Клео Коул - Decaffeinated Corpse

Did he kill Carlos Hernandez, perhaps accidentally, in a fit of fury, and then flee? It didn’t seem possible, yet I was sure there were many dead spouses who’d never imagined the person they shared their life with was capable of violence.

Just then, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Ahh!” I cried, jumping and turning.

“Mom, it’s me,” Joy said. “Calm down.”

“I’m calm. I’m calm. Just don’t sneak up on me like that again,” I said. “Did you find your father yet?”

Joy shook her head. “I didn’t see him. But what’s with Grandma tonight? She’s in a mood .”

“Forget your grandmother for now. We’ve got to find your father fast. The police will be here any minute. We’ve got to establish an alibi.”

“What?” Joy blinked. “Did you say alibi ?”

“Before you arrived, your father threatened the man lying on the sidewalk down there.”

“Threatened how?”

“Your dad announced, quite loudly, that he wanted to throw the man out of the building.”

Joy glanced at the street below. “C’mon, Mom. You can’t think Dad had anything to do with that?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. It matters what the police think. Let’s go.”

Joy in tow, I reentered the building. No one in the room even glanced my way. They hadn’t noticed me go out, or come back in. It was easy to see how they might have missed Carlos Hernandez’s fatal swan dive. Whatever happened on that balcony had been masked by the heavy curtains.

But if the victim had screamed, wouldn’t someone have heard it? The noise in the room was relatively loud— laughter, boisterous conversations, and Gardner’s lively jazz piano. Still... I couldn’t see how a loud scream would not have been heard by someone.

Could Hernandez have jumped on his own? I wondered. Committed suicide for some reason? Or was he dead or unconscious before he went over the edge?

I massaged my temples to keep my headache at bay. It wasn’t working.

“You go that way, I’ll go this way,” I told Joy. “If you find Matt, bring him to me.”

I circled the room, scanning the faces in the crowd. I found Madame at a table with Dr. McTavish.

“Have you seen Matt?”

“Joy asked me the same question,” Madame replied. “What’s he done now?”

“Never mind.”

“Gonna make a bundle, Blanche,” Dr. McTavish muttered, draining a wine glass. That’s when I noticed the empty bottle on the table. He’d obviously snatched it off someone’s tray earlier in the evening when we were serving alcohol.

“That son of yours will be able to retire before he’s fifty. Move someplace where the weather’s always nice. Golf all day. Soak up the rays. Here’s to fun in the sun.” He put the glass to his lips before he realized it was empty.

My jaw dropped. The good doctor was sloshed.

Madame rolled her eyes. “Put the glass down, Gary, and Clare will get you a cup of black coffee. A very large cup. With caffeine...”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I replied.

Madame faced her date. “And after that, you’d better call a car. I feel a headache coming on...”

Before the moment became a scene, I moved along.

I spied Breanne, sitting on a loveseat beside Roman Brio, the flamboyantly acerbic food writer for New York Scene magazine. A heavyset man with a broad, round face and large bright eyes, his features resembled the young Or-son Welles—the Citizen Kane filmmaker years. His formidable girth, however, had more in common with the older Welles, the one selling “no wine before its time” during situation comedy network breaks.

“Excuse me, Breanne, I’m sorry to interrupt. But do you happen to know where Matt is right now?”

“Haven’t a clue,” she replied, without bothering to look at me. “Perhaps he’s in the kitchen. I’m sure you know how to find the kitchen.”

As rude as she was, Breanne did have a point. I did know how to find the kitchen, and it was possible Matt was there, so I headed for the stairs—but I didn’t get there, at least not right away. As I moved by the elevators, the doors opened and a friend walked out—Detective Mike Quinn, flanked by a pair of uniformed officers young enough to be one week out of the police academy.

I stared in surprise at Quinn. What in the world is Mike doing here? I’d expected the police to show, but Quinn was part of the Sixth Precinct’s detective squad, which handled Greenwich Village. This area of town wasn’t even close to his beat. Even so, I was relieved to see his familiar face.

Quinn didn’t appear to share my feelings. His frown actually deepened when he spotted me.

“Mike,” I said, walking up to him, “I’m so glad to see you.”

“In another minute, I’m not so sure you will be.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m here to take your ex-husband in for questioning.”

I was all set for this, ready to jump to Matt’s defense in the case of Carlos Hernandez. But the next words out of Quinn’s mouth left me speechless.

“I’m sorry to inform you, Clare, that Matteo Allegro is a person of interest in the murder of Ellie Lassiter.”

“The murder of... ?” I stepped back, stared for a silent, confused moment. “Ellie Lassiter? I don’t understand... you’re saying that Ellie was...”

“Murdered. That’s right.”

“How?”

“She was found in a guest room at the V Hotel. The room was registered in the name of your ex-husband. There was also physical evidence that placed him at the scene of the crime.”

“Physical evidence?” I repeated as my mind raced. What does that mean? Blood? Saliva? Semen? “What kind of physical evidence?”

Quinn ignored my question. “Is Matt here, Clare?”

“Yes. I think so...” I blinked. “Somewhere.”

The news of Ellie’s murder threw me completely. I was still in shock as Mike glanced around the still crowded room.

“Do you know anything about the body on the sidewalk?” he asked. “We saw the activity on our way in.”

“His name is Carlos Hernandez,” I said. “He was here, at our party.”

Just then, a group of people moved around us to board the elevator.

“Stop them,” Quinn said to the rookies in blue. “Secure the area. Don’t let anyone leave. Call down by radio. Tell the detectives from Midtown East to get up here, they’re going to want to question everyone.”

While Quinn spelled out procedures to his young officers, I slipped through the door to the stairs and down to the kitchen. Rushing through the short corridor, I nearly stumbled into Matt, who was walking out.

“Where were you?” I demanded.

“Right here. I haven’t had real caffeine all day. Now I’ve got a withdrawal migraine. I needed aspirin.”

I saw a paper cup of apricot nectar in his hand. Apparently he’d visited the restaurant’s pierced sister of mercy, too.

“Where were you before you came down here?”

Matt shrugged, clearly annoyed. “Sitting in the booth upstairs. I was on the phone.”

“Matt, something’s happened—”

A shout interrupted me. “I saw her go down there, Detective Quinn.”

I looked up the staircase, saw one of Quinn’s rookies staring down through the door. “Ms. Cosi?” he called. “Detective Quinn would like to speak with you—and your ex-husband, if that’s him.”

“Quinn?” Matt griped. “What does that flatfoot want?”

I shushed him. A moment later, Quinn ambled down the stairs with the young officer in tow.

Matt greeted him with a smirk. “Well, well, what do you know, it’s one of Clare’s favorite customers. What brings you here, Quinn? A sudden interest in decaf?”