Клео Коул - Murder by Mocha

“We will.” I took her hand in both of mine. “I promise.”

Matt pointed over my shoulder. “Why don’t you start by asking Dudley Do-Right here for some advice.”

“Mike’s here?” I spun to find Quinn’s long legs striding across the deck. In his wake were Sully and a uniformed officer. Mike paused, scanned the crowd, and walked right over to the Hasidic man in the broad-brimmed hat. He paused to stare into the older man’s eyes while Sully took hold of the man’s arms and pinned them behind his back.

With a brush of his hand, Mike knocked away the hat, pulled at the false beard. As it fell away, I saw that terrible bone-white scar.

“Cormac Murphy O’Neil, you are under arrest for the murder of a New York City police officer. You have the right to remain silent—”

Madame heard the man’s name and blanched. “It can’t be...” When she turned to look, their eyes met. Matt and I had to move quickly. We caught her in our arms before she sunk to the deck.

Keep your head down. Stay quiet. Don’t give yourself away...

God, it was hard. The giggles were bubbling up again, threatening to expose her. But it was just too perfect: Seeing Alicia and Sherri led away in handcuffs.

Now they knew what her mother felt: Fear. Dread. Humiliation. Now they would go through a public trial, be shunned by so- called friends, torn from their families, suffer living vivisections by a rabid press.

Have fun, ladies! Enjoy having prosecutors dissect your lives, examine every blemish, exhume every personal secret . . .

Yes, this was what she’d dreamed of, all those years ago: to watch this show, watch them suffer! She bit her cheek, made it hurt, then swallowed down the laughter.

Only one more act to go now. Like the judge and prosecutor, this monster’s fate would end with an execution. And if that little snoop, Clare Cosi, dares get in my way again, I’ll end her, too.

“How’s she doing?” Mike Quinn asked.

He pulled me aside when he noticed Madame’s reaction. Cormac O’Neil had been led away by now, escorted down the gangplank, and placed in Mike’s unmarked vehicle.

“A doctor on board is checking her over to make sure she’s okay. Matteo and I just need to get her home.”

Quinn nodded. “Have you spoken with her yet about the past? Her grand jury appearance?”

Shaking my head, I considered explaining what kind of day I’d had, but this wasn’t the time or place to start unloading. Mike’s own day was far from over, and he didn’t need more baggage from me. So I simply said—

“If Madame needs to talk when we get her home, I’ll listen. Otherwise, I’ll broach the subject tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow’s fine. Don’t stress her. O’Neil surfaced for a reason, and I’m guessing he’ll give it up easily.” He lowered his voice. “What about you? How are you holding up?”

Feeling Quinn’s heavy hand on my shoulder, I closed my eyes, still amazed that a simple touch from this man was all the aphrodisiac I needed. Like a warm espresso, it woke up every part of me.

“I’m fine. Long day, that’s all . . .”

He cupped my cheek. “You don’t know how much I’m looking forward to its end.”

“Me too.”

Mike moved his hand back to my shoulder—his grip felt firmer. “I have to ask you something, Clare. Has Sergeant Franco tried to contact you?”

“No.”

“Do you know if he’s been in contact with Joy?”

“He hasn’t, and she’s left plenty of messages for him. What’s the matter? Is Franco in danger?”

“He’s not in danger. He’s in trouble.”

Aw, no . . . “It’s the dealer again, isn’t it? The case he couldn’t let go.”

Mike nodded. “Franco defied orders, trailed that scumbag from Jersey, and arrested him in Manhattan. Hawke found out. He and Franco had words . . .”

Mike’s public mask was rigid but not unreadable, not to me. His dark blue eyes had narrowed slightly, deepening the crow’s feet at their edges. His mouth looked tight.

“Hawke’s really angry, isn’t he?” I said. “What’s he forcing you to do?”

Mike exhaled. “He wants Franco’s badge and gun.”

“For heaven’s sake, what’s the sense in that? Didn’t the man simply do his job?”

“Following orders is part of the job, too, Clare.”

“I’m sorry, but this stinks like office politics—another big boss with a big ego.”

“I don’t like it much, either, but the chain of command can’t be broken without consequences.”

“And what if the top of that chain is wrong ?”

“Franco’s done a good job for me, for my squad. I want to save his career, but he has to help himself now. He has to come in.”

“It’s just . . . Mike, it’s not right, and you know it.”

Quinn looked away, rubbed the back of his neck. His expression went from stony to openly grim, as if he were trying very hard to control anger—or pain. “If he contacts Joy or you, try to convince him, okay? Tell him to call me. We’ll work it out.”

“Can you really work it out? Or is it too late?”

“Honesty, I don’t know. I’ll do what I can...”

An hour later, I was sitting in Madame’s penthouse apartment near Washington Square. Her live-in maid had greeted us at the door. Like a doting mother, Consuelo fussed and clucked, tucking Madame into bed, plumping her pillows. Consuelo brought her a cup of cocoa, too, even fixed a tray for me and Matt before retiring herself.

“Okay, she’s resting comfortably,” my ex-husband said, striding out of his mother’s bedroom. “She insisted on calling a lawyer for Alicia, but she’s finally settled in. Now talk to me, Clare...”

“Sit down,” I told Matt, cradling the warm cup. The rich, heady aroma of fine European chocolate reminded me how Madame had fussed and clucked over me during my pregnancy. The drink tasted of everything that was sweet and comforting and good. “Have some cocoa.”

Matt remained standing. He folded his arms. “I want to know who this man O’Neil is, why he was arrested, and why my mother fainted when she saw him on that yacht tonight!”

“Lower your voice—I’m going to tell you. But I want you to sit down first. This is liable to be a shock . . .”

When Matt finally settled on the sofa, I explained it all: how Mike Quinn got involved, how he read the police file, how Madame was thrown in jail for protecting a cop killer.

“I can’t believe she did that . . .” Matt was holding his head now, just as shocked and upset as I knew he’d be. “When did this happen exactly?”

I gave him the dates.

“I remember that time . . .” He sat back, gaze going glassy. “About a year after my father died, Mother arranged for me to spend six months with the Gostwick family—they were good friends of my father’s, and they owned a coffee farm in Costa Gravas.”

“I know the Gostwicks, Matt. You and Ric are best friends...”

“I’m just trying to explain. I missed my dad so much back then. I was failing out of school, getting into fights . . .” He shook his head. “It must have been extremely difficult for my mother. You know, I didn’t even think about it then. I only thought about myself, my own grief. But now that I’m a father...” His voice caught. “I think it must have been very hard for her to send me away like that. Maybe it screwed up her judgment.”

“Maybe. But I’m sure she hoped the change would be good for you.”

“Oh, it was. I learned so much over those months. Ric’s father taught me about the coffee business from the bottom up, and we traveled, too, because the family loved to sail. They showed me Jamaica, Haiti, much of the Caribbean. We even motored through Central America. I came back to New York fluent in Spanish and Creole French, feeling ready to take on the world.”