Клео Коул - Through The Grinder

“Mom, we should probably take a look,” said Joy.

I nodded and poured myself a cup of the house blend — a unique mix of beans that changed annually, depending on my ex-husband’s recommendations.

Matteo Allegro, apart from being Madame’s son — and my ex — was an astute coffee broker, the Blend’s coffee buyer, and the descendant of Antonio Vespasian Allegro, the man who’d originally opened the Blend. He was also a pain in my ass — and, thank goodness, currently in East Africa, chasing a primo crop of Sidamo, if not shapely legs and long-lashed eyes, which was why I’d applied the prefix “ex” to my husband in the first place.

“What’s wrong?” asked Joy as she watched me bolt half the cup of java.

I shrugged, pouring more and moving around the counter. “Death isn’t something a person should face without a fortifying hit of caffeine.”

Ididn’t notice when he’d arrived. Not right away. Which was very unusual. Because ever since he’d first walked through the Blend’s front door a few months back, I’d always noticed.

Today, however, I’d been especially distracted. So when I finally did realize that Detective Mike Quinn of the Sixth Precinct’s detective squad had entered the coffeehouse, crossed the sun-washed room, and wandered up behind the huddling group of us, I was caught by surprise and actually became a little flustered.

The main floor of the coffeehouse was rectangular in shape, with a row of tall, white French doors lining one side. In summer, these were thrown open for sidewalk seating, but on this chilly autumn day they were shut tight. At the room’s far end was an exposed brick wall, a working fireplace, and a wrought iron spiral staircase leading to the cozy second floor. (This staircase was for customers. The staff used the service stairs near the back door behind the pantry.)

At the moment, the Sunday papers were spread out across one of the circa 1919 coral-colored marble-topped tables near the coffee bar. The Times, with their usually restrained reportage, had tucked the story of Valerie Lathem’s suicide on the inside of the Metro section. The Daily News and New York Post , however, had splashed lurid leads across their tabloid fronts.

“Final Cup of Coffee” and “Jumpin’ with Joe” headlines were accompanied with nearly identical front-page photos of a Village Blend cup lying in the middle of grimy subway tracks. Because of the subway train’s height, the paper cup had been left eerily unmolested between the rails — unlike Valerie herself, whose blood had been splattered everywhere. This bizarre contrast had clearly piqued the morbid interest of the photographers.

A color photo of the pretty young woman had been inset next to the stories on her suicide. Apparently, reporters had borrowed the picture from her grandmother, whom they’d visited for quotes before filing.

“Any of you know Ms. Lathem?” the Detective abruptly bit out.

Even on good days Mike Quinn’s manner wasn’t the warmest. On days like this, however, days after a particularly tragic death, the man had a voice like stale coffee — wrung out and bitter.

I turned to find his twilight blue eyes on me, his square jaw sprouting the shadowy stubble of a beard. His clothes were relatives of the family Beige: brown pants, a gold printed tie hanging from a loose knot, and a winter coat the color of a cinnamon roast bean. From experience, I knew that beneath that coat, strapped across muscular shoulders, was a brown leather holster that held a gun the size of a howitzer.

Under his bloodshot eyes, I noticed shadowy crescents. He’d probably been up half the night.

“Let me get your usual,” I told him.

He nodded, and I noticed his dark blonde hair, which was usually trimmed fairly short, was looking a little shaggy.

The conversation around the table continued as I pulled the fresh espresso shots and steamed the milk for Quinn’s latte.

“I’ve seen her come in here,” Esther Best told Quinn. “But I didn’t know her.”

Tucker, Joy, and Kira all concurred. Each had recognized Valerie Lathem as a regular customer, but that was it.

“The typical Manhattan existence,” said Tucker. “Many recognize you, but no one knows you.”

“It’s awful,” I said, when Quinn moved to the coffee bar to take his latte. “She was so young.”

“Twenty-seven,” said Quinn, leaning on the blue marble counter. He took a sip from the paper cup and closed his eyes. For the briefest moment, his features relaxed and his load seemed to lighten.

When I’d met the detective a few months back, he’d been on a steady diet of stale Robusta bean crap, poured from a stained carafe at a Sixth Avenue bodega. I’d converted him into a regular with one good mug of Arabica house blend, followed by a freshly drawn latte. Ever since, I’d been savoring these brief flashes of surrender that would cross his routinely haggard face.

My ex-husband seemed to think Quinn’s interest in me went beyond my ability to mix perfect Italian coffee drinks.

I begged to differ.

Quinn was a married man and our conversations rarely went beyond the level of a coffee barista bantering with her customer. On the other hand, if this truly was the only time the detective allowed himself to surrender to pleasure in the course of his day — I really did wonder what that said about our relationship.

“Do you remember what she ordered?” Quinn asked me, suddenly opening his eyes. “As her final cup?”

“What you’re having,” I said. “A double tall latte.”

Quinn nodded.

“It’s our most popular drink — which isn’t surprising. It’s the most popular drink at most specialty coffeehouses in America.”

Quinn raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Part of my research for an article I did last year for Cupping magazine,” I explained.

He nodded.

Behind the coffee bar, I prepped the espresso machine for its next shot, unclamping the portafilter handle and dumping the packed black grounds, knocking the cake-shaped debris into the under-counter garbage can.

“So, Valerie Lathem’s death was a suicide then?” I asked. “I mean, according to the newspaper reports, the transit police are calling it a suicide. You’re not involved in the investigation, are you?”

“It’s transit’s case. But Ms. Lathem was a Village resident, so my partner and I have been assigned to assist my transit brethren, ” he said. “Search her apartment and such.”

The caustic tone was subtle. Although you could never be sure with Quinn, I assumed he was not entirely happy with the course of the investigation.

“You searched her apartment?” I repeated softly, pausing before I rinsed out the filter.

Quinn nodded.

“What do you think?”

Quinn took another sip of his latte.

Before he could say more — and, knowing Quinn, he certainly wouldn’t have said much more anyway — he was distracted by the increasing volume of the conversation at the table I’d just left.

“…and the Post reports at the end of the article that she was just promoted,” said Tucker.

“Where did she work?” asked Joy.

“According to the Post …Triumph Travel,” said Tucker, examining the page.

“Triumph has a lot of contracts around the city,” noted Kira. “They specialize in booking business trips for CEO-level execs.”

“Really?” said Tucker, skimming the page, then looking at another paper. “How do you know that, Kira? Nobody mentions it.”

Kira shrugged. “Easy, Tucker. I’m a genius.”

“Why would she kill herself, do you think?” asked Joy.