Espresso Shot

Tonight’s case had put Mike on the Upper East Side. He and another detective were just driving away from the hospital, where a wealthy young banker was taken after he’d overdosed on a mix of prescription drugs and cocaine.

“The guy was still alive when the maid found him,” Mike said. “But just barely. We thought we might get a statement out of him, but he’s down for the count. We’ll try again in the morning.”

“Oh, God. I hope he makes it.”

“Yeah, so do I. He’s twenty-six and already divorced. The ex-wife showed right away at the hospital, even before the mother. None of them knew anything about his habit.”

I closed my eyes, the details bringing back way too many bad memories. Suddenly, I was feeling more tired than ever-and wanting to see Mike more than ever, too. “Promise me you’ll stop by the Blend when you get a chance, okay?”

“Sure, but I still don’t believe you can’t get away for one night this week.” Mike’s deep voice went low again, back to sexy growl mode. “Come on, Cosi, one night. Believe me, sweetheart, I’ll make it worth your while.”

I didn’t doubt he could. “Let’s see how the week goes.”

WHEN my bedside phone rang the next morning, I rolled over and picked it up with eyes closed and a dreamy smile on my face.

Mike and I had been making love in a secluded Hawaiian cove on white sugar sand. The sweet weight of his solid body was stretched out on top of me, his caramel-brown hair lifting on the Pacific evening breeze. A banner of glittering stars flickered above us, the rhythmic crashing of the night surf the only sound.

“Hello?” I whispered, expecting to hear Mike Quinn’s delicious growl again.

“Clare, dear, are you awake?”

“Madame?” My eyelids instantly lifted.

“You’re opening in less than an hour. My goodness, aren’t you out of bed yet?”

Except for the cotton candy pinkish crack of sunrise between the drawn drapes, the room was still dark. I reached over and clicked on the lamp. The clock radio read 6:40.

“I ended up closing last night,” I told Matt’s mother through a half-stifled yawn, “so Tucker agreed to open for me today.”

“I woke you then? I’m so sorry, dear.”

“It’s okay.” I yawned again and rubbed my eyes. “What do you need?”

“I was worried about you, Clare. The morning news is reporting that a woman was shot on Hudson last night. It’s on Channel 1 right now, and I can see from the background that the violence was perpetrated a block away from the Blend. Did you know about this?”

“Yes.”

“Are you all right?

“Yes?

“What about Joy? She’s not in yet, is she?”

“No. Her flight’s on Wednesday. She didn’t want to miss the luncheon you’re throwing Thursday for the coffee guys.”

“What about this woman who was shot? Did you know her?”

“In a way…”

“She was a customer?”

“No…” I slowly sat up and between yawns briefly explained what had happened. Needless to say, Matt’s mother was flabbergasted.

“My goodness! What a tale! You’re going to investigate, aren’t you? You know you can count on me to assist!”

“I’m sure I could,” I said carefully, “but there are two very capable female detectives already on the case.”

“Oh,” Madame replied, her disappointment obvious. “Well… how do you know the shooter wasn’t gunning for Matt or you, my dear? How do you know the shooter didn’t simply miss?”

I blinked, considering the possibility for an entire five seconds before letting it go. “There’s nothing to worry about,” I said, then quickly flailed around my sleep- addled brain for a change of subject. “So, listen, are you all set with your dress for the wedding?”

“The wedding…” Madame sighed. “Hasn’t that son of mine changed his mind yet?”

Oh, jeez, here we go… “No. Matt hasn’t changed his mind. So don’t you think it’s about time you considered changing yours?”

“Not until my boy opens his mouth to say, ‘I do,’ which I fully expect will come out ‘I don’t.’ ”

“The wedding is in four days!”

“And the universe was created in six.” Madame paused just then, and her voice went quiet, as if we were conspiring together. “Now that he’s moved back in with you, I have high hopes.”

For the hundredth time, I pointed out the list of reasons Madame needed to accept her son’s decision to marry whomever he wanted. Matt’s age for one-he was over forty now, probably old enough to make decisions without his mother’s approval. And the proposal hadn’t exactly been rash. Matt had been sleeping with Breanne Summour for quite some time. Finally, I reminded my former mother-in-law the myriad ways Matt had transformed in Breanne’s shadow: wardrobe, attitude, expectations of entitlement…

But all of my arguments were to no avail.

“He doesn’t love her,” Madame declared. “And I can’t accept that Matt’s father and I gave birth to a son who would pledge himself in marriage to a woman he doesn’t love.”

I massaged my forehead, desperate for another change of subject, because in about two seconds the woman was going to start in again about how Matt still loved me.

“Listen,” I said quickly, “do you know what Matt told me last night?”

“That he still loves you?”

Ack. “No! He said he thought maybe the young woman who was shot had been killed by mistake.”

“What do you mean?”

I explained Matt’s theory. “Given the remote possibility that Matt’s right, can you think of anyone who would want to harm Breanne?”

Madame laughed, short and sharp. “That woman makes enemies on a daily basis.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“Well, I can’t very well narrow it down for you if you don’t let me assist.”

“There’s nothing to assist!”

I took a breath. Then I calmly reiterated the stuff about the two very competent detectives already on the case. The line fell silent after that, but I could feel Madame frowning from fifteen blocks away.

“Well,” she finally said, “I am quite outraged that this poor girl was shot down in the street like some kind of game animal. Such a beautiful girl, too.”

“Yes, you know-” I blinked. “Wait. How do you know she was a beautiful girl?”

“ New York 1 is showing a photo of her right now. Her employer provided it, I believe. And she had such a lovely, old-fashioned first name. I haven’t heard that one in years…”

I sat up straighter. “They’re giving out her name?”

“Yes, do try to follow me, dear. The newspeople have it right up there on the television screen: Hazel Boggs, twenty-two, of Wheeling, West Virginia.”

Crap.

“Clare? Are you still on the line?”

“I’ve got to go,” I said, scrambling off the bed. “Talk to you later.”

“But-”

I hung up the phone and grabbed my robe. I needed coffee and lots of it. Then I’d have to shower and dress fast. Matt would be waking in an hour or two, and I was going to have to break some very bad news.

I’d been wrong about the timing on Hazel’s name being released to the pubic. I thought we’d have a few days, but clearly the detailed report on the young woman’s murder was already being broadcast.

The fact was: if the shooter had wanted to kill Hazel, the release of her name wouldn’t matter one whit. But what if Matt was right? What if the shooter actually meant to kill Breanne?

I still had major doubts about Matt’s look-alike-stripper-shot-by-mistake theory, but the man nearly had a heart attack explaining it to me last night. As I stumbled toward the coffeepot, I knew I’d have to treat Matt with kid gloves this morning, because if he woke up still believing Breanne was in danger, then I was in for a heck of a lot more grief.

EIGHT

“YOU told me we had a few days! A few days, Clare, not hours!”

“I know, Matt, I know. Please calm down…”

We were walking north on Hudson. The air smelled springtime fresh with a hint of invigorating brine from the flowing river just a few blocks away. The morning sun was strong, and the swaying limbs of the newly budding elms were dappling the buttercup-yellow light with strokes of pearl-gray shade.

Matt didn’t notice. He was too busy power striding toward the Sixth Precinct station house, a squat, concrete, narrow-windowed iteration of midcentury modern that was described by at least one architectural critic as a visual catastrophe-which from one point of view, it was.

Just not from mine.