“I know him, Lieutenant,” I quickly broke in. “But I have no idea why he’s here.”
“Who is he?” Quinn asked once more.
“My ex-husband.”
Eight
I knew very well that chanting to myself wasn’t going to make the ludicrous tableau in front of me disappear. But at the time I was desperate enough to try anything. “Detective—”
“Clare, what the
“Matteo,” I began, “don’t get upset—”
“Upset?
“Calm down! It’s not
“Detective,” I tried again, with excessive calm. “There’s obviously been a mistake.”
Matt turned to Quinn. “You heard her.” He rattled his chain-linked wrists. “So get these damned things off me.
For a good ten seconds, Quinn didn’t move a corpuscle.
Officer Langley, on the other hand, shifted uneasily. He turned to me. “Ms. Cosi, you say this man is your ex —”
“Husband, yes,” I affirmed.
The young officer glanced at Quinn and scratched his head, clearly unsure whether this was yet another of the detective’s tests. Then Langley moved toward Matt’s wrists. Quinn’s arm blocked the way.
“Detective?” asked Langley.
“I have a few questions first.”
“Jesus H.—” said Matt.
“First of all, Mr. Cosi—” Quinn began.
“It’s Allegro,” snapped Matt.
“Cosi’s my maiden name,” I explained.
“Yes, she took it back—in record time,” Matt announced, as he usually did, with the tone of
“Mr.
“Don’t patronize me—”
“I need you to calm down,” Quinn repeated.
“Jesus.”
Quinn glanced at Langley. “Let’s find him a seat.”
Langley grasped Matt’s ample bicep and paused when Matt tensed. Visiting high-altitude coffee plantations had been Matteo’s occupation for years. The remote regions had fed his passion for hiking, biking, rock-climbing, and cliff diving—all of which had honed a formidable physique.
I wasn’t surprised it had taken two men to cuff my ex-husband. And Langley didn’t appear overjoyed about wrestling him any further. But the moment’s resistance on Matt’s part was only an automatic reflex. A second later he exhaled, snapped out a “Fine, let’s go,” and allowed Langley to lead him into the living room.
Quinn followed, signaling through the back windows to Demetrios that everything was under control. Next he pulled the lyre-backed chair away from the wall and plopped it down in front of the fireplace, right in the center of the Persian prayer rug.
My breath caught a moment. If memory served, Madame once told me that lyre-backed chair was one of only thirty-two in existence. It was originally fashioned for the nearby Saint Luke in the Fields, founded in 1822, when Greenwich Village was still a rural hamlet.
Saint Luke’s, which still had the tidy, cozy feel of a rural parish, was one of the oldest churches in Manhattan. In 1953, Madame had attended poet Dylan Thomas’s funeral there, and in 1981, when the original chapel had been gutted by fire, the church held an auction of basement relics to raise money for the restoration. The Village Blend had provided the coffee and pastries free of charge and also purchased this finely made chair.
Langley led Matt to the chair and I cringed, dreading what another wrestling match would do to the delicate piece.
“Wait!” I cried. “Don’t move!”
The three men froze as I raced into the kitchen, brought back a sturdy Pottery Barn knockoff of a French café cane-backed turn-of-the-century Thonet.
I placed the Thonet down, returned the lyre-back to its place by the wall, and finally announced, “Go ahead, Detective…with your interrogation…or whatever.”
Matt let out a snort at the confused expressions on the other men’s faces. “She used to be sane,” Matt told them. “Back when I first met her. Before my mother got hold of her.”
I glared and he tilted his head, leering at me in that awful, confident way that seemed to say, “You never cease to amuse me, Clare.” Then he sat on the Thonet—its seat adorned by a Bordeaux velvet chair cushion—and coolly leaned back.
“Well, Detective. I’m seated. I’m relatively calm. But unless you want to charge me with something, I’m not about to answer any questions.”
“All right,” said Quinn. “Then I take it you don’t want to explain
The detective’s hand disappeared into his shirt pocket and reappeared with a small vial positioned between his thumb and forefinger. Three-quarters of the vial was filled with white powder.
“Here we go—” said Matt wearily.
“Where did you find that!” I blurted to Quinn, knowing full well I didn’t want to know the answer.
“The right front pocket of your ex-husband’s jeans.”
I closed my eyes, shook my head. Didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to see it. Didn’t want to go through it. Not again.
“Take it easy, Clare,” said Matt. “It’s not what you think—”
“Matt, I can’t believe you’d take us down this road again—”
“I didn’t.”
“I can book you right now for possession,” said Quinn.
“Possession of what, Detective? Just what do you think you’ve got there?”
“Cocaine!” Langley blurted. “Right, Detective?”
“Wrong,” said Matt.
“I see,” said Quinn. “And from you ex-wife’s reaction, you’re going to tell me you weren’t an addict?”
“Christ. It’s
“Excuse me?” said Quinn.
“Caffeine. Pure caffeine.”
I laughed. It was a little hysterical, I admit, but I knew Matt was telling the truth. He’d said something to me last year about finding a way to get over jet lag without subjecting himself to the heinous vagaries of airport coffee. This must have been the solution.
“Rub a little on your gums, Detective, and you’ll see,” said Matt. “Coke numbs the gums. This doesn’t.”
Quinn shook the vial, contemplating the powder. “Caffeine?”
“Isn’t caffeine
“Coffee’s brown,” I told him. “Because of the roasting process the green beans are put through. But if that white powder is caffeine, it’s the by-product of the chemical process for decaffeinating coffee beans. It’s what supplies the caffeine in soft drinks.”
