Espresso Shot

The man sighed, fished a vial of pills out of his pocket, and dumped a few into his mouth, swallowing them dry. Then he stared off into space.

Come on, Clare. Find another button to press...

“So why did you and Breanne break up exactly? It sounds like you had a pretty good thing going.” (If you can call a torrid extramarital affair capped by a heartbreaking revelation for the wife and kids a “pretty good” thing.)

“Breanne wanted more than just a marriage. She always wanted more. It’s her defining characteristic.”

“I don’t understand.”

“She worked at New York Trends, but she wanted her own magazine. So she convinced me to give her $250,000.”

“For what?”

“A pitch. That’s what she called it. A prototype and multimedia demonstration for Reston-Miller Publications.”

“So your money helped start her magazine. That was really nice of you.”

“Nice? I was a dim-witted dupe. Within a year the bitch dropped me like an out- of-season handbag. She started an affair with the photographer who shot her magazine’s first cover. Then she filed for divorce, the greedy little lying tart ...”

Winslow’s mood was getting uglier by the minute, and I wondered what he was on right now. While I needed to push him off balance emotionally, the drugs were heightening his agitation, and I was starting to worry about physical safety.

I wasn’t ready to give up yet. I wanted badly to nail this creep for Hazel Boggs’s murder. To do that, I had to get him to admit he wanted his ex-wife dead. Of course, I didn’t want to end up dead in the process. Quinn would never forgive me for being that stupid.

“So, was the divorce messy?” I asked, pressing on.

“Expensive is what it was. Bloodsucking lawyers, all of them. Of course, I still had plenty of money then so I didn’t pursue a percentage of her magazine. I wanted to be rid of her, and I assumed Trend would fail in its first year, anyway. Then those bureaucratic bastards at the FDA forced me into bankruptcy.”

“The FDA?”

Quinn had said something about Winslow’s company going out of business because of a multimillion-dollar lawsuit. I made a leap.

“Was it the antiwrinkle drug? The one Breanne interviewed you about?”

“There was nothing wrong with it!” Blue veins throbbed visibly on the man’s forehead. “The FDA trumped up false data about life-threatening side effects and forced a recall!”

“I can see they robbed you blind.” I gestured to the crumbling paint, the soiled rugs, the empty spaces where possessions once existed. “I guess that’s why Monica’s deal sounded pretty sweet then, huh? How did you two hook up, anyway?”

“Oh, that...” He waved his hand. “Monica overheard me arguing with my ex-wife in her office. I only wanted the money the woman rightfully owed me.”

“You mean that $250,000? The money you lent her to start Trend?”

“I demanded every penny back with interest. She said no. I stormed out, and Monica followed me. We had lunch, and she asked me about my past with Breanne—just like you’re doing now. Stealing the rings was her idea.”

“Yeah, Monica never could stand her boss. And Breanne made a complete fool of you, right? I’ll bet you wouldn’t mind seeing her get what’s coming to her.”

“Oh, the bitch will get what’s coming to her. I’m sure of it.”

“Are you? How? I mean... Do you need any help with that? I’m no fan of the woman, either. I wouldn’t mind seeing something happen to her. It could look like an accident. It’ll be easy.”

Winslow froze for a moment after I’d said those words. He stared at me for a long, silent minute, then he stood and said, “You have to leave now. I’m going out.”

“Out where? Maybe we can take a taxi together?”

Winslow shook his head. “Come, miss. Time to go.”

Dammit. I stood up slowly and followed him to the door, my mind racing. But I couldn’t think of what else to say. Abruptly, he turned to me.

“When will I hear from you? About the rings?”

“Soon,” I said.

Before I could think of another ploy, Winslow unlocked the apartment door and opened it. Lieutenant Quinn and Sergeant Sullivan stood there, badges in hand, two men in uniforms behind them. In one fast motion, Quinn grabbed Winslow’s wrist and twisted his arm behind his back.

“Stuart Allerton Winslow, you’re under arrest for the distribution of a controlled substance without the consent of a licensed and authorized physician.”

Quinn slipped a handcuff around one wrist. From under his tangled hair, Winslow’s eyes caught mine. “You set me up?”

I backed away from the enraged man.

“You little bitch!” he shouted. “You set me up!”

“Quiet,” Quinn said, twisting his arm a little more.

Winslow howled and spat at me. “You’ll die for this, bitch! I’ll kill you myself, with my own—owww!”

“Listen to me, asshole,” Quinn said as he cuffed Winslow’s other wrist, none too gently. “You have the right to remain silent ...”

When he finished rattling off the man’s Miranda rights, he handed the prisoner over to Sullivan and the two young cops in uniform. Winslow continued to shout obscenities and threats until the elevator doors closed in his face.

“Sorry, Mike,” I said, “I couldn’t get him to admit to planning the robbery or trying to kill Breanne.”

“It’s okay, Cosi. You did good. Better than good. You got us a lot of material to use for interrogation. We should be able to soften Winslow up, get him to admit conspiracy in the robbery. A confession to murder might be harder to get, but he could slip up, admit he wanted his wife dead. Then we’ll go from there, try to get him to admit to the SUV incident and the shooting of the stripper by mistake. We’ve got a search warrant on the way, too. Who knows?” He glanced inside the musty apartment. “We might find the murder weapon in this dump.”

I shook my head. Quinn had wanted to use a policewoman, but I convinced him I could do the job. “Still —”

Quinn lifted my chin. “Lighten up, sweetheart. You did what you came to do. With Winslow in custody, your ex-husband can rest easy. Breanne Summour is no longer in danger.”

Twenty-Four

“I’d like us all to raise a glass...”

Matt lifted his goblet of sangria blanco to begin a toast, but Machu Picchu’s dining room was currently displaying the noise level of a Times Square subway platform. When he realized few people had heard him, he climbed onto a chair, pulled a pen out of his pocket, and began loudly knocking it against his half-filled goblet.

“Attention! Atencion!”

It was Thursday afternoon, and all of Matt’s coffee colleagues had shown for Madame’s special luncheon. They were having a grand old time, laughing, singing, and loudly conversing over cocktails and Peruvian-style tapas.

The restaurant itself was a charmer, with terra-cotta walls, Incan art, and an impressive display of handmade clay pots. But Madame hadn’t chosen the hot, new Soho eatery for its food or decor. The place’s name was what attracted her, reminding her of a sweet memory long past: ascending the actual Machu Picchu with Matt’s late