Клео Коул - Latte Trouble

Tad put his arms on the desk, leaned closer. “Surely there’s something here to entice even you, Ms. Gray?”

I felt him watching me, waiting for a reply. I cleared my throat, preparing to unleash the nasal drone I’d used on Clipboard Lady.

“Well—”

Suddenly the door burst open without a knock. Clipboard Lady was there, hair windblown, face flushed.

“You’ve got to come…” she stammered. “Trouble on the deck.”

We heard the voices a moment later. Loud, angry voices—one of them familiar—Matteo.

Tad was on his feet and out the door. This time he didn’t even excuse himself. I rose and followed him into the hall, Madame close behind. A blast of cool night air was streaming into the passageway, the dank river smell potent. I noticed another door was ajar. Through it I spied a large stateroom were several men and women milled around in various states of shock or surprise. All wore Wall Street attire, their pie charts, graphs and Power Point machines at the ready. In the middle of that room, a table had been upset. A chair, a broken laptop computer, and a shattered pitcher of water lay on the floor.

The draft was pouring in from the bulkhead door, now flung wide. From outside, on the deck, the angry voices continued.

“Don’t they teach you the alphabet in Europe?” Matteo was barking. “I thought your educational system was supposed to be better than ours. Or did they do the ABCs backwards, like everything else in the Old World?!”

As I hurried to the door, I could hear Tad Benedict trying to restore calm. “Listen, gentlemen, this can be resolved—”

“Perhaps after you toss this…this cowboy over the side.”

The voice that interrupted Tad was dripping with arrogance, sarcasm, and contempt—so much so that I recognized the speaker even before I stumbled onto the chilly deck.

Eduardo Lebreaux.

In his late fifties, Lebreaux was the kind of oily Continental who would have been at home in Casablanca, angling how to cheat at cards in Rick’s Café American. He had dark brown hair, thinning on the top and a little too long at the back, a mustache, and a pensive look to his pale green eyes. No wrinkles but the sort of blotchy skin acquired from drinking and smoking to excess. His evening clothes were well tailored, of course—what little I could see of them, because he was presently standing behind a wall of well-dressed, thick-necked flesh that was his bodyguard.

“I’d like to see you try and throw me off this boat,” replied Matt, fists balled. “With or without your rented thug.”

Matteo was referring to Thick Neck, of course, who stood impassively, eyes on Matt, hands raised but open. There were, I noted, a lot of muscles crammed into the guard’s open-necked white shirt and blue blazer. I wondered if Matteo could really take on the man standing between him and Lebreaux.

The amoral European importer-exporter used to work for Madame’s second husband, Pierre, and had been a thorn in Madame’s side since her husband’s death. Matteo had always had an instinctive negative reaction to Lebreaux, and he’d been right. Lebreaux wasn’t someone you could trust. In fact, some of his tactics bordered on the criminal.

Just then, I noticed a woman on Lebreaux’s arm—and recognized her. It was Violet Eyes, the tall, strikingly beautiful Asian woman who had accompanied Lloyd Newhaven to Lottie’s party. Her face appeared placid, impassive even in the face of this outrageous scene.

Before I had a chance even to consider the meaning of Violet Eyes’s presence, others instantly appeared on deck. Several of the presenters scrambled topside to watch the conclusion of the heated melodrama they’d seen ignited in their stateroom. To my shock, I spied another familiar face among them—the male model who’d attended Lottie’s party. His platinum blond Billy Idol crewcut was unmistakable, even through my tinted glasses.

My mind raced. While the presence of Violet Eyes might have been mere happenstance, meeting another person who’d attended that fatal party— and was near the coffee bar at the time of the poisoning—was at least one coincidence too many for me.

Matt glared at the bodyguard, then tried to step around the man and return to the stateroom. A ham-sized palm slapped the middle of Matt’s chest, stopping him. Matteo glared up at the man. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly calm: “I’m going inside to make my presentation. Look, Eduardo…tell your hired help to get out of my face and out of my way.”

Lebreaux looked around and spied Madame standing next to me. His lips twisted into a cruel smile and he bowed in her direction. “I see you are not yet untangled from your dowager mother’s skirts, Matteo. Was franchising the Village Blend’s brand name Madame Dubois’s idea? Perhaps an act of financial desperation?”

At my side, I felt Madame stiffen.

I saw Tad’s expression, too. There was surprise at hearing that Mrs. Dubois was Matt’s mother.

Matteo exploded. “You son of a—”

He launched himself at Eduardo’s throat. The European fearfully stumbled backwards, almost knocking Violet Eyes overboard in his haste to escape. Matt didn’t get far before Thick Neck stopped him cold. There was a flurry of movement, loud grunts, and the sound of fists striking flesh.

“Wait! Wait!” Tad Benedict cried.

But events had gone too far. Everyone backed away and watched helplessly as Matt and Thick Neck grappled for a moment, stumbling across the deck. The struggle continued until both men tumbled over the rail, their fiery confrontation finally getting doused in the cold, churning waters of the Hudson River.

The Fortune received an official police and fireboat escort all the way back to Pier 18. The Coast Guard even arrived to lend a hand.

After Matteo and the bodyguard had splashed into the water, the sailors aboard the yacht went into action, fishing the two men out and depositing them back on deck in record time. Unfortunately, one of the guests on board had panicked and dialed 911 on his cell. Just about every agency responsible for river safety—with the possible exception of Homeland Security—responded with an appearance.

The excitement aboard ship interrupted the flow of presentations. The rest of the seminar was cancelled and the Fortune returned to port. Meanwhile, there were so many blinking red lights on the water that by the time we approached the pier, a crowd had gathered to see what all the fuss was about.

The Fortune bumped into its berth, and the crew lowered the gangplank. Like rats fleeing a sinking ship, the affluent passengers crowded the exit. Matteo, dripping wet and smelling like stagnant water, accompanied his mother as they joined the exiting throng. I hung back, however, hoping to catch a glimpse of Tad or one of his associates, even Clipboard Lady.

I slipped into the ballroom, saw the bartender tidying up while a pair of women wearing aprons collected glasses from around the room. I went back outside and circled the deck, to the other side of the ship. My booted toe bumped against a rope stand, and I nearly pitched over. With a moan of frustration, I ripped the tinted glasses off my face and stuffed them into the Gucci purse.

The view was nice from this portion of the deck. Ships were approaching Manhattan, or moving out to sea. Far in the distance, the Statue of Liberty was lit in a brilliant glow. At the rail, I gazed at the vista for a moment, then heard a door open around a corner from me. A man and woman stepped out of the light, and up to the darkened area near the rail. I recognized the man—Tad Benedict. The woman’s back was turned so I couldn’t see her features. I stepped back, against the bulkhead, not daring to breathe. They were so preoccupied with each other, they failed to notice me in the shadows, listening to their conversation.