Decaffeinated Corpse

“No! Not little Joy!”

Joy rolled her eyes. “Not little anymore, Uncle Ric.”

“Madre de dios! You’re a grown woman. It can’t be that long—”

Matt folded his arms. “Over ten years, bucko.”

“Look at her! She’s just like her mama... beautiful.”

“Shut up!” Joy blushed, waved her hand.

I couldn’t decide if Ric’s sweetness was genuine or a dodge. Joy was my daughter, so of course I thought she was beautiful... just not me.

“Ric,” I loudly interrupted, “please finish telling us what happened back there. What did that prerecorded, mechanical voice tell you to do?”

The shrug came again, like a child reluctant to talk. “The voice said to step into the alleyway, that’s all.”

“And did you?”

“No,” said Ric. “I stalled a second.”

“Why?” Tucker asked. “Weren’t you afraid of getting shot?”

“I thought perhaps I could sprint away, take my chances that there was either no gun or this person was a terrible shot. And that’s when I heard the police siren, right around the corner on Hudson.”

A few beat cops were regular Blend customers. Officers Langley and Demetrious stopped in almost every day for lattes and doppio espressos respectively, and I wondered if it had been their car. I remembered hearing that siren. It had been startling—instantaneous and close, as if the cruiser had just gotten the call from dispatch and hit the switch in front of the Blend.

“It must have spooked my mugger,” Ric continued, “because the next thing I remember I was being hit hard on the head—and with something decidedly harder than my head.”

Tucker tapped his chin. “Sounds like you were pistol-whipped.”

Ric nodded. “I remember nothing after that, just waking up in the alley...”

“The mugger must have knocked you out, and then dragged you off the sidewalk.” I turned to face Matt. “He was out cold,” I whispered pointedly. “He could have a concussion.”

Of course, I could have one, too, but I felt fine—no headache, drowsiness, or disorientation. Ric was another matter. He’d been unconscious a long time, and he’d been incoherent upon waking. It seemed to me he should be checked out ASAP.

Thank goodness Matt nodded in agreement. “Ric, I’m parked just down the block. Let me drive you over to St. Vincent’s ER—”

“No, no, no ER! I’d be in there for hours for absolutely no reason. I’m fine. Really.” Ric looked up at our concerned faces. “It’s nice that you all care so much, but I’d really like to forget it happened.” He handed Joy back the cup of water she’d brought him. “Thank you, love. But I’d like to warm up a bit. Perhaps I might trouble you for a hot coffee?”

Matt laughed. “You certainly came to the right place for that. Regular or decaf?”

“Decaf,” Ric replied. “You have my beans, I take it? How did the baristas like the samples?”

Tucker spoke up. “Oh, we liked them. We like them a latte.”

Ric smiled. “Good, good, excellent. And what is your name?”

“Tucker Burton.” He gave a little bow, tossing his newly highlighted hair like a Shakespearean troubadour. “At your service.”

“Ah!” Ric was obviously pleased by his enthusiasm. “I hope that will include coffee service then? Do you have any objection to helping us with our event at the Beekman Hotel at the end of the week?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Tucker assured him. “And my colleagues agreed to help you out, too. Two of them had to beat it before you got here, and the third one was supposed to be here, but he took the night off at the last minute...”

As Tucker continued to converse with Ric, Matt turned to me. “Clare, why don’t you brew some fresh decaf for us?”

“Joy can do it.” I glanced at my daughter. “Joy? Do you mind? The decaf beans are in the burr grinder marked with the green tape on the lid. Use the eight-cup French press. We’ll all have some.”

Joy nodded. “Sure, Mom.”

The second her chestnut ponytail bounced away, I turned back to Ric. I was mystified by the man’s calm. My first year living in New York, I’d been mugged on a subway platform by a skinny punk, who’d taken my purse with fifty dollars, credit cards, and lip gloss. The boy waved a knife, which never touched me, but the only thing I wanted to do after the incident (besides throw up and chug half a bottle of Pepto) was report the little creep’s description to the police.

Crime is a violation. It’s frightening and humiliating. It shakes your world. And after it makes you scared, it makes you angry—which it should because that’s the way you begin to fight back.

Ric might have been eager to put this behind him, but I was far from satisfied; and, in my view, the bruise forming beneath my own brunette bangs gave me the right to make a few more inquiries.

“Ric!” I loudly interrupted for the second time.

Tucker and Ric halted their conversation. They stared at me as if I’d dropped a large tray at a quiet party.

“I’m sorry, but I have a few more questions.”

Ric glanced pleadingly at Matt; and, brother, did I recognize that retro masculine “Can’t you control your ex- wife?” expression.

Matt answered by showing his palms to the ceiling. By now, of course, he’d grown accustomed to the new me. After solving more than one homicide, I could no longer join my fellow New Yorkers in ignoring the singing four-hundred-pound muumuu-wearing man in the subway car.

“I don’t believe you’re thinking clearly, Ric,” I said. “Since you were out cold, how do you know that you weren’t ripped off?”

“Clare, Clare, Clare... you know you’ve changed since I last saw you. You’re still just as beautiful, but I guess ten years is a long time. You used to be so easygoing...”

Easygoing? I thought. Or a gullible pushover?

Ric’s gaze held mine. “How headstrong you’ve become.”

The man’s eyes were velvet brown, arrestingly intense with long, dark lashes. They were what women’s magazines would call “bedroom eyes,” but we weren’t in a bedroom.

“The mugger could have rifled your clothes,” I pointed out. “Have you checked them? Do you still have your wallet?”

“I have it, Clare,” he assured me. “I touched my jacket as soon as I came around. My wallet’s still here.”

To demonstrate, Ric made a show of patting down the left breast pocket of his fine suede jacket. Then he opened it, reached inside, and pulled out his wallet.

“You see, love, no need to keep worrying that pretty head of yours.”

“What about your other pockets?” I asked.

“Clare—” Matt began. I felt the light touch of his hand on my shoulder. I ignored it.

“It’s all right, Matt,” Ric said. “She’s just being protective. She always was a little mother hen.”

Which would make Matt what? I wondered. Henpecked?

“Look, Clare,” Ric continued, “my passport isn’t on me. It’s back in my hotel room. I just have loose change and a handkerchief in my pants, and in this right pocket here the only thing you’ll find is my—”

Ric was opening up his jacket again, this time on the right side, to show me that all was well, and I shouldn’t worry my “pretty mother hen” head.

But all wasn’t well.

“Omigawd!” Tucker pointed. “Your beautiful jacket.”

The left side of Ric’s jacket may have been fine and his wallet untouched, but the right was in tatters, its lining ripped, and whatever was inside the breast pocket was gone.

Matt stepped forward, his jovial expression gone, too. “What did you say was in that pocket?”

“My keycard,” said Ric, locking eyes with Matt. “The key to my hotel room.”