napkin.
“The Gostwick Estate is fifty acres, but not all of their trees are mature. At best Ric is harvesting forty thousand pounds of clean hybrid coffee, probably less. So if he’s selling Dutch International three hundred bags, at one hundred thirty-two pounds a bag, that equals nearly twenty tons—Ric’s entire harvest and then some.”
Matt looked up from his scribbles. “These numbers don’t add up, Clare. Either Ric’s got another estate somewhere, which is possible but highly unlikely, or—”
I closed my eyes. “He’s perpetrating a fraud on Dutch International.”
Matt rose and began to pace. “Do you know what that means? I’m in partnership with Ric Gostwick. My reputation and the reputation of the Blend will be ruined along with him if word gets out.”
“What do we do, Matt? I’m in this with you, you know?”
He stopped pacing. “I know... and I have to tell you, Clare, I’m grateful you are.” He squinted. “Not that you’re in trouble, too, but that you’re here for me... here for me to talk to about all this, I mean... it’s a lot to deal with, and I’m...” He moved closer, sat down and took my hand. “I’d never tell anyone this but you,” he whispered, “but I... I’m scared.”
“It’s okay, Matt.” I squeezed his hand. “I’m here for you.”
“I know, and I—”
His words were interrupted by the sound of a man clearing his throat. Matt fell silent, turned abruptly to find Mike Quinn standing at the base of the wrought iron steps. The detective’s suit was rumpled from sleep, jacket slung over his shoulder, tie hanging loose.
“What are you doing here?” Matt stood, his expression furious. “Are you here to take me in again? Why did you come back?”
“What do you mean back?” Quinn replied, glancing momentarily at me. “I never left.”
Matt glared at me in disbelief. I waited for the explosion, but when he opened his mouth to speak, no words came out.
“He fell asleep on the couch, Matt,” I hastily explained. “Mike came here last night to tell me what was going on. He was so exhausted he passed out. That’s all.”
“He passed out on the couch? You expect me to believe that? Well, I don’t, Clare!”
“Matt, please calm—”
“How could you do it?” he went on, clearly strung out beyond reason. “I’m getting a sleep deprivation third degree, and you’re... you’re
“That’s enough, Allegro!” Mike finally roared. “Sit down and shut up!”
Matt blinked, opened his mouth, then shut it again. With an exhausted exhale, he collapsed on a stool.
“Why can’t I control him like that?” I muttered.
“Listen to me, Allegro,” said Quinn. “I personally don’t believe you killed Ellie Lassiter
“Yeah? How?” Matt replied. “What exactly are you saying?”
“I’m saying we should all work together to clear this mess up—for all of our sakes.”
Matt stewed silently for a minute. Finally, he said, “What do you propose?”
“For starters, I’m meeting my partner uptown, at the WPI agency office.”
Matt squinted. “What agency office?”
“Worldwide Private Investigations,” I said.
“They’re the private eyes that Clare uncovered,” Quinn explained.
I nodded. “They’re the ones who’ve been following Ellie Lassiter. Don’t you remember my telling you, Matt?”
“Oh, god.” Matt held his head. “I do remember. It seems like ages ago.”
“I think Ellie’s ex-husband hired them,” I said. “Frankly, I think he’s involved in her murder. He either killed her himself, or hired someone to do it for him, maybe the same someone who mugged Ric two nights ago.”
Matt processed the information. “I’m going with you, Quinn.”
“No you’re not. I’m the one going with him,” I said. “One look at me and the head of the agency won’t be able to deny anything. I sat right there in his office two days ago, asking about Ellie.”
“And if he does deny it. We’ll get a warrant,” Mike assured me.
“You’re staying here,” I told Matt. “There’s more important things to be done, and only you can do them.”
“What things?” Matt’s tone was belligerent, but I couldn’t blame him. The man hadn’t exactly been partying all night.
“I want you to call every coffee broker you know. Try to find out if Ric is buying beans.”
Comprehension dawned on Matt’s exhausted face. “I understand where you’re going. Okay, I’m on it.”
As Matt poured himself another mug of coffee, I grabbed my jacket. His “I’m on it” echoed through my head, and before I headed out the door with Mike, I almost told Matt that he was finally beginning to sound like his mother. But then I bit my tongue.
As Matt began talking on his cell in a rough approximation of French, I decided that if anything could put Matt in a fouler mood than he was now, it was pointing out to him that he’d finally climbed aboard my Nancy Drew train.
Twenty-Three
When I returned to the Blend, a throbbing sonic wall smacked me in the face at the front door. Someone had replaced the subtle sounds of Gardner’s smooth jazz program with the sort of thumping electro-synth fusion found in Euro-urban clubs. Not only was the music inappropriate, the volume was pumped to the limit. I approached Tucker at the espresso machine.
“What’s this stuff coming out of the speakers?”
Tucker directed his eyes to the ceiling, then rolled them. “There’s a man in the house.”
“Matt?”
Tuck nodded. “He’s taken over the upstairs lounge. I’m sending up an espresso shot every twenty minutes, and he’s getting more manic. The music started about half an hour ago. Thank god it’s not too busy. I think some of our regular customers would complain.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake... you don’t have to wait for a customer. I’m complaining. Right now. Put Gardner’s CD back on.”
“But Matt told me—”
“I’ll handle Matt.”
With two espressos in hand, I climbed the stairs. I found Matt slumped in an armchair, surrounded by a half dozen espresso cups. His shoes were off, and a fire roared in the hearth. His laptop computer was open on the table. Matt nodded when I entered, ended his call to someone on the Commodities Exchange.
“You’re recovering nicely,” I said.
Matt frowned. “So, did you and the flatfoot get the goods on Jerry Lassiter?”
I handed Matt the cup. With jittery hands, he added a large amount of sugar before he swallowed the demitasse in a single gulp.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “You never add sugar.”
“I do when I need to stay awake. Now tell me what happened.”
“Well... Mike was in rare form. By the time he was finished talking, Mr. Kapoor was only too happy to cooperate with the NYPD. The bad news is that Jerry Lassiter didn’t employ the detectives. It was Carlos Hernandez.”
Matt sat up. “Hernandez? Why?”
“Apparently, Hernandez hired the agency to dig up evidence of biopiracy for a possible lawsuit against Ric and the Gostwick Estate.”
