Cleo Coyle - Espresso Shot

“Yes?

“What about Joy? She’s not in yet, is she?”

“No. Her flight’s on Wednesday. She didn’t want to miss the luncheon you’re throwing Thursday for the coffee guys.”

“What about this woman who was shot? Did you know her?”

“In a way…”

“She was a customer?”

“No…” I slowly sat up and between yawns briefly explained what had happened. Needless to say, Matt’s mother was flabbergasted.

“My goodness! What a tale! You’re going to investigate, aren’t you? You know you can count on me to assist!”

“I’m sure I could,” I said carefully, “but there are two very capable female detectives already on the case.”

“Oh,” Madame replied, her disappointment obvious. “Well… how do you know the shooter wasn’t gunning for Matt or you, my dear? How do you know the shooter didn’t simply miss?”

I blinked, considering the possibility for an entire five seconds before letting it go. “There’s nothing to worry about,” I said, then quickly flailed around my sleep-addled brain for a change of subject. “So, listen, are you all set with your dress for the wedding?”

“The wedding…” Madame sighed. “Hasn’t that son of mine changed his mind yet?”

Oh, jeez, here we go… “No. Matt hasn’t changed his mind. So don’t you think it’s about time you considered changing yours?”

“Not until my boy opens his mouth to say, ‘I do,’ which I fully expect will come out ‘I don’t.’ ”

“The wedding is in four days!”

“And the universe was created in six.” Madame paused just then, and her voice went quiet, as if we were conspiring together. “Now that he’s moved back in with you, I have high hopes.”

For the hundredth time, I pointed out the list of reasons Madame needed to accept her son’s decision to marry whomever he wanted. Matt’s age for one-he was over forty now, probably old enough to make decisions without his mother’s approval. And the proposal hadn’t exactly been rash. Matt had been sleeping with Breanne Summour for quite some time. Finally, I reminded my former mother-in-law the myriad ways Matt had transformed in Breanne’s shadow: wardrobe, attitude, expectations of entitlement…

But all of my arguments were to no avail.

“He doesn’t love her,” Madame declared. “And I can’t accept that Matt’s father and I gave birth to a son who would pledge himself in marriage to a woman he doesn’t love.”

I massaged my forehead, desperate for another change of subject, because in about two seconds the woman was going to start in again about how Matt still loved me.

“Listen,” I said quickly, “do you know what Matt told me last night?”

“That he still loves you?”

Ack. “No! He said he thought maybe the young woman who was shot had been killed by mistake.”

“What do you mean?”

I explained Matt’s theory. “Given the remote possibility that Matt’s right, can you think of anyone who would want to harm Breanne?”

Madame laughed, short and sharp. “That woman makes enemies on a daily basis.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“Well, I can’t very well narrow it down for you if you don’t let me assist.”

“There’s nothing to assist!”

I took a breath. Then I calmly reiterated the stuff about the two very competent detectives already on the case. The line fell silent after that, but I could feel Madame frowning from fifteen blocks away.

“Well,” she finally said, “I am quite outraged that this poor girl was shot down in the street like some kind of game animal. Such a beautiful girl, too.”

“Yes, you know-” I blinked. “Wait. How do you know she was a beautiful girl?”

“ New York 1 is showing a photo of her right now. Her employer provided it, I believe. And she had such a lovely, old-fashioned first name. I haven’t heard that one in years…”

I sat up straighter. “They’re giving out her name?”

“Yes, do try to follow me, dear. The newspeople have it right up there on the television screen: Hazel Boggs, twenty-two, of Wheeling, West Virginia.”

Crap.

“Clare? Are you still on the line?”

“I’ve got to go,” I said, scrambling off the bed. “Talk to you later.”

“But-”

I hung up the phone and grabbed my robe. I needed coffee and lots of it. Then I’d have to shower and dress fast. Matt would be waking in an hour or two, and I was going to have to break some very bad news.

I’d been wrong about the timing on Hazel’s name being released to the pubic. I thought we’d have a few days, but clearly the detailed report on the young woman’s murder was already being broadcast.

The fact was: if the shooter had wanted to kill Hazel, the release of her name wouldn’t matter one whit. But what if Matt was right? What if the shooter actually meant to kill Breanne?

I still had major doubts about Matt’s look-alike-stripper-shot-by-mistake theory, but the man nearly had a heart attack explaining it to me last night. As I stumbled toward the coffeepot, I knew I’d have to treat Matt with kid gloves this morning, because if he woke up still believing Breanne was in danger, then I was in for a heck of a lot more grief.

“YOU told me we had a few days! A few days, Clare, not hours!”

“I know, Matt, I know. Please calm down…”

We were walking north on Hudson. The air smelled springtime fresh with a hint of invigorating brine from the flowing river just a few blocks away. The morning sun was strong, and the swaying limbs of the newly budding elms were dappling the buttercup-yellow light with strokes of pearl-gray shade.

Matt didn’t notice. He was too busy power striding toward the Sixth Precinct station house, a squat, concrete, narrow-windowed iteration of midcentury modern that was described by at least one architectural critic as a visual catastrophe-which from one point of view, it was.

Just not from mine.

You see, the Village’s previous precinct building was located a few blocks away on Charles Street. Now that structure was indisputably impressive. Dedicated by Teddy Roosevelt in 1897, the thing was solid granite with a neoclassical facade. But the actions inside that grand civic monument weren’t always so prized.

Before the gay rights movement gained legitimacy, homosexuals and cross-dressers in the Village were routinely rounded up and dragged through the old precinct’s stately columns. During one of these attempted roundups, the legendary Stonewall Riots ensued. During another, an Argentine student became so distressed he threw himself out the second-floor window, impaling himself on the wrought-iron fence below. The young man lived, but the incident was an ugly moment in the Village’s otherwise flamboyant bohemian history.

In 1970, the Charles Street station house was sold, and the men and women of the precinct moved to their West Tenth address. So, okay, the Sixth’s new building was a monstrosity of pseudomodernity. But the contemporary windows no longer looked down on a spiked fence; they looked out on Seagull Haircutters, one of the country’s very first unisex salons. The climate inside the building was a lot more tolerant, too.

These days, the new Sixth had a female precinct commanding officer, employed a daring lady beat cop known as “the pit bull,” and championed the Gay & Lesbian Anti-Violence Project, the nation’s largest crime-victim service agency for the lesbian and gay communities.

All in all, even given the abysmal architecture, I didn’t see a catastrophe here.

As Matt jaywalked across Tenth between two parked vans, skirted a couple of police scooters, and pulled open the precinct’s heavy glass front door, I trotted along behind.