Espresso Shot

“No, but I can find out.”

I rang Matt to warn him about Javier. Matt had trouble believing it, but not after I told him about the poison.

“Is Javier there now?” I asked. “At the rehearsal dinner?”

“No,” Matt said. “He’s not a member of the wedding party. I haven’t seen much of the man all week. I don’t even know where he’s staying!”

“Take it easy, okay? Mike Quinn’s on the phone with his precinct now. He’s going to have a BOLO issued. We’ll find him.”

We spoke a few more minutes, and then I had to ask. “Matt, did Breanne have a talk with you? Did she tell you about her past?”

After a pause, Matt lowered his voice. “She told me everything, Clare. Where she was born, how she grew up, her real name, everything.”

“The wedding’s still on, isn’t it?”

“Of course! I don’t give a crap about her past. It’s nobody’s business but her own. All that matters to me now is our future.”

I couldn’t stop the smile. For the first time in a long while, I was actually proud of my ex-husband. “Now that’s the Matt I married.”

“What?”

“Forget it. I just hope you’ll both be very happy.”

A minute later, Mike finished his own call. “If we can’t pick up Javier before tomorrow’s wedding, we’re going to the wedding in plain clothes.”

“It’s a big crowd, Mike. How many cops are coming?”

“Soles and Bass, some of the guys in my building. The detectives on the Machu Picchu attack.”

I shook my head. It was hard to believe, but Breanne’s white wedding was about to become an NYPD stakeout.

Thirty-Five

“Everything looks perfect, Clare! Just perfect!”

Janelle Babcock folded her arms and stepped back from our coffee and dessert station. Her delicate confections were arranged on serving trees, surrounded by hand-blown Venetian glass, each jewel-toned piece filled with samples of my rare, roasted coffee beans.

“Perfect isn’t my favorite word,” I said. “But it does look spectacular.”

Esther Best strolled up to us, her wild dark hair tied neatly back, her blue Village Blend apron covering a plain white blouse and black slacks. “Nice bling,” she said, pointing to Nunzio’s fountain at the center of the display.

“Priceless bling,” I said. “Go ahead and take a closer look.”

The tabletop fountain consisted of three golden catch basins. Around the rim of each bowl, finely detailed reliefs depicted scenes from the stories of history’s most famous lovers. The entire sculpture was capped by the stylized nudes of a man and woman. Prosecco champagne—kissed with the sweetness of peach nectar—poured out of the apple in the woman’s hand and flowed like golden rain from one bowl to the next, through hundreds of holes in each basin’s bottom.

“Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here,” Esther said. “Adam and Eve at the top, and I can see the snake, too, with real ruby eyes. Nice. And what’s on the middle tier?”

“That’s Antony and Cleopatra,” I said. “You can follow the story in pictures around the bowl. See the poison asp biting the queen of the Nile? The snake has real emeralds for eyes.”

“The base is Romeo and Juliet,” Janelle noted.

Esther studied the entire piece for a moment then scratched her head. “Ah, kids? Weren’t these lovers sort of screwed by the end of their stories? I mean, I don’t see any happily-ever-after here.”

I froze for a second then glanced at Janelle. We’d been working with photos and dimensions and metric volumes. We’d never considered the sculpture’s overall meaning.

“I think she’s right,” Janelle said, stifling a laugh.

I folded my arms and sighed, recalling my evening with Nunzio. The man was sexy as hell, but he’d displayed all the sentiment of a soccer ball. “You know what? I think the artist knew exactly what he was doing, and the joke’s on us.”

I checked my watch. At this very moment, beneath a rose bower on the Met’s Roof Garden, Matt and Breanne were exchanging vows, surrounded by a half-dozen NYPD detectives, including Mike Quinn, Sully, Soles and Bass, and Rocky Friar. I felt confident they would snatch Javier Lozado the moment he showed his mustachioed face.

Everything was good to go on our end of the European Sculpture Court. The espresso machines at the Blend’s station were up and running, the Clovers were in place, the cups and glass mugs ready, and my baristas were eager to begin serving the moment the guests arrived.

“Tell me again about the first toast?” Janelle asked.

“As soon as the bride and groom come down from the roof, we’re going to become the center of attention. The newlyweds will walk right over to us and toast each other with shots of espresso.”

I showed Janelle the heavy, sterling silver tray Madame was going to use to serve the couple the first cups of their married life.

Janelle shook her head. “I still don’t get it. Why toast with coffee when there’s all this great champagne around?”

“The guests will be drinking champagne, but not the wedding party. Toasting with coffee is a family tradition started by Matt’s great-grandfather. It’s based on an old Turkish custom. The bridegroom made a promise to always provide coffee for his wife. If he failed to deliver, it was grounds for divorce.”

“Coffee is grounds for divorce?” Janelle groaned. “There’s a joke in there somewhere.”

Another man with a camera approached our coffee and dessert display, which the Trend photographer had already snapped dozens of times.

“Clare, look at the man’s ID. That photographer’s from the New York Times!” Janelle whispered. “Come on, let’s talk our way into his pictures.”

“You go, girl.” I smiled. “It’s your night.”

I checked my watch again. Once the tidal wave hit, I wouldn’t have a moment’s peace for at least four solid hours. With my servers chatting around the coffee station, and Janelle speaking with the Times photographer, I decided to circle the vast sculpture court before the crowd came at us.

Across the expanse of white marble, a string quartet had begun tuning up. Their perfect prolonged notes rose hauntingly in the airy space, but the blush of the setting sun, suffusing everything with burnished light, was what made the vast room absolutely magical. The glowing rays streamed through the glass panels of the pitched roof, giving the fifteen-foot stone sculptures the patina of antique brass. More light streamed from the west through the transparent wall that faced Central Park. Below the endless blue of a cloudless sky, newly budding trees swayed in the mild spring breeze.

I paused inside the Sculpture Court to watch a photographer rearrange his subject under the marble likeness of Perseus. More pixielike models in designer gowns posed amid the statuary, the artfully arranged raw bar and hors d’oeuvres, and the mountain of tastefully wrapped wedding gifts piled like pirate booty.

The photographers were hustling now, trying to finish before the 350 guests descended from witnessing the wedding ceremony. As I moved to the far end of the quiet atrium to study a fifteenth-century Venetian sculpture of Adam, a tall man in a tuxedo approached me. He was clean-shaven with spiky hair and a rugged, handsome face. I didn’t realize who the man was until he stopped right in front of me.

“Good evening, Ms. Cosi. Are you prepared for the big event?”

In shock, I stared at Javier Lozado. I took a breath, glanced around. There was no one close to help. The