Клео Коул - Murder by Mocha

“And you did . . .”

Just a few years later, Matt went off alone to backpack Europe. I was staying with relatives, studying Renaissance art. We met in Italy. One chance encounter on a beach, and our lives changed forever.

“Well,” I said, “if you were in Costa Gravas that long, it explains why you don’t remember this character O‘Neil. He must have duped your mother into the relationship because, according to the police file, Cormac O’Neil was one dirty cop.”

“Cormac O’Neil was one good cop.”

Madame’s voice was fixed and strong. She stood in the doorway to her bedroom, a white silk robe wrapped elegantly around her, her bearing as regal as ever.

“Cormac was also a righteous man. The best. I’m sure he still is.”

I set down my cup. “That’s not what the police file says.”

“And I was not duped into a relationship with him. Our love grew out of friendship. And our friendship grew from trust. Cormac protected me, and he saved our Village Blend . . .”

Matt and I exchanged glances. Was this guy a devil or a saint? He couldn’t be both. Could he?

Matt stood. His voice was soft. “I’d like to know everything, Mother. I think you better start from the beginning.”

Ten minutes later, we had heard most of her story—a completely different version than the one on file with the NYPD. According to Matt’s mother, Detective Cormac O’Neil came into her life about the same time as Alicia Bower.

“You said Alicia worked for you as a barista,” Matt reminded her.

“That’s right. She’d been raised with quite a lot of money and status on Long Island, but her family lost everything when her father was caught running an investment scam. The fallout was terrible for her. She was finishing up her senior year at New York University—suddenly, she had no money to her name, and she badly needed work.

“Alicia loved our Blend. She was there all the time as a customer, with her books, between classes—so I hired her. I trained her as a barista, and she really took to it. She worked so much and so well, I even made her my assistant manager. I came to trust her like you two trust Tucker.”

“I get it,” Matt said. “But why don’t I remember her?”

“Because, by the time you came home from Costa Gravas, she was accepted into a graduate program at the school she mentioned tonight—Bay Creek Women’s College. She earned her doctorate and was offered a position as an assistant professor. But not before she helped me get through what became one of the best and worst summers of my life . . .”

“Because of O’Neil?”

“It didn’t start with him. It started with a couple of young punks who decided to run a criminal enterprise from a corner table of our second floor.”

Matt looked stricken. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Oh, it was over by the time you came home. Everything was. And back then Greenwich Village was a much different place than it is today.”

“I remember,” Matt said.

Even I knew that. New York had gone through a devastating fiscal crisis in the seventies. The early eighties weren’t much better. Crime exploded, graffiti covered everything, dealers sold drugs openly, and the Village . . . well, it was a much less polished and picturesque place.

Because rents were lower, artists, musicians, actors, and writers were still living here in great numbers amid the cobblestone streets and Federal-style walk-ups, but so were druggies and vagrants. Eclectic, offbeat shops were more prevalent, too, and so were empty storefronts and crumbing property facades.

“Cormac came in for coffee every so often,” Madame continued. “We’d never spoken beyond polite greetings, but suddenly, I needed help. I didn’t want the police to think I was profiting from the loan-sharking and drug dealing those men were engaged in, so I told Cormac about my problem. Within a week, he set up a sting and had them arrested.”

I glanced at Matt—so far, this guy didn’t sound dirty.

“Cormac became a regular after that. Since I refused to take his money, he insisted I go out to dinner with him. He was a proud, quiet man, but he knew about loss and pain, and... he was a good listener.”

She turned toward her son. “I was still grieving for your father, and Cormac could see that. But he helped me work through my sadness over those months when you were gone, and . . .we fell in love.”

I picked up my cup and took a long drink of warm chocolate. This was a sweet and poignant story, but I knew it was about to take a bad turn. Swallowing hard, I braced myself.

“Cormac and I were happy. We’d settled into a routine, began making plans for the future, and I didn’t think anything could hurt us, but . . . as the summer progressed, he became tense and even more quiet than usual.

“One night, he confided in me. There were dirty cops in his precinct. He wasn’t sure how to handle it because he didn’t know where in the chain of command the corruption stopped, and he needed hard evidence and solid witnesses for the charge.

“Soon after, I received a phone call. Cormac was frantic. He’d been on an apartment building rooftop, arresting a dealer when a young patrolman appeared out of nowhere and blew the perpetrator’s head off.”

“Oh my God.”

“I’m sorry, dear, but that’s what happened.”

Matt leaned forward. “What did O’Neil do?”

“He drew on the uniform, and there was a shootout. Cormac’s partner was killed, and Cormac jumped from the roof—he landed on a fire escape and got away.”

“Why did the patrolman do that? What was he trying to accomplish?”

“This young police officer was on the payroll of organized crime. His buddies discovered Cormac and his partner were working on a case against them, and they ordered them both killed. This patrolman had a superior officer ready to back his version of events. They made Cormac out to be the corrupt one, the dirty detective who killed his partner, murdered the dealer, and ran off with the drug money.”

Matt rubbed his goatee. “Sounds like your guy was an Irish Serpico...”

To older New Yorkers, Detective Frank Serpico was more than just the subject of a Hollywood movie. Serpico’s near-death experience at the hands of fellow officers was legend, and his testimony about widespread police corruption led to the Knapp Commission, which cleaned up much of the NYPD.

Madame nodded. “Corruption was certainly rife in the early seventies. The Knapp Commission helped, but it wasn’t a cure-all. Cormac told me this particular patrolman was well connected. He had a few relatives high up on the force. Cormac intended to bring his story to the Justice Department—and that meant he had to disappear for a while.”

“Did he go to the Feds?” I asked, hopefully.

“I assume he did, but I don’t know what happened after that. I thought he would come back for me . . .” She shook her head. “I hoped he would, but he never did. And when that corrupt patrolman was never brought up on charges, but instead promoted as a hero, I came to believe they got to Cormac. I thought for sure he’d been killed.”

“What about the grand jury?”

“Before he disappeared, Cormac implored me not to say a word to anyone about what I knew, not even to a judge or jury. What could I say? I couldn’t prove anything—and the corrupt cops would have known I was a threat. The possibility of my being murdered for exposing it all—with no evidence, mind you—was just too great. I wouldn’t risk making Matt an orphan. I vowed to stay silent to protect my son. So I refused to answer their questions, and the judge sent me to jail.”

“Jesus,” Matt whispered.