Клео Коул - On What Grounds

Saint Luke’s, which still had the tidy, cozy feel of a rural parish, was one of the oldest churches in Manhattan. In 1953, Madame had attended poet Dylan Thomas’s funeral there, and in 1981, when the original chapel had been gutted by fire, the church held an auction of basement relics to raise money for the restoration. The Village Blend had provided the coffee and pastries free of charge and also purchased this finely made chair.

Langley led Matt to the chair and I cringed, dreading what another wrestling match would do to the delicate piece.

“Wait!” I cried. “Don’t move!”

The three men froze as I raced into the kitchen, brought back a sturdy Pottery Barn knockoff of a French café cane-backed turn-of-the-century Thonet.

I placed the Thonet down, returned the lyre-back to its place by the wall, and finally announced, “Go ahead, Detective…with your interrogation…or whatever.”

Matt let out a snort at the confused expressions on the other men’s faces. “She used to be sane,” Matt told them. “Back when I first met her. Before my mother got hold of her.”

I glared and he tilted his head, leering at me in that awful, confident way that seemed to say, “You never cease to amuse me, Clare.” Then he sat on the Thonet—its seat adorned by a Bordeaux velvet chair cushion—and coolly leaned back.

“Well, Detective. I’m seated. I’m relatively calm. But unless you want to charge me with something, I’m not about to answer any questions.”

“All right,” said Quinn. “Then I take it you don’t want to explain this ?”

The detective’s hand disappeared into his shirt pocket and reappeared with a small vial positioned between his thumb and forefinger. Three-quarters of the vial was filled with white powder.

“Here we go—” said Matt wearily.

“Where did you find that!” I blurted to Quinn, knowing full well I didn’t want to know the answer.

“The right front pocket of your ex-husband’s jeans.”

I closed my eyes, shook my head. Didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to see it. Didn’t want to go through it. Not again.

“Take it easy, Clare,” said Matt. “It’s not what you think—”

“Matt, I can’t believe you’d take us down this road again—”

“I didn’t.”

“I can book you right now for possession,” said Quinn.

“Possession of what, Detective? Just what do you think you’ve got there?”

“Cocaine!” Langley blurted. “Right, Detective?”

“Wrong,” said Matt.

“I see,” said Quinn. “And from you ex-wife’s reaction, you’re going to tell me you weren’t an addict?”

“Christ. It’s caffeine. ”

“Excuse me?” said Quinn.

“Caffeine. Pure caffeine.”

I laughed. It was a little hysterical, I admit, but I knew Matt was telling the truth. He’d said something to me last year about finding a way to get over jet lag without subjecting himself to the heinous vagaries of airport coffee. This must have been the solution.

“Rub a little on your gums, Detective, and you’ll see,” said Matt. “Coke numbs the gums. This doesn’t.”

Quinn shook the vial, contemplating the powder. “Caffeine?”

“Isn’t caffeine brown ?” Langley asked.

“Coffee’s brown,” I told him. “Because of the roasting process the green beans are put through. But if that white powder is caffeine, it’s the by-product of the chemical process for decaffeinating coffee beans. It’s what supplies the caffeine in soft drinks.”

“And if it’s caffeine, this amount is legal?” Quinn asked.

“Well,” said Matt, “you’re holding about ten grams. A cup of joe has anywhere from one hundred to two hundred milligrams of caffeine. So I guess if you want to book me for possessing the equivalent of one hundred cups of coffee, you can try.”

“I don’t know,” said Quinn without a moment’s hesitation. “I guess I can believe you. Or maybe I can have it tested. That might take a while. Maybe even a day or two. Now where do you think I’d have you waiting during that time?”

“Fine,” said Matteo at last. “Ask your damned questions. What do you want to know?”

I couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t seen anyone trump Matteo Allegro in years. Quinn had managed it inside of five minutes.

Quinn glanced at Langley. “Take the cuffs off.”

“ Thank you,” said Matt, standing up so Langley could release him.

“What are you doing here? Your ex-wife says you don’t live here.”

“I travel most of the year,” said Matt, rubbing his wrists and sitting back down on the cane-backed Thonet. “But my mother owns this building, and around a month ago, when I was in Rio, she sent me a contract giving me the right to use this duplex when I’m in New York—”

“She what?!” It wasn’t that I couldn’t believe my own ears. I just didn’t want to.

“Ms. Cosi,” said Quinn. “I have to ask you to—”

“She made no mention of that to me !” I blurted.

“Why should she?” asked Matt. “You live in New Jersey, don’t you?”

“Not anymore. Last month I signed a contract with her, too,” I said. “I’m managing the Blend for a salary, a share of equity, and the right to live in this duplex!”

“Oh, Jesus.” Matt sighed. “Not again.”

Madame had perpetrated numerous schemes to get Matt and me back together. This was obviously her latest.

“Matt, don’t tell me you’re earning equity, too?”

“Yes,” said Matt. “Apparently she eventually wants us to co-own this place.”

“Excuse me, Ms. Cosi,” said Quinn, “but if you don’t allow me to continue with my questions, I’ll have to ask Officer Langley to escort you out of the room.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll sit. I’ll listen.”

But for a minute or two after taking a seat on one of the carved rosewood chairs, I did little more than silently stew. How could Madame have tricked me like this? How?!

In the meantime, Quinn was asking Matt a series of specific questions about his whereabouts the night before. I watched him take careful notes about the name of the airline he’d been traveling on and his flight number, and it occurred to me, with slow alarm, that Quinn was trying to determine whether Matt had anything to do with Anabelle’s fall.

“Did anyone witness your arrival here?” asked Quinn.

“Sure. The taxi driver.”

“Did you get his name or license?”

Matt smirked at Quinn for five long seconds. “What do you think?”

“And no one else saw you arrive?”

“It was five-fifteen in the morning. I was exhausted from a six-hour Jeep ride out of the Peruvian Andes, a fourteen-hour connecting flight from Lima to Dallas to JFK, and a two-and-a half-hour tango with U.S. customs. I collected my luggage, fell in a cab, and collapsed into bed the first chance I got. That’s it.”

“Did you notice anyone entering or leaving the premises when you arrived?” asked Quinn.

“No.”

“Notice anything out of the ordinary? Anything at all?”

“No.”

“Think about it, Mr. Allegro. What did you see when you exited the cab?”

Matt began to shift in his chair. He crossed a leg over his knee, rubbed his forehead, turned toward me. “Clare, did something happen last night at the coffeehouse?”

“Don’t talk to her right now,” said Quinn. “Just answer my question.”

Matt inhaled and closed his eyes. “The lights to the coffeehouse were on. I remember thinking it was early for that, but then I checked my watch and realized the bakery delivery was due between five-thirty and six.”

“And did you see anyone inside, through the windows?”