Murder by Mocha

“Okay,” he said, dropping his voice, “there was some liplock involved, but give us a break, we haven’t seen each other in months.”

“How could you take her on the stakeout of a criminal?”

“Joy was never in danger, okay. I wasn’t going to do squat with her in the car. I just wanted to start getting a handle on this guy’s routine. She’s a grown woman, you know, and she wanted to come. I don’t see the big deal. It’s not like it was official.”

“Not official? Don’t you give me that dodgy crap! Mike told me the whole story. You shouldn’t be pursuing this dealer at all.”

A shadow crossed Franco’s face. “Listen, it’s real simple. Some poor innocent schmuck of a wannabe artist kissed a Brooklyn sidewalk from ten stories up—partly because I couldn’t see he needed bigger help than I threw his way. The scumbag responsible for his death and a beautiful young girl’s overdose is going to pay. Just think of me as the cosmic collection agent. All I have to do is catch the SOB on my side of the Hudson.” He folded his arms. “And when I’m done with him, the DEA is welcome to mop up what’s left.”

“I’m sure Mike warned you of the consequences if things go south on that plan.”

“Hey, look, Lieutenant Quinn is the man. I have nothing but respect for my loo, but he can’t tell me how to spend my free time, and I know what I’m doing.” Franco met my eyes. “So truce, okay?”

I had plenty more to say, but I decided to save it for my daughter. This was a grown man with a deadly serious mission in his eyes, and making an enemy of a possible future son-in-law wasn’t a brilliant move in any case.

I sighed. “How about a House Special? Double cream, double sugar?”

Franco’s grim expression broke. “Aw, Coffee Lady, you remember?”

“That’s what we do here, Manny.”

I saw the line at the register. “I’ll get it myself.”

As I rose from the espresso bar, a young woman with green skin and a black fright wig sat down on the other side of Franco.

“Greeeeetings, my pretty!” she cackled.

“How’ya doin’?” Franco said with a calm little nod. (Now there was a New Yorker.)

To make Franco’s joe, I used our Clover—essentially a cross between a single-serving French press and a high-tech vacuum pot. The handy little eleven-thousand-dollar machine allowed me to customize every cup by digitally calibrating everything from water temperature and pressure to brew time in order to coax the utmost flavor out of Matt’s scrupulously sourced (and my roasted-with-love) beans.

As I ground those beans fresh, I noticed Tuck boning up on his director’s skills while whipping up a slender actress’s decaf (“why bother”) latte with skim milk and sugar-free caramel.

“From what I understand,” he told the young actress, “the witch role is pivotal to the entire show.”

“Oh, come on,” she replied. “The play’s called Return to Munchkin Land, so the munchkins are going to be the real stars, right?”

“Actually, I got a peek at the script. It’s really about a tragic love between the young Wicked Witch and a handsome munchkin. So you can see how the role of the Wicked Witch is actually the key to the whole story.”

The woman’s eyes lit up. “And I thought I was trying out for a small part.”

“There are no small parts, honey, only small actors.”

She frowned, pointed to her lime-green bodysuit. “Small actor might define me. These other girls went all out, with wigs and body paint, even fake noses and warts. Maybe I’m not showing enough commitment to the part.”

“It’s your voice, movement, and vulnerability that matters.” Tuck completed her latte pour with a perfect little heart. “Show your warts emotionally, and you won’t need fake ones on your face.”

“Thanks for that. I’ll do my best. I had no choice. That body paint is a bitch to get off, and I have this modeling gig at the Javits Convention Center later today. Those trade shows are pretty good jobs. Ever done them?”

“The Toy Show,” Tuck said, handing her the drink. “I love it. One year I played a mad scientist for Creepy Crawly Critters—rewrote their sales pitch and everything. Where are you modeling?”

“The International Confectioners’ Expo. The Nutrition Nation booth hired me through my agency. They’ve got a pretty big setup this year—”

I spilled half of Franco’s meticulously brewed coffee on our restored plank floor. “Excuse me,” I interrupted, “who did you say you were modeling for?”

“Nutrition Nation,” she said, a latte-milk moustache decorating her pretty upper lip.

I blinked. Adding it up was too easy: Nutrition Nation—NN—the letters on the big black golf umbrella carried by Patrice’s killer. The company had a booth at the ICE show, where giveaways were part of doing business, and many of the ICE attendees were invited to last night’s Mocha Magic party.

The actress glanced at her watch. “My audition! I’m up in ten minutes! I’d better go—”

“No!” Tuck said, raising a finger. “You’re the Wicked Witch. You don’t go... You fly.”

“Got it,” she said, flashing Tuck a thumbs-up.

“Break a leg,” he called as she hit the door.

“If you need me, I’ll be in my office,” I told Tuck after brewing a new coffee for Franco—this one in a paper cup.

“What took you so long?” he asked.

“Everything takes longer when you’re snooping.”

“Excuse me?”

“I made your coffee to go, so let’s go,” I told him.

I headed to the Blend’s second floor, where I had a small office and a computer. Franco followed me. As I slid behind my desk, he took the only other chair, throwing up his legs so he could cross his motorcycle boots on top of a stack of old invoices.

“So?” he said.

“So I’d tell you to make yourself comfortable but—”

“I always do.”

“I can see that. Enjoy your coffee. I have to check something online, and then we’ll talk.”

I fired up my computer, typed Nutrition Nation into a search engine, and clicked on the corporate page. Scanning the site, I began to wonder what the heck NN was doing at the Confectioners’ Exposition.

As far as I could tell, the company was shilling muscle-building powders, protein mixes, and enzyme shakes. So where’s the snack food? I started to wonder whether the Wicked Witch had gotten her facts wrong when I spotted a link teasing a new line of products.

To be announced at the ICE show. Hmm...

The imagery for the ad was done with artsy flare: a black-and-white photo of a nude male photographed from the side. The muscular model’s perfectly sculpted abdominal muscles were highlighted by stark light and deep shadows. I scanned up to the face, which looked awfully familiar, especially those long sideburns. A closer look and I was certain: This was Alicia’s Candy Man, Dennis St. Julian!

“You’re awfully quiet, Coffee Lady. What are you doing? Surfing for man-porn?”

“Kind of,” I replied as I smacked the print command.

While the printer churned away, I phoned Detective Lori Soles to give her a head’s up about Nutrition Nation. Unfortunately, all I got was her voice mail. I left a short “call me” message, reluctant to say more on a recording.

When I hung up, I discovered Franco also had been contemplating a photograph. The silver-framed snapshot on my desk had been taken more than a decade ago, when Matt and I were still married and Joy was around six.

My little girl had been dazzled by a young Olympic skater, whirling and leaping on an NBC morning show segment. The show was taped at Rockefeller Center, during those winter months when the courtyard was transformed into an outdoor ice skating rink.

Six-year-old Joy told her daddy she just had to twirl on that same skating rink as