Murder by Mocha

Franco took off after him—and I took off, too.

“Hey, honey!” Vince’s amplified voice bellowed. “Where’s that cop going with my Sun God?”

Franco pulled ahead of me fast, and I lost sight of him. A moment later I heard a familiar cry, this time cut violently short.

Yodel—AAY-eee—YOWWWWLLL!”

Lederhosen pinwheeled over the crowd, then the yodeler crashed into a gourmet jelly bean table. Apollo’s plastic crown rolled along the floor and came to rest on a pixilated rainbow of sugar.

Now I knew how to locate Franco. Follow the chaos!

“So sorry!” I called, racing by the jelly bean–covered Bavarian.

I heard another crash and saw a tray of chocolate-chunk cookies fly into the air. Finally, I spotted Franco, taking a hard right into a big enclosed booth. I followed him, passing under a Sparta’s Greek-Style Sweets and Snacks, 300 Varieties (of course) banner. Their logo was even a bearded Leonidas grinning behind his Spartan helmet.

I moved through an aisle displaying boxes of Baklava Bites and Greek yogurt candies when Apollo grabbed me from behind.

The man’s rocklike forearm slammed my face as it hooked around my neck. My nose stinging, I tried to scream, but he couldn’t have that, so he tightened his hold to cut off my air, pulling me back so quickly he nearly gave me whiplash.

As the pressure on my throat increased, my vision began to redden. I could no longer breathe. I tried not to panic, but my fate was terrifyingly clear: if I didn’t do something fast, the Sun God was going to put my lights out.

Twenty-Seven

My arms flailed, clawing at Apollo’s eyes, but he bent backward, just out of reach, lifting short little me in the process.

Great! Now my feet are off the floor!

Trying to break free, I banged my elbows into my captor’s guts, bruising little more than myself (the Sun God really did have incredibly hard abs). When the pressure eased a bit, I realized my backup had backtracked and finally spotted us. I sucked in air when my toes touched the floor. As my vision cleared, I recognized the expression on Detective Franco’s face—pure rage. But the detective quickly masked his anger, approaching us with a calming voice.

“Hey, dude. Stay cool now. The lady and I just want to ask you a few questions...”

Apollo reared backward, lifting me again. “Don’t come any closer!”

Franco stopped midstride. “Easy. Take it easy, okay?” He raised one peaceable hand, spread his fingers wide, showing it was empty while slowly moving the other into his jacket. He was going for the handgun in his shoulder holster!

No! I thought. I don’t want anyone shot!

Desperate times, desperate measures! I bent one knee back, bringing the heel of my shoe up as hard as I could. I was aiming to kick Apollo’s shin but missed, connecting instead to a place where the Sun God never shines.

The strongman howled and released me. I dropped to the ground limp as a melted Milk Dud. Maneuvering into a sitting position, I rubbed my bruised nose. My hand came away red.

That bastard gave me a bloody nose! Okay, now I’m pissed!

While Apollo danced away, clutching his groin, Franco jumped over me, body-slamming the bodybuilder.

Thank you, Detective!

Both men stumbled backward and crashed into a huge plastic bin of yogurt-covered pita chips, which scattered like ice-covered leaves. Apollo got back to his feet and threw the first punch. Big mistake. Franco easily dodged the telegraphed blow, grabbed Apollo’s wrist, and used the man’s momentum to slam him down into the carpet of white pita chips. The bodybuilder hit the floor with a deliciously satisfying crunch.

Still gripping Apollo’s fingers, Franco straddled the big man and twisted his arm behind his back, punishing the fingers until Apollo howled again.

“Leave me alone!” the Sun God bellowed. “I didn’t do anything!”

“You ran from an officer of the law,” Franco calmly replied, “and then you put your big yellow hands on this nice Coffee Lady, which hasn’t exactly put the officer in a sunny frame of mind.”

Franco ground the bodybuilder’s nose into the crunchy white chip carpet. The smell of sugary yogurt rising from the floor became cloying. Apollo seemed to go limp in surrender, but when Franco reached for his handcuffs, the Sun God started struggling again. In response, the detective bent Apollo’s fingers until the man with perfect abs screamed like a little girl.

“Don’t hurt him!” yelled an actual girl.

I recognized the voice. It belonged to my long-lost Blond in Black—and her familiar deer-in-the-headlights expression was back on full display.

Apollo spit pita. “Get—PHAAACK—out of here, Vanessa!”

But the woman did not budge, even when I got to my feet and stepped up to her. Despite my bloody nose, she recognized me instantly.

“I know you!” she cried, pointing.

“Right back at ya,” I said, ignoring the throbbing bruise that was my face. Pulling up the bottom of my henley, I tried to staunch the bleeding.

Apollo lifted his head, his face half coated with the clownish white of crushed yogurt.

“Don’t talk to them,” he warned the blonde.

“That wouldn’t be polite,” Franco said, pulling the man to his knees. “Not after all the trouble we went through to meet you.”

Several members of the Javits Convention Center’s security team moved in, Taser guns at the ready. When Franco flashed his shield, I could see the relief on their faces. One guard informed Franco that an NYPD sector car was on the way. Then they retreated a respectable distance to execute “crowd control.”

“We can share here or at the precinct,” Franco told the bodybuilder. “Let’s start with your name, Dennis —”

“Who’s Dennis? I don’t know who you’re talking about—”

Franco interrupted with a loud, theatrical sigh, eyes directed at the heavens. “No cooperation. What’s a Boy Scout to do?” With his free hand, Franco patted Apollo down and found a wallet tucked into his velvet bodysuit.

“Hey!” Apollo protested.

“Oops, looks like your wallet fell during our scuffle, Mr. St. Julian,” Franco said innocently. “Let me retrieve it for you.”

“My name is Talos, Troy Talos. I don’t know anyone named Dennis!”

“Well Mr. Talos, Troy Talos, you’ve got a whole lot of business cards with the name ‘Dennis St. Julian’ printed on them.” Franco continued rifling the wallet. “Ho, ho! And what’s this? A parole card from the state of California. Wonder if the board knows you’ve traveled out of state? And did you stop by the NYPD and declare your status as a parolee?”

Troy cursed.

Franco shook his head. “Nah, I didn’t think so.” He glanced at Vanessa. “Are you a parolee, too?”

“No,” she said. “I’m just Troy’s girlfriend.”

“Okay, now, Troy...” Franco noticed me trying to staunch my bleeding nose. He handed me a folded handkerchief. “Why don’t you get whatever’s bothering you and the lady off that overdeveloped chest of yours?”