“Ms. Bower told us you’re some kind of investigator,” Susan cut in. “And your boyfriend has some kind of big-deal special position with the New York Police Department?”
“Don’t believe every piece of gossip you hear, ladies. I’m just a coffeehouse manager—”
“Boss!” Tuck called from behind the register.
“What?”
He pointed to the front window and sang. “You’ve got company.”
I swiveled around again to find two unmarked police cars pulling up fast in front of our shop. Both had red bubble lights going on their dashes.
Mike walked in, radio in hand, dressed in his usual brown suit. In lock step behind him were two young detectives—a man and a woman. Both moved to an empty table and sat.
Like the Fish Squad, I’d served these two detectives many times. They worked at the Sixth, but today they weren’t wearing blazers and pressed slacks. They were dressed like neighborhood regulars in jeans and light Windbreakers.
“I need to speak with you,” Mike said, grim faced. “Privately.”
As I excused myself, Daphne displayed a smirk. Told you!
Thirty-One
“What’s with all the little people?” Mike asked when we reached my tiny office on the second floor.
“Return to Munchkin Land flash mob,” I said. “Short people need caffeine, too.”
He met my eyes. “I read the files this morning.”
“The cold-case files? That’s what all this is about?”
“It’s not good, Clare. You better sit down.”
Crap.
I settled into my rickety office chair, and Quinn pulled up another.
“Years ago, your former mother-in-law was brought before a grand jury. She’d been involved romantically with a police detective who frequented the Village Blend. Sound familiar?”
Oh my God.
“Are you sure she never mentioned anything like this to you?”
“Of course, I’m sure! What happened?”
“This detective, Cormac Murphy ‘Murph’ O’Neil, he was dirty, on the take. Mrs. Dubois probably didn’t know it at the time—at least, I hope she didn’t. Anyway, as it all went down, he and his partner were questioning a major drug dealer in the field when shots were fired. The partner and the dealer were killed, the dealer’s money went missing, and so did your former mother-in-law’s dirty boyfriend.”
“What do you mean ‘he went missing’?”
“He disappeared. Mrs. Dubois was called before a grand jury and asked to testify all she knew about her boyfriend. She answered questions about their relationship, explaining how they’d met, how long they’d been involved. They asked her if he’d made any statements about leaving town, if he ever contacted her, what he said, but she refused to answer any questions that might give away his intent or locations. The judge put her in jail.”
I closed my eyes as a memory came back to me. “That’s when it happened...”
“What?”
“That time Tucker had been falsely arrested, accused of murder, Madame mentioned that she’d been arrested herself. She wouldn’t say anymore, but I assumed it was over some war protest or something. Nothing like this!”
“Clare, if Mrs. Dubois knows anything about her former boyfriend’s whereabouts or anything he may have said about that crime, the money, the shootings, anything, she needs to give it up now. This killer cop, O’Neil—the PD has a source that tells us he’s surfaced again. The theory is he used the money to start a new life, a new family, and now that he’s up in years he doesn’t want to take any chances that his family can be found out. He’s very dangerous, Clare, and he’ll be especially dangerous to your mother-in-law. He’ll most likely want to tie up loose ends.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, if given the chance, he’ll make sure she stays silent forever.”
For the next ten minutes, Mike continued to fill me in. As we finished our discussion, he assured me the Village Blend would be watched 24/7. He already knew about “Scarface” following us to the ICE show—Franco had informed him—and when he pulled out a file photo of this killer cop, I must have turned pale.
“This is the same man, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “He sat right downstairs at our counter, introduced himself as Bob. He’s much older now, of course. His hair is silver-white instead of brown. And that terrible scar across his cheek is new, but I’m almost certain it’s the same guy.”
“Well, if you see him again, do not engage him in conversation. Do you hear me? You alert my detectives, or you call me, right away. Okay?”
“Okay. But what about Madame? If she’s in danger—”
“Already taken care of. We have detectives watching Mrs. Dubois’ penthouse until we get this cop killer in custody.”
“Does she know any of this?”
Mike put a hand on my shoulder. “Only if you want to tell her. That’s your call, sweetheart. I don’t care either way—as long as you get the information.”
“Mike, I can’t promise you she’ll talk to me!”
“Look, you and I both know we could pull her into an interview room. First Deputy Commissioner Hawke could have done that himself. But he’s a smart man, a good cop. He knew the case. He knew Mrs. Dubois would likely clam up again. So he put me on the job, hoping I’d figure out an angle—and, sweetheart, you’re it.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. You’re my best bet.” He gave me that Odysseus half smile. “In more ways than one.”
Mike swept out and, true to his word, left his young undercover team behind. I returned to the coffee bar—more than a little distracted. Daphne had to touch my shoulder to get my attention.
“Ms. Cosi? Sorry, but I have to go, and I need to give you this.”
She pulled a manila envelope out of her backpack and placed it on the countertop. It was then I remembered Alicia’s message about Daphne bringing me a note.
Addressed to me, the label commanded: OPEN IMMEDIATELY. All caps, I thought, just like Alicia’s tone.
The envelope was unsealed, just loosely fastened. Inside I found a plain folder holding final catering instructions for tonight’s yacht party on the East River. Paper clipped to that folder was a separate typewritten note with one of Alicia’s new business cards attached to it. I instantly recognized the Mocha Magic logo of Alicia’s card—a diner-style coffee cup with rising steam forming a floating heart.
Clare, Maya Lansing and I have decided to settle our differences. We have agreed to meet in Aphrodite’s big tent at Socrates Sculpture Park this afternoon at three o’clock. We have also agreed that you should mediate our discussion and help us come to terms on the Mocha Magic issues. Present this letter to the guard at the security gate and he will admit you, and only you, so please come alone. Alicia
Great, I thought. It wasn’t enough that I was supposed to charm an octogenarian clam into giving up her tightly held pearl. Now I was supposed to sit between a platinum-haired Amazon who threatened to beat me up and a business associate whom I was trying to put behind bars—and my job was to help them work out their problems?
“Daphne,” I said, “this note tells me I’m supposed to go to Socrates Sculpture Park today.”
“Really? Why?”
“It’s a long story. Have you been there yet?”
“No, Ms. Cosi,” she said. “That grand finale setup is top secret. I have to wait until Saturday to see it, just like everyone else. But maybe Susan’s been there.”
Daphne swung around. “Hey, Susan. Have you seen the big tent yet at Socrates Sculpture Park?”
“No. I’m not scheduled to work the tent until Saturday morning.”
“You’ll love that park, Ms. Cosi,” Nancy piped up. “I was just there last week. Dante Silva was helping a friend install some sculptures, and I wanted to check it out.”