Клео Коул - Latte Trouble

The conversation had become so intense that we didn’t notice we were no longer alone until a shadow fell across the table. I looked up, stunned to see Detective Mike Quinn standing there, his sandy, windblown hair longer than usual. He had a five-o’clock shadow despite the fact that it was not even noon yet, and his face appeared gaunt, but his shoulders were as broad as ever. Only after his piercing blue eyes met mine did I notice Quinn was flanked by two policemen in uniform, neither of whom I recognized.

Quinn nodded silently in Matt’s direction, then faced me. The ice in his eyes momentarily warned. “Good to see you, Clare.”

“Hello Mike,” I said softly.

Matt glared, but Quinn didn’t seem to notice. His gaze smoothly shifted from me to Tad, turning glacial again as it focused on the paunchy man squirming in the overstuffed chair.

“Are you Tad Benedict?” Quinn asked.

“Yes, I’m Benedict.” Tad eyed him suspiciously. “What do you want?”

“I’m Detective Michael Quinn.” He flashed his badge. “I need to speak to you in private, Mr. Benedict.”

“No,” Tad shot back, defiant and worried at the same time. “We’ll talk right here. What’s this all about, anyway?”

“Do you know a Rena Garcia who resides at the Continental Arms Apartments?”

“Yeah. Sure. She’s my fiancée.”

I saw the uniformed cops exchange glances, and with a sick jolt of dread I sensed what was coming next.

“When was the last time you saw Ms. Garcia?” asked Quinn.

“Yesterday afternoon before my financial seminar…why?” Tad rose to his feet. “Listen, what’s going on here. Where’s Rena? Do I need to call my lawyer?”

Mike Quinn put his hand on Tad’s arm, squeezed it solicitously as he met the man’s gaze squarely. “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, Mr. Benedict—”

Tad froze. “Rena…has something happened to Rena?”

“I’m sorry to inform you that Ms. Garcia was found dead in her apartment early this morning.”

“No, no!” Tad cried. “It’s a mistake!”

Quinn shook his head, reached into his natty trenchcoat, pulled out a Polaroid photograph, and showed it to Tad. I could just make out the face of a woman, raven-dark hair splayed like a crown around her head, her flesh cartoon pink against a blue background that could have been either a carpet or a bedspread.

Tad choked, sagged. Quinn and a blue suit grabbed his arms to keep him from sinking to the floor. “What happened?” Tad groaned, his face pale.

“That’s what we’re trying to establish, Mr. Benedict,” said Quinn. “To do that, we need a statement from you.”

Tad’s lower lip trembled, his eyes misted.

“You are not a suspect, and you may have a lawyer present at any time,” Quinn continued. “Can you accompany us to the precinct right now?”

Tad grunted an unintelligible reply. Quinn nodded, then passed him to the other officers.

“Take him down to the car,” Quinn told the uniforms, who led Tad to the stairs.

I expected Quinn to follow them; instead, he turned to face me. I stood and walked over to him. I could see he wanted to say something on a personal level, but the situation was obviously awkward, especially with Matt’s eyes boring into my back.

“There was a homicide here the other night,” Quinn began. It was not a question.

I nodded. “Someone was poisoned…cyanide, they said.”

Quinn’s eyes held mine. “We believe Rena Garcia was poisoned, too.”

I found myself ringing my hands. “Look, Mike…something’s going on…I’m pretty sure—”

“Not now.”

My temper flared. “ When then?”

“Later.”

“But I’ve got to tell you—”

Quinn raised his hand to stop me. “Listen, Clare. I trust your judgement, and I want to hear what you have to say. But I have to take care of this situation first. I’ll come back later, okay? We can speak in private?”

This time it was a question. His chin went up, indicating Matt behind me. I didn’t turn need to turn. I knew my ex-husband’s eyes were on us.

“I’ll be here until closing,” I said quietly.

Quinn nodded, then headed for the stairs. Matt moved to my side, curled his arm around my waist. Quinn looked back just then, saw the intimate gesture. He frowned and looked away.

“The cop’s not staying?” Matt said a little too loudly. “Didn’t Rosario’s deliver any donuts this morning?”

“Give it a rest, Matt,” I said and slipped out of his grasp.

The rest of the work day was long and busy. The younger customers never stopped coming. Even the usual lulls between rush hours were nonexistent. I’d told Esther Matt’s theory about the appeal of our so-called poisoned coffee and she began calling our patrons “Fugu thrill-seekers.”

At four o’clock Esther headed for home, and Moira agreed to stay on. She’d worked until nine the evening before, and agreed to work the extra hours again tonight. I told her how much I appreciated her help. “Don’t mention it,” she replied. “I want to help Tucker any way I can.”

When Gardner Evans arrived with some new jazz CDs from his collection, Moira finally departed. Not until ten did Detective Quinn return. He strode through the front door and approached me at the coffee bar.

“Have a seat,” I told him as I foamed up a couple of lattes (his favorite). Quinn took a quiet corner table by a window and I joined him there. He sipped the drink, his blue gaze steady over the rim of the glass mug, never straying from my face.

“I meant what I said this morning, Clare,” Quinn began. “It is good to see you again.”

Oh god . A caffeinelike jolt that had nothing to do with the shot of espresso in my latte was rocking my metabolism. I counseled myself to keep my mind off Quinn’s incredible blue eyes and on the business at hand.

“What happened to Rena Garcia?” I asked.

Quinn sighed and finally broke his stare, looking down into the frothy cloud in his tall glass mug. “That’s a police matter—” he tried to tell me, but I was ready for him.

“Don’t you clam up on me now, Mike Quinn.”

My tone wasn’t teasing and it wasn’t warm. I’d waited for hours for him to get around to talking to me again, and I swore to myself that he wasn’t leaving this coffeehouse until I knew as much as he did.

Mike, who could obviously see I meant business, rubbed his stubbled chin, then took another sip of his latte, a long one. Foam clung to his top lip and he wiped it away with the easy brush of two fingers. He leaned close, lowered his already low voice.

“This morning the supervisor in Ms. Garcia’s apartment building received some complaints about loud music coming from the apartment. He knocked, and when he didn’t get a reply he used his pass key to enter the premises. That’s when he found the victim. The Medical Examiner estimates she’d been dead for ten to twelve hours.”

“You said she was poisoned.”

Quinn nodded. “Cyanide was used. Forensics examined the dregs of a coffee Ms. Garcia consumed, found traces of poison…” The detective paused, locked eyes with me. “It was a Village Blend take-out cup, Clare. That’s why I asked you about the poisoning that took place here the other night.”

I told Mike about that night. About Detectives Starkey and Hutawa, and Tucker’s arrest. He listened quietly to my theory that Lottie had been the original target, and I told him what Tad had admitted to me earlier today—about Fen and the blackmail threat.

“Benedict never mentioned blackmail to me,” said Quinn, clearly annoyed.

“He’s trying to protect himself,” I concluded. “One way or the other.”

“What do you mean?”