Murder by Mocha

“Point them out.”

I did, quietly describing each person.

“You know to stick around, right?” Sue Ellen said. “We may have more questions for you.”

“Whatever I can do . . .”

While the Fish Squad drifted across the sea green floor, I noticed a dozen men in suits, standing stiff as Doric columns among the sagging clusters of remaining guests. These men were Lori and Sue’s colleagues from the One Seven. They were still taking statements—and in their hands were familiar looking paper cups. I tensed at the sight. Sure enough, one glance at the samples bar confirmed my fear: a line of cops stood waiting for refills on Mocha Magic.

I hurried toward my baristas, waving my hands. “Stop serving!”

Esther glanced up from her French press pour. “What’s your issue, boss lady?”

“You know what my ‘issue’ is. You’re passing out aphrodisiacs to half the badges in Midtown!” I turned to Tucker. “I’m surprised at you.”

He shrugged. “They’re thirsty.”

“No more cupid helper. The faucet is off as of now!”

I shooed away the refill line and helped my baristas break down the station. In the process, I broke down myself and knocked back two successive cups of Mocha Magic. Yes, okay, I was being a total hypocrite, but exhaustion was setting in, and I badly needed something warm and stimulating.

Unfortunately, as I started ingesting my third cup, the world began to look hazy again—and not from unshed tears. Beyond the Loft’s wall of windows, the city’s neon rainbow pixilated and spun. I gripped the samples table and closed my eyes . . .

Opening them again, I noticed a familiar figure in a blue serge suit stepping out from a cluster of bodies. A head taller than the other detectives, this broad-shouldered lieutenant drained his paper cup as he approached.

Mike? I rubbed my eyes. Was I imagining him?

“When did you get back?”

He didn’t answer, simply took hold of my wrist and pulled me along. We retraced our steps to the catering kitchen. Honestly, I was relieved to go. After tonight’s horrific events, I badly needed to talk things over.

At the kitchen door, Kevin the Matterhorn stood guard. This surprised me, but Mike gave the young man a quick nod. Kevin stepped aside, and we moved into the kitchen.

The space was deserted and dimly lit, giving us plenty of privacy to talk. Mike didn’t appear interested in talking. Tossing away his empty cup, he headed for the exterior doors.

“Wait!” I said. “I don’t want to go back out there!”

Like a soundless phantom, Mike continued pulling me—through the exit and onto the balcony-like strip that led to the rooftop Garden. Pivoting, he used his body to back me into a wing of the recessed doorway.

The storm may have ended, but its heavy air lingered, dropping damp, gray fog over everything. A gauzy curtain of mist hung between us and the city, turning skyscrapers into looming Titans. Dark and motionless, the giants hovered with more menace than the lobby’s sepia-toned ceiling gods.

“They’re watching,” I whispered, pointing to the security camera. “We’re not alone.”

Mike didn’t appear to care. His free hand flashed behind him and then I heard a click. I jerked to pull away but couldn’t. Looking at my arm, I saw why—

“You handcuffed me?”

Mike shook his own cuffed wrist. “We’re linked now.”

What kind of game was this? “Unlock these! Let me go!”

“You’re not going anywhere, Cosi.”

“The hell I’m not!”

I moved to leave. He tugged me back. I tried again, but he was stronger. With a chuckle, he pulled my cuffed arm up around his neck. He grabbed my other wrist, placed it there, too. Click-click!

I tugged at my wrists, tried to pull them back from behind his neck. I couldn’t. Mike had freed himself while locking my wrists together.

“How did you do that?”

“Magic,” he said. “Now hold on.” His big hands reached under my thighs and lifted me up, pressing my back to the hard stone wall—

“You’re acting crazy, you know that? We can’t do this!”

He obviously didn’t agree. While his lips nuzzled my neck, he angled his lower body to brace me. With one arm, he held me close, freeing the other to tug up my skirt.

“Mike, slow down!”

Struggling against him, I raised my arms to gain some slack. My bonded wrists nearly cleared his head when he dropped me a few inches, locking me close again.

This is insane! “They’re watching!” I cried.

“Forget them,” he whispered. “Forget them all . . .”

Sealing our mouths, he used his tongue for another kind of persuasion. Soon my tension melted, my limbs relaxed.

“Say yes,” he rasped.

The moment I nodded, the handcuffs unlocked, clothes were shoved aside, and finally, inexorably, he joined us. The city lights blurred as he moved, faster and faster. I felt breathless, feverish. Beads of sweat formed on my limbs and forehead. I closed my eyes, letting his body blot out everything until my need for release made me dizzy. At last, he was crying out and so was I . . .

When I opened my eyes, I found myself standing, my clothes back in place and Mike on the ground. He was propped against the building’s wall, his long legs stretched out in front of him. I was still handcuffed, although not to myself. We were back to one cuff on me, the other on Mike.

“Hey!” I called, nudging him.

He snored lightly.

“You’re sleeping?” I shook him, but he failed to stir, and that’s when I heard it—a small, wild voice.

“Clare!”

I stilled. Traffic sounds drifted up from the avenue but no voices. I leaned out of the recessed doorway, peered down the long balcony. Against my cheek, the night mist felt sticky, like sky nectar.

“I’m in the Garden! Help me!”

I bent over Mike, shook him more violently. “Wake up!”

His eyes half opened. “Can’t a guy catch some z’s?”

I rifled through his pockets. Finally, I found it—the handcuff key! Working quickly, I freed myself, then moved toward the voice.

“Hurry! Please, hurry!”

I flew through the mist, but the Garden was gone; some unearthly cloud had swallowed it whole.

“Clare!”

With every yard, the gray soup grew denser. I nearly gave up—until a light appeared and then another. Like gas lamps along a foggy street, the faux Greek columns illuminated small pools of rooftop. From one to the next I moved, shadowy outlines jumping out at me, ghosts of potted plants, specterlike folding chairs.

But where are the police?

I saw no uniforms or nylon jackets; no notebooks, cameras, or latex gloves. Only the puddles were left, like liquid mirrors, reflecting my moving legs as they hurried along until a flash of red stopped me—my daughter, dashing by in her red hooded jacket.

“Joy!” I called, but she vanished in the fog.

“Help me! Please!”

The rain-swept platform stood before me, its white canopy fluttering. I searched the stage. Empty.

“Here I am!”

In the Garden pool, I found her—Patrice Stone, alive! Her prairie-sky eyes were blinking, her mouth moving.