Murder by Mocha

it.

Moving to my espresso machine, I went to work.

Eight

Given the events of my morning, I couldn’t wait to see a male body lying on sheets that were not covered in fake blood. When I walked into my bedroom, however, I found the four- poster empty.

Like silver-haired Bob downstairs, Mike Quinn had gone missing. His clothes and shoes were still here. So was his weapon. I could see it peeking out of his shoulder holster, which was still hanging from the back of Madame’s Duncan Phyfe chair.

“Mike?” I called, stepping into the hallway.

Before I could tap on the bathroom door, it swung open. The man himself filled the frame. His hair was damp and slicked back, his skin shimmering with shower dew. Around his hips, he’d tucked one of my fluffy white bath towels.

Forcing my attention away from the glistening slab of naked cop, I focused instead on King Kong (what my staff called the largest cup we stocked).

“Here you go,” I said, lifting the twenty-ounce behemoth. “The Blend’s Depth Charge for your eye-opening pleasure.”

The King Kong DC was a triple espresso poured into a giant Breakfast Blend—essentially a java boilermaker. It was also the highest-caffeinated drink we served. A café in Brooklyn actually slung a ten-shot espresso they called the dieci (“ten” in Italian). The café’s customers dubbed it “porn in a cup,” but I refused to carry a similar monstrosity.

Back in art school, one of my professors had impressed me with his love of ancient Greece, whose citizens had inscribed Nothing in Excess on their great shrine of Delphi. Certainly Athenians would have poo-pooed the dieci. But my objection had less to do with a philosophy of moderation than a baseline of quality: by the time the fifth double was pulled for the beverage, the espresso’s crema and texture were completely destroyed.

So, okay, our super-large speedball wasn’t the sort of drink coffee connoisseurs ordered, either. Consumers of it veered toward the bleary-eyed NYU law student, night-shift beat cop, and overworked RN—but we had our standards.

Mike set down the razor he was holding and knocked back almost half of the twenty-ouncer (a feat in itself).

“Your hazelnut bars are on the kitchen counter,” I said, thinking how sexy his hair looked wet. Probably because it appeared darker, which seemed more dangerous. (Stupid? Yes. But who can argue with libido?)

“Thanks,” he said, and raised the giant cup. “This is outstanding.”

I smiled. “I thought I’d find you in bed.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Disappointed?”

“Yes. I am.”

“Well, no cause for that. You found me didn’t you?”

He leaned down. I backed up. “Sorry,” I said, stiff-arming him. “As much as I’d like to, the morning I had was . . .” I shuddered, thinking of that laundry bin. “I need to clean up.”

He laughed and tugged back the wet shower curtain. “Tub’s free.”

“Oh no. Not with you in here shaving.”

“You don’t trust me to control myself?”

I looked him over, sighed. “It’s not you I’m worried about.”

“Well, okay. Now we’re talking.”

“And that’s all we’re doing. You have an important meeting, and I have an endless day ahead.”

I turned to leave. He caught my arm. “Stay. Keep me company.” He threw me a sweet leer. “You can keep your clothes on.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You’re welcome . . .” He flipped on the hot water. I leaned against the doorjamb, watched him lather up.

The shaving kit was Mike’s, of course. He kept personals here just as I kept things at his place.

“So . . .” Mike said, as he rinsed his razor. “What was that urgent call about?”

“Call?” The last thing I wanted to discuss. “Oh, nothing,” I said, making nothing sound lighter than pink cotton candy. “No big deal. Not important.”

Mike turned, met my eyes. “You’re actually trying that with me?”

So much for playing a man who interviews perps for a living. I cleared my throat. “Madame and Alicia—they had a . . . problem.” There, that was true.

“What problem? Clare, what exactly did you deal with this morning?”

“Deal with? Well, let’s see . . .” A disappearing dead body, a skeevy hotel burglar, two agitated detectives, and a wildly duplicitous business associate.

“It really just boils down to advice. The women needed to speak with someone who had friends in the NYPD.”

He stared. “Am I going to owe someone a major favor?”

“No. Actually, it’s the other way around. Two gold badges now owe me one.”

Soles and Bass had received so many handshakes and back pats at the Seventeenth you would have thought they’d brought in all ten of the FBI’s most wanted instead of some two-bit hotel bagman.

“Okay.” Mike appeared relieved—and intrigued. “You’re going to fill me in on the details later, right?”

“Yes, of course, when you don’t have a meeting with the first deputy commissioner to make.” I tapped my watch and he went back to shaving. Then his gaze found mine in the mirror.

“I can’t wait to hear who owes you this favor.” His eyes were smiling.

“You seem in good spirits, considering what you told me this morning.”

“That’s because I was conflicted earlier this morning. Now I’m resigned.”

“To what?”

“Resigning.”

“Excuse me?”

“The way I figure it,” he said, “the Fourteenth Floor already knows how this story is shaping up in the press—”

Mike was referring to the police commissioner’s office, which was located on the fourteenth floor of One Police Plaza—a location he also called the “Puzzle Palace.” (I always thought “Puzzle Palace” was what soldiers called the Pentagon. “They do,” Mike once explained to me, “but when New York cops use it, they mean police headquarters, especially when NYPD administrators issue politically motivated directives that are a complete puzzle to the rank and file.”)

“Just to be clear,” I interrupted. “This news story you’re talking about—it’s that young artist, right? The one who killed himself yesterday by jumping into his own painted bull’s-eye on a Brooklyn sidewalk?”

“Yes. My guess is . . . the commissioner’s people have been monitoring incoming questions from the press. The angle could be bad.”

“In what way?”

“The press could be gearing up to spin the NYPD as the big villain of the story.”

“I don’t understand. How can you be the villain?”

“My guys were the ones who handled the kid after his fiancée died of a drug overdose. Sully and Franco were the ones who nailed him down as a key witness against a Jersey drug dealer doing business in our jurisdiction, and they’ll be the ones accused of mishandling the boy.”

“Mishandling?”