Espresso Shot

Twenty

Midnight came and went, and the Blend had long since closed its doors to paying customers. But lights still blazed behind the coffee bar and the cozy, caramelized aroma of freshly pulled espressos was still going strong.

Roman Brio balanced on a tall stool, his heavy legs curled under him. Beside him, my laptop was open and connected to the Internet. I stood behind the counter, watching the food writer mainline his third espresso.

“I’ll need another one,” he said, dabbing his lips. Roman set the napkin on the blueberry marble beside the demitasse. I noticed his hand tremble. I wasn’t sure if it was the result of too much caffeine or the aftershock of tonight’s events. Either way, I knew it wasn’t a good sign.

“Maybe you’d like a cappuccino instead,” I suggested. “I have one almost ready to go.”

“No, thanks, Clare. I haven’t lapped warm milk since my nanny force-fed me the stuff in the nursery. Make it a doppio, please. Rapidamente.”

I shrugged and went back to work at the machine. Twenty-five seconds later, the beautiful caramel-colored crema had oozed into the cream-colored cup, and I heard a knock on the front door. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a familiar silhouette through the beveled-glass window. I handed Roman his freshly pulled shot, stepped around the counter, and unlocked the front door.

“Hi, Mike.”

“Hi, Clare.”

Quinn stared down at me, blew out air. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, but it was pretty scary. I could really use a—” Mike pulled me against his chest. I closed my eyes and held on, soaking up his strength. He stroked my hair for a quiet minute, then broke our embrace and held me at arm’s length to look me over.

“Relax. Nothing’s damaged. Not even bruised. You know I can take care of myself.”

Mike didn’t agree or disagree. What he said was, “What the hell were you doing in Flushing?”

I didn’t care for his tone. “I was investigating the threat against Breanne. Just like you thought I should.”

He folded his arms. “And you were attacked and nearly robbed?”

“Not nearly. I was robbed. I lost my brand-new purse. And we have another I word to add to your list, by the way.”

“Sorry? Another what?”

“You remember that little list of attributes you look for in a detective? Well you can add incredulous to it, because that’s your expression right now. You’re surprised, and do you know why, Lieutenant? Because you never believed there was any threat to Breanne, did you?”

“Slow down, Clare!” Mike unfolded his arms and put his hands on my shoulders. “Listen,” he said, “I know you’re tired and upset, and it’s true, I am surprised—you’re right about that—but only that you were ever in any physical danger. Now, start from the beginning and tell me everything that happened.”

We moved to the counter. I made us a couple of lattes. The rote routine calmed my nerves (it always had), then I sat down beside Mike on a barstool and told him the whole story, starting with Neville Perry’s feud with Breanne and ending with the incident aboard the Number 7 line. Roman provided a few details here and there, but he wasn’t his usual loquacious self. When I mentioned that we’d both seen the robber’s face, Mike directed his next question to Roman.

“Did the man seem familiar to you?”

Roman shook his head.

“Someone you might have seen at the office, maybe?” Mike pressed. “A delivery guy? Someone from the mail room? The local deli? Or someone from your neighborhood? Someone you met in a bar? A club? Think.”

“No, no, no, and no, Detective. But I’m sure I could identify that rough beast if I saw him again. He had the face of a stone-cold criminal.”

“I’ll set you up at a terminal tomorrow,” Mike said. “But you might end up looking at mug shots all day. The files on armed robbers are extensive.”

“These were more than armed robbers,” I insisted. “These guys targeted us, Mike. They knew about the rings, they knew Roman had them. They even knew precisely where and when to find us.”

Mike nodded. “They probably would have hit you in front of the Friends Meeting House on Northern if there hadn’t been so much traffic and a strong police presence nearby.”

I plopped my elbows on the counter, pulled my hair back. “I wonder why they didn’t wait for us to leave the dinner and rob us in the alley?”

“The punks got greedy, that’s why. They probably saw how many whales were inside that illegal restaurant and figured they’d just take it all.”

“Of course!” Roman said.

“It doesn’t matter.” Mike rubbed his jaw. “Figuring that out gets us exactly nowhere. We need to know who provided the inside information to the robbers.”

“I’ve been thinking about that, and I have a theory.” I told Mike about Breanne’s ambitious underling, Monica Purcell. “I overheard her talking about the rings with someone on her cell phone. It sounded suspicious at the time, so I snooped around her office.”

I reached into the inside pocket of my little Fen jacket and pulled out the folded paper of Monica’s cell phone numbers.

Mike’s expression was priceless—somewhere between amazed and amused. “Nice work, sweetheart.”

“There were five numbers on Monica’s call log,” I said. “Two of them had names attached, and Roman recognized them both. The first was Mrs. Muriel Purcell, in New Haven, Connecticut.”

“That’s Monica’s mother,” Roman piped up. “A divorced beauty queen on a Botox bender. Someone should really stop that woman.”

“The other call was to Petra, Trend’s art director. The final three didn’t have names in her log. I was going to run them through the Internet’s reverse directory.”

Mike nodded, and I went to work. The first two of the three numbers had Manhattan area codes, and the search engine revealed that one was for the Fitness Plus Day Spa on Eighth Avenue and Seventy-first Street; the second was a health food store on Amsterdam.

“The local numbers are a bust,” I said, disappointed.

I’d scribbled a star beside the final telephone number, because that was the call Monica had made outside of Fen’s boutique, when she informed someone not only where Breanne was but also that Breanne’s rings hadn’t arrived yet and weren’t scheduled to until Nunzio brought them personally.

I typed the number into the search engine.

“Information not available?”

“It’s unlisted,” Mike said. He scribbled the digits down in his notebook and pulled out his cell phone.

“Are you calling your precinct to have someone trace the number?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I’m calling the number.”

Mike listened for a moment then disconnected the call.

“What did you get?” I asked.

“An answering machine. No name or business. Just a canned mechanical voice telling me to leave a message.” He dialed another number. “Put me through to the one-oh-seven.”

While Mike spoke with the precinct’s night commander, I pulled yet another espresso for Roman—at his request. Then I dug up the Manhattan phone book. Monica Purcell was listed; her apartment was on the Upper West Side, not very far from the health club and veggie deli stored on her cell phone log. I wrote down the address and finished my own latte.

“Thanks for your help,” Quinn said, ending the call.

I set the cup down. “Well?”