Murder by Mocha

Twenty-Two

“You remember why I had to leave the party, don’t you?” Mike began.

“An urgent phone call,” I said, prepping the man’s second sandwich. “A ‘certain member’ of the NYPD required your attention.”

“Well, that ‘certain member’ was Franco. Sergeant Sullivan wanted to warn me about him.”

“Warn is not a happy word.”

“When Franco found out about my handing his and Sully’s case over to the Feds, he blew a gasket. Sully stressed the decision wasn’t mine; it was Hawke’s—the first deputy commissioner.”

“I remember who Hawke is.”

“Well, Franco didn’t care. He went off half-cocked, anyway.”

I slipped the croque monsieurs into the bubbling butter. “What does that mean exactly?”

“It means he went rogue.”

“In English.”

“He went after the Jersey dealer himself, beyond our jurisdiction and counter to his superior’s decision, which is grounds for reprimand—or even termination. Given the situation, I understood his feelings. Sully is just as emotional about the case, but he’s not as young and hotheaded as Franco. So he called me, and we took off to track Franco down and stop him before he did something actionable.”

“I need a little more here . . .” I slid Mike’s finished sandwich from the pan to his plate.

“So do I. Give me a sec—” He crunched into his croque monsieur, chewed, swallowed, and sighed with satisfaction. “Okay,” he mumbled around another buttery bite. “What don’t you get?”

I refilled Mike’s cup and my own, then sat down opposite. “I don’t get why Franco blew his top. What’s the difference who puts this drug dealer behind bars?”

“That’s just it. Putting him behind bars is the issue. This dealer has no previous record. If he’s smart, he’ll cut a deal with the Feds and do little to no time.”

“But he’s responsible for at least two deaths, isn’t he? The girl who overdosed on his drugs and the artist boyfriend who killed himself over buying them for her.”

“The Feds won’t see it that way. In the bigger picture, this dealer is small time. If he offers good intel on perps higher up the supply chain, they’ll use him as an informant.” Mike finished off his sandwich, sat back.

“And you’re okay with that?”

He folded his arms. “No, I am not ‘okay’ with that, but my feelings are not the law. When you’re on the job, you have to pick your battles. Earlier today, I picked mine. I was willing to go down for my squad. Franco seems willing to go down over this lowlife drug dealer.”

“Why?”

“Because he feels responsible for that kid’s suicide. He thinks he should have seen the signs.”

“Okay, so Franco’s having problems with cop guilt. How does ‘going rogue’ help? What did Franco do exactly?”

“He sat on the dealer.”

I blinked, flashing for a second on those hulks from WrestleMania. “Literally?”

Mike’s grim expression finally broke. “No, not literally. Although Franco’s not above a move like that—” He reached for his coffee mug. “What my young sergeant did was conduct his own private stakeout. He took a little drive across the river to see this perp, and it turned into a very long drive. We tracked him for hours from his radio’s GPS.”

“Wait a second. Are you telling me your sergeant took my daughter on a stakeout of a drug dealer?”

“Calm down. Nothing happened. Absolutely nothing.”

“What in the world was Franco thinking?”

“It wasn’t his idea. Apparently, Joy called him before he got to the Lincoln Tunnel. He picked her up, they parked by the river, and he explained that he was heading to Jersey on a stakeout. He was about to drive her home, but she insisted on going with him.”

“What in the world was she thinking?”

“They weren’t thinking, neither of them . . . As I understand it, Clare, your chocolates were involved.”

I massaged my temples. “Half a box of Voss Raspberry-Espresso Flowers.”

“Well, Sully and I tracked those flowers all over Jersey. Franco and Joy started off watching the scumbag’s house, saw him drive away, tracked him to a nightclub, waited him out there. They hit a diner and finally followed him to a girlfriend’s house. They were practically in Pennsylvania when we caught up with them. Never once did this dealer cross into Franco’s jurisdiction so he never made a move.”

“What move would that be?”

“A move to find cause . . . a new reason to arrest the guy.”

“Okay, I get it. But you still haven’t told me what happened between Joy and Franco while they were alone in that car?”

“I didn’t ask.”

I sighed. “She’s really smitten, isn’t she?”

“I think so.”

“What about Franco? How does he feel about my daughter?”

“He’s a hard case, Clare. I don’t know.”

I closed my eyes and saw Joy in a wedding gown; Franco in formalwear with matching black do-rag and motorcycle boots; Matt sweetly walking his little girl down the aisle—then lunging to strangle the groom.

“Try not to worry,” Mike said. “Joy will be back working in Paris soon enough, right?”

An argument beyond lame. I’d made it myself two times already—to no avail. Joy had been drawn back to Franco like pig(headed) iron to an industrial magnet.

“Let’s talk about something else,” I said. “I don’t need a new nightmare.”

Mike studied me. “What was it about? You never said.”

I took a breath, met his gaze. “You were on the road for hours, right? You never came back to Rock Center, did you? Never used your handcuffs on me?”

“Uh, that would be a no . . . not that it hasn’t entered my fantasy life.” Mike began to smile, until he saw my expression. “I was joking, Clare—for the most part, anyway. Are you telling me your bad dream was about me?”

“I had an erotic dream that turned bad. We made love. You sort of handcuffed me and seduced me into it . . .” Mike’s eyebrows rose with fairly predictable male fascination. “Then I found the body all over again.”

“Body?” His eyebrows fused. “What body?”

Before I could answer, Mike guessed: “That ‘accident’ you told Joy about—you were in the middle of it? Is that what you’re telling me?”

I nodded and he softly cursed. “I heard the chatter on the police radio, knew there was an incident at Rock Center, but it’s a big place, and I was sure you weren’t involved. And do you know why? Because I never got a call from you!”

“Don’t be angry.”

“Why didn’t you contact me?”

“I turned off my cell during service, and after I found Patrice dead, the events just snowballed . . .” I did my best to quickly fill Mike in on the evening’s festivities—witnessing Maya’s threats, finding Patrice’s body, working with Detectives Soles and Bass.

“So you think Patrice Stone was murdered?”

“I know she was murdered. Why else would the killer hide from a visible security camera under a giant black umbrella?”

“There could be a reason. A good defense attorney will find one—have no doubt. Did Soles and Bass make an arrest?”

“We couldn’t get a clear ID from the camera, but they’re gathering all the digital footage, having it analyzed frame by frame.”

“You were at the party, Clare. Do you have a theory?”