Murder by Mocha

“I saw it, too,” Kevin agreed.

He enlarged the image of a man and woman. Though their faces were partially obscured by shadow, their activity was clear enough. Lips locked, their bodies seemed to meld together in the darkness.

I watched with mounting dread as Kevin slowed down the playback speed. Finally, he froze the image to give us all the opportunity to study every embarrassing detail.

“What the—” Sue Ellen’s eyes went wide. “Is that you, Cosi?”

Nineteen

“That’s her, all right.”

Lori Soles glanced at her partner, tried not to laugh. “But who’s the lucky guy? I can’t quite see his face. Do you think we have this mug’s mug shot?”

“We do,” Sue Ellen said, folding her arms. “From what I know, he’s on quite a few Most Wanted lists. The ladies of the Gold Shield Bachelor’s Watch for one.”

“What’s that?” Lori asked.

“A feisty little Yahoo! group I just discovered. Not sanctioned by the PD, you understand—”

Kevin loudly cleared his throat, zoomed past the image. “Let’s move along, shall we?”

Face burning, I remained silent.

Kevin glanced back at me, held my eyes. “This camera recorded without a human monitor. In real time, you had your privacy.”

“Thanks,” I said, willing to take my licks. “But we’re not in real time anymore.”

“Sorry, Cosi,” Lori said after a beat. “One of the drawbacks of any investigation: personal secrets get exposed.”

“Nothing to be ashamed of,” Sue Ellen added, slapping my back. “There are plenty of straight females on the job who wouldn’t mind slipping away from a party with Quinn—”

“Oh, really?” I said, finding my spine. “And who would they be?”

“Ladies—” Lori said, then mouthed to her partner. “Let’s not go there.”

Sue Ellen twirled her finger at the monitor. “Rewind some more,” she told Kevin, suddenly eager to refocus on work. “Patrice stepped outside between nine thirty and ten. I’m sure we’ll spot our person of interest—”

“Person of interest?” Ruben Salter echoed. “I thought you were looking to track the deceased’s movements.”

“We’re looking for a murderer,” I said.

“Murderer!” Salter blurted so loudly we all tensed. He looked shocked a moment then seemed almost happy to hear it. “So this is a homicide investigation? Because I was led to believe this was about possible negligence.”

“The case for murder has yet to be proven,” Lori cautioned.

Kevin rewound to the moment Patrice came through the doors. My breathing stopped as he slowed the speed.

“Okay, here it is,” I said. “Go forward, one minute at a time.”

We watched as Patrice stood under the awning, waiting for the downpour to slow. Finally, she moved beyond the camera’s eye. Within a minute, a mysterious figure followed her through the Garden doors.

This should have been our eureka moment. Unfortunately, it wasn’t. The figure stalking Patrice was carrying a very large black umbrella—an umbrella that appeared to move with the person under it, strategically blocking the camera’s view.

Sue Ellen cursed.

“Hold on,” Lori said. “This person had to come back in again.”

Kevin toggled the ball until he found the very same black umbrella going back inside. Again, the person under it used the umbrella as a shield, carefully moving it to avoid being seen.

“The ID’s blown coming and going!”

“It looks like this person knew the camera was there,” I said.

Ruben Salter was more devastated than any of us. “All these cameras and a murderer gets away? How is it possible? Kevin, do we have any other footage of the Garden?” He lowered his voice. “The hidden lenses?”

Kevin checked his log, began punching the board. “I’m getting us rotating shots from two angles. I’m putting them up.”

We studied every image, but there was nothing showing the small canopied stage and podium area in the sprawling rooftop Garden at the exact time of Patrice’s death. Nothing gave us a glimpse of the killer—or even Patrice—in the brief seconds it took to move from the door to the crime scene.

“How long was that person in the Garden with Patrice?” I asked.

Lori glanced at her notebook. “From the time clock: between nine and ten minutes.”

“More than enough time to commit murder,” I said.

“If this is a homicide,” Lori cautioned. “It could be manslaughter. Or something else.”

“Ten minutes out there, right after the victim,” Sue Ellen declared. “Golf umbrella moved enough so we can’t make who it is? This looks wrong and you know it.”

“Kevin, would you go back and hold on that umbrella?” Lori asked. When he did, we all studied the frozen image.

“Look there,” I said. “Is that something printed on it?”

The letters were blurry. Kevin tried to magnify them, but they became even more pixilated.

“Two Ms?” Lori said. “M&Ms? Do they sell umbrellas at the M&M store in Times Square?”

“They’re Ns,” I said. “Double Ns—like a corporate or store logo.”

“Might be a club,” Sue Ellen said. “Neo Nirvana on the Lower East Side. Or Night Nosh, that new twenty- four-hour retro diner on Eighth.”

“What about the National Network?” Mr. Salter suggested. “It’s an online bank that focuses on secure Internet transactions.”

“I like the bank angle,” Lori said, scribbling in her notebook. “Banks are always giving away freebies. Umbrellas are a popular item to push their logo.” She swung around to face the lawyer. “Good call, Mr. Salter.”

Ruben beamed.

We reviewed the elevator cars to and from the Loft, but no one turned up with an umbrella during the appropriate times, and the few umbrellas we saw weren’t black.

“Let’s try the lobby cams,” Sue Ellen suggested.

“We can’t.” Lori said. “We’d be exceeding the parameters of Judge Harman’s search warrant.” She locked eyes with Mr. Salter. “It’s a shame, but . . .” She shook her head, appearing crestfallen. “We’re only permitted to view the Loft & Garden, and the elevators to and from.”

“Oh my. That won’t do. I’m giving you permission right now, Detective Soles. We’ve got to find this killer before he takes it on the lamb! Kevin, do what these ladies tell you.”

“Yes, sir.”

For the next thirty minutes, we studied images from the lobby cams. We found a sea of people, but no one with a large black umbrella in hand.

“The killer must have taken the stairs to another floor, or tossed the umbrella and slipped back into the party,” Sue Ellen speculated.

I noticed Lori staring at me. “Well, Cosi? You had a front-row seat for it all. Do you have a theory?”

I took a breath, considered the consequences of what I was about to say, then said it anyway. “Alicia Bower had a lot to lose tonight. You should question her. Another woman, Maya Lansing, the company’s fitness guru, should be questioned, as well, along with her husband, Herbie Lansing . . .” I did my best to explain the motives