husband, and what he did in his spare time was
Using a wooden spoon, I stirred the grounds with a little more force than necessary and replaced the lid of the French press. (I found that stirring the water and freshly ground coffee nicely kick-starts the brewing process.)
“How are you fixed for staff?” Matt moved to the small kitchen table, removed his suit jacket, and draped it over a cane-back chair.
“It’s Esther’s regular day and she agreed to come early to help me open.”
Matt almost laughed as he sat down. “Good luck with that.”
Esther had slept through her alarm so often, I’d finally restricted the girl to afternoon and evening shifts only. But she seemed willing, and I was definitely desperate. “It’ll take me a day or more to juggle the schedules. I was relying on Tucker for so much, but at least his friend Moira agreed to cover for him.” I sat down opposite my ex- husband and stared.
He knew the look. “What?”
“I could have used your help last night. The investigators from the Crime Scene Unit didn’t leave the shop until after eleven. The place was totally wrecked.”
“Sorry, Clare, but I thought Tucker needed my help more.”
“Tucker?” I sat back. “You…you were helping Tucker?”
My shocked tone seemed to offend him. “Of course I was helping Tucker,” he said. “Where the hell did you think I was?”
“How did you even know where to find him? I called the precinct, but no one would answer my questions or return my calls. Around one, a desk sergeant finally informed me that Tucker was ‘being processed’—exactly the same vague crap I got from Detective Hutawa.”
Matt sighed and rubbed his neck. “Tucker spent the night on suicide watch inside Rikers Island jail—”
“Suicide watch!”
I think the blood must have drained from my face because Matt’s expression went from simply tired to suddenly alarmed. “Clare, it’s okay. He’s okay. It’s just a ploy.”
“A ploy? What do you mean ‘a ploy’? What are you talking about?”
“Suicide watch means he’ll be isolated from the general hardened prison population and presumably safe from…interference.”
It took a few seconds for this notion to sink in—that a “suicide watch” could, in any way, be a good thing. But it finally registered, and a perplexing question came with it: “Matt, how in the world did you even know about suicide watch? Or arrange to get Tucker that status?”
“I didn’t,” he replied with a stifled yawn. “It was Doyle Egan.”
The name was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it. “Who is—”
“Detective Egan is a former New York undercover cop who cracked that big Mafia case years ago, the one that led to the mob graveyard in Queens. He retired from the force, got his law degree, and is now practicing with a big firm.”
I nodded, recalling old headlines as mob victims from decades past were unearthed. “But how do you know this Egan person?”
“I don’t. Breanne Summour does. Egan writes a monthly column for
“What would a man like that write about for a fashion magazine?” I asked. “The aesthetics of pinkie rings and prison tattoos? How to dress like a Wise Guy?”
“Breanne’s magazine doesn’t just cover fashion. It publishes all kinds of articles,” he replied, a bit too defensively, I thought.
“All right, okay. So…what about bail?”
“If the judge sets bail, it will be sometime this morning. Tucker is most definitely going to be arraigned for the murder of Ricky Flatt—that’s the bad news. But the good news is a top-notch criminal defense lawyer will be there to represent him.”
“Thank God. I tried Jacobson, but only got the service.”
“Clare, come on. Larry Jacobson’s not a criminal lawyer. We have him on retainer for civil matters.”
“I know that! I just didn’t know who else to call for a criminal lawyer recommendation!”
“Well, I worked it out.”
“I’m glad you did. Believe me, I’m grateful.”
“His name is Walter Tanner. He won a few high profile criminal cases. He agreed to represent Tucker as a favor.”
“A favor?” Matt had made a lot of connections over the years with his world travels, but I couldn’t recall him ever mentioning knowing a high-powered criminal lawyer. “A favor to you?” I prompted.
Matteo shrugged, looked away at the French press. The hot, filtered water was now clear as mud.
“Oh, I see…another favor for Breanne Summour.”
My ex didn’t answer. He simply checked his watch, then reached across the table and pressed the French press’s plunger. The flavors had been extracted from the grounds and now they were forced downward, all the way to the bottom. The beans had been chopped, drowned, and now they were being shoved out of the way. The entire process seemed very violent to me, all of a sudden, and through my exhausted gaze, the plunging action seemed to go on forever in surreal slow motion.
“That Mattari smells heavenly,” said Matt.
I grunted in reply.
It remained quiet after that, though silence between Matteo and I was not unusual, having been together— and apart—so much in our lives. Matt stood and retrieved two mugs from the cupboard and a pint of cream from the fridge. The cream was a gesture. He always drank his coffee black. After pouring both cups, he splashed cream into mine and set it down in front of me.
“Nice crop this year,” he said. “Sweet, fruity, nice depth.”
The Mocha Yemen Mattari was a single-origin coffee; that is, it was unblended with any other bean and simply came straight from its country of origin, in this case the country of Yemen and the region of Mattari. The “mocha” aspect of the name referred not to “chocolate” as in your average mochaccino, but the port from which the coffee was originally exported. If you mixed these beans with Java
I took in the piquant aroma, the warmth, the earthy richness, but none of it was reviving me.
“So,” sighed Matteo, breaking another long silence. “Why do you think he did it?”
“Who…did what?”
“Come on, Clare. Why do you think Tucker poisoned that guy? A lover’s quarrel? I never thought of Tucker as all that tempestuous. But you never know, I guess.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“What?”
“Do you really believe Tucker Burton is a murderer?”
Matteo sat back in his chair. “If not Tucker, then who?”
I set my mug down hard enough to rattle the small table. “That’s what I intend to find out.”
Matteo closed his eyes. “Oh, please, Clare. Not again.”
“Not
“You know. That Nancy Drew thing of yours. This time would you please call that Irish flatfoot,…what’s his name? Flanagan?”
“Quinn!”
“Fine. Call Quinn.”
“I did already, but he didn’t answer his cell and he’s not even in the city. He’s on leave. Family trouble.”
“Oh.”
“Matt, I can’t believe you could think Tucker would do anything like this. Why did you help him if you think he’s a killer?”
“I…I don’t know. Tucker’s a nice guy, and he works for the business my great grandfather started—my
