Клео Коул - Murder by Mocha

I reached for my cell and speed dialed Nancy. After several agonizing rings, an electronic voice told me to leave a message.

I turned to Matt. “I couldn’t reach her. She must be in the subway already. There’s no signal down there.”

Matt had calmed a bit—or at least he’d stopped cursing.

“Listen,” I said, grabbing his arm. “We have to go to Voss Chocolate. I feel partially responsible for this. That poor girl is lovesick and just plain sick. She’s not thinking straight, Matt. We have to get to Nancy, explain it’s not Gudrun’s fault, and bring her home.”

Matt began a new string of curses, this time in Portuguese. I had no clue what he said, but it sounded very rude.

Esther waved her hand. “Take me! Take me! If you’re going to Chocolate World, I will be happy to ride shotgun. Mr. Boss can stay here.”

“Oh no you don’t,” Matt said. “I’ve been slaving away all day behind that counter. Even a drive to Brooklyn in Breanne’s crappy hybrid sounds like a vacation.”

“Fine,” Esther said folding her arms. “But I’m giving you both my chocoholic shopping list.”

“Matt! That’s Aphrodite’s town car. I recognize the vanity plates.”

“Eros, huh?” Matt snorted. “That woman is a walking cliché.”

My ex-husband’s foot was as heavy as Esther’s list was long, and we’d made it to Williamsburg in record time. But progress slowed in the maze of narrow, one-way streets in this waterfront district, so it was after ten when we arrived.

A Voss Chocolate banner hung like a medieval standard from the walls of a century-old, three-story building on the edge of the river. It was past closing time, and all the doors and windows were shuttered with steel gates, including the tiny retail outlet on the ground floor where Aphrodite’s car was parked.

Matt edged our sedan into a spot next door, in front of a plywood-walled construction site. I jumped out before he cut the engine.

My heels echoed hollowly as I ran to Aphrodite’s vehicle. A boat whistle sounded, the lights on the towering span of the Williamsburg Bridge winked between a pair of ancient marine warehouses, newly transformed into trendy stores and pricey co-ops for the affluent hipster.

The windows on the late-model town car were tinted, but I could see a Mocha Magic press kit on the back seat.

“Oh, yeah,” I said, “this is Aphrodite’s ride.”

“So?”

“So I’ve been trying to reach her all evening, warn her she’s in danger. Obviously, she’s inside now with Gudrun.”

“We’re here to find our wayward barista. Not rescue a drama queen.”

“Calm down, Matt. You’re getting angry again.”

He grunted.

“This is a working factory,” I told him. “Deliveries arrive at all hours, There has to be a way in . . .”

The building was unadorned and had few windows. It housed a full-scale chocolate factory, along with facilities where Gudrun mixed her cocoa with the Blend’s coffee beans and Alicia’s powder to create the Mocha Magic syrup. The mocha concentrate was then bottled and sent to Long Island City where another facility freeze-dried and packaged it.

As I hugged myself against a chilly wind whipping off the water, I noticed a hand-scrawled sign beside one of the smaller gates: Late-Night Deliveries. Over that sign I found the doorbell and intercom. I hit the button and a buzzer sounded deep inside the building.

“What are you doing, Clare? Let’s go back to the car and wait for Nancy to show up.”

“But Nancy is probably inside already.”

“Clare, she took mass transit. You know how lousy subway service can be at night. Nancy might not even be in Brooklyn yet.”

“She’s had plenty of time to get here.” I said, buzzing again. Stubbornly, I pressed a third time, then a fourth. Finally, I reached for my purse and phone—only to discover I’d left them in the car.

“Matt, go back to the car and grab my purse from the front seat. I have Voss’s number on speed-dial. I’ll call Gudrun and tell her to stop ignoring the doorbell.”

Matt was halfway to the car when the intercom crackled. “Who is it?” The voice was soft and electronically garbled.

“Gudrun? Is that you? It’s Clare Cosi.”

“You’re looking for Nancy, your little lost barista.” I heard a sound. Was that a giggle? “Nancy is here with us. Would you like to come in?”

Matt heard the intercom and turned. But Gudrun sounded odd and I sensed there was something wrong, so I waved him back.

The noise of grinding metal startled me as a hidden mechanism raised the shutter. I glimpsed movement through the glass door. Two figures were silhouetted against the blinding lights inside the factory. Blinking against the glare, I realized one of the figures was pressing a very large handgun to the other’s head.

“Come in, Clare Cosi. Now , or your little friend Nancy dies,” the soft voice taunted through the intercom.

Gudrun Voss is Olympia Temple? Good God, how could I have been so wrong?

Matt saw me tense and moved forward. I swung one hand behind my back and made a gun out of my thumb and index finger, pumping the thumb a few times to stress my point.

Please, Matt, see my finger gun! Figure it out!

As I moved toward the door, I risked a sidelong glance at my ex. He watched, openmouthed, until I was almost inside. Then he turned and ran back to the car with an urgency that told me he’d gotten the message.

Matt will call the police. He’ll tell them there are hostages, and they’ll send a SWAT team. Everything will be okay . . .

I’d hardly pushed through the glass door when the steel gate descended again. My heart took off, my brow grew damp with perspiration.

Heaven help me, I’m locked in with a stone-cold killer . . .

The scent of chocolate permeated the air. A machine roared dully somewhere on the factory floor. I watched Gudrun remove a Blue Tooth headset and toss it aside.

“Step forward,” she commanded in a voice louder than Gudrun’s usual meek tone.

I took three steps—not quite lunging but fast enough to rattle my adversary. She stepped backward, onto the factory floor, dragging her silent, struggling hostage with her. Was it Nancy? I couldn’t see the girl’s face! A burlap sack covered her head. I couldn’t see Gudrun’s face, either. I recognized her signature black chef’s jacket, but her features were obscured by her long, dark, loosely hanging hair.

Nancy (if it was Nancy) hardly struggled and never spoke. The burlap hood muffled her frightened whimpers as she docilely followed Gudrun’s lead.

Piled up around me were large, fat burlap sacks, all stuffed with dried and fermented cacao from Madagascar, South and Central America, and the Ivory Coast of Africa.

Gudrun had hollowed out the center of the building, and I could see all the way up to the roof and its massive glass skylight. Roasters, winnowing machines, grinders, mixers, and vats of chocolate liquor lined the brick walls.

“Where’s Aphrodite?” I demanded. “I know she’s here.”

“You know, do you?”

Gudrun’s voice was much too forceful, and I finally realized that I’d been played—and I’d been right .

“I know a lot of things,” I told the killer. “I know you’re not Gudrun Voss, for instance. And I know you’re not Daphne Krupa , either. Your name is Olympia Temple.”

The hostage began to struggle, and her captor cuffed her with the butt of the gun. Alarmed, I stepped forward, and Olympia leveled the weapon at my heart. With a sharp laugh she tossed her head, and the black wig fell away, revealing her pixie hair.