On What Grounds

Do keep your beans away from excessive air, moisture, heat, and light.Do not freeze or refrigerate your daily supply of coffee!Do store your coffee in an air-tight container and keep it in a dark and cool location.Do buy freshly roasted coffee often and buy only what you will use in the next one or two weeks since the fresh smell and taste of coffee begin to decline almost immediately after roasting.

So, anyway, there I was, surveying my tightly sealed ceramic coffee containers (color-coded by blend) and thinking about Quinn. How would I impress him, surprise him, yet not turn him off with an experience that was too exotic?

“That’s easy,” I murmured, reaching for the Village Blend’s House Blend, a complex mixture of imported Central and South American beans roasted dark yet with a mellow, nutty finish and rich, earthy overtones. It didn’t have the caffeine of a lighter roast but neither would it have the awful acidity of that stale crap Quinn was used to downing daily. Our house blend made fresh was a beautifully smooth cup.

“Perfect.” If I could hook Quinn on that, then he’d be back for more. And if he came back for more, then no matter what the official ruling was on Anabelle’s fall, he might be willing to help me get to the bottom of what really happened.

I ground the beans fresh, filled the water reservoir of the electric drip coffee maker, dumped the fresh- smelling roast into the gold filter basket, and hit the START button.

While the coffee brewed, I prepared a tray with sugar, fresh cream, and six cups, making the assumption that the people in this “Crime Scene Unit” that Quinn was waiting for might want some, too.

I was just reaching for the vacuum thermos to transport the coffee when I heard something—

A thud. Right above my head.

Next came a thump.

Then the upstairs floorboards began to creak.

I froze, cocked an ear, listened as hard as I could.

Clomp, clomp, clomp…

No doubt about it. Someone with heavy feet was walking around upstairs, from the master bedroom to the bath.

How the person had gotten into my duplex I didn’t know, and at the moment, I didn’t care. All I knew was that heavy feet were walking around and then—“Ohmygod!”—it hit me.

If Annabelle had been the victim of foul play, then the perpetrator could be some psycho who’d stuck around for more victims.

The sound of the shower turning on full blast was enough to send me out the door. I pushed the protesting Java back into her carrier and flew down the service staircase, returning to the first floor of the coffeehouse.

“I need your help.”

Quinn was sitting where I’d left him, chatting with Langley and Demetrios. One look at my face and they stopped their conversation cold.

“There’s an intruder in my apartment—”

Quinn got to his feet, the drooping lids of his tired blue eyes lifting fast.

“Are you sure it’s an intruder?” he asked.

“Yes. I don’t have any roommates or guests. My daughter doesn’t even have a key yet.”

“Okay,” said Quinn, removing his trenchcoat and tweedy brown jacket and throwing them over the back of a chair. The discarded layers revealed a dark brown leather holster strapped over a white dress shirt. Quinn unsnapped the small leather strip holding the gun in place under his left arm, then he turned to Demetrios.

“Watch the back alley.”

“Sure, Lieutenant.” Demetrios headed out the front entrance and toward the back of the building.

“That’s the only other exit, right?” asked Quinn. “You mentioned an outside set of stairs, leading up to your place—you can only get to them through the back alley, right?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Okay. Langley, follow me.”

Technically, Quinn hadn’t told me to follow, too. But he hadn’t told me to stay put, either, so I set Java’s carrier on a table and quietly followed the two men up the back stairs.

“Stay behind us,” Quinn warned when he saw me.

They entered the place carefully, checking the living room, small dining area, and kitchen.

Quinn eyed the only other way into or out of the duplex—it was the door off the kitchen, which led to an outside staircase. That second door was solidly bolted and chained. Obviously no one had broken in through there.

“Are you sure you saw someone in here, Ms. Cosi?” asked Quinn.

“Heard someone. Upstairs.” I pointed to the short flight of carpeted wooden stairs tucked beside a large closet next to the kitchen.

All three of us stilled and listened.

The creek of floorboards was unmistakable. Someone was walking around.

“Stand back,” Quinn whispered to me.

His hand dipped into the leather holster strapped beneath his shoulder and he pulled his weapon free—

(I’d really only seen guns on NYPD Blue and in the occasional noir movie on the Turner Classic Movie channel. This real-life one seemed awfully darned big, and I found myself consciously swallowing a spontaneous gasp.)

He pointed the barrel, which looked to me like a small cannon, at the floor and moved to the base of the staircase.

Langley followed, his gun—just as big—drawn, too.

“Is that necessary?” I whispered.

“I hope not,” Quinn said softly, then he moved his foot like Java, carefully, slowly, testing the first step. It gave off a soft creak. He glanced back at Langley and motioned for him to stay.

I held my breath watching Quinn move to the top of the staircase, never guessing a guy so big could move so stealthily. I wondered for a moment why Langley was staying behind, and then I realized Quinn was concerned the intruder might get by him. In that case, he obviously wanted someone at the base of the stairs to prevent the escape. Having someone substantially bigger than me—not to mention armed—was clearly preferred.

Quinn turned the corner and there was a hideous few seconds of absolute silence. Then came a muted voice of surprise—followed by the detective’s: “Police. Hands on your head. Now.”

Langley ran up the stairs.

More muted voices.

Quinn talked to Langley. Then Langley said something to Quinn.

There was a scuffling movement, an oof, a string of curse words.

Loud voices.

Silence again.

“Move.”

Langley appeared at the top of the staircase. He moved down, the intruder behind him, hands behind his back. They’d cuffed him, I realized. Good. Another few steps and Langley would be out of the way, and I’d finally get a look at this nervy bastard’s face.

I watched parts of him revealed. The bare feet, the pair of worn buttonfly jeans, an expanse of tanned, sculpted chest—

Oh, God, I thought. I know that chest—and the chiseled chin. The Roman nose. The short black Ceasar cut.

“Matt,” I choked out. “Is that you?”

“Clare?”

Oh, darnit.

“Ms. Cosi, You know this guy?” Quinn asked, bringing up the rear of this morning’s little arrest-the-perp train.

“Yes, she knows me!” Matt stated. “In the biblical sense!”