Cleo Coyle - Espresso Shot

“Damn,” he murmured against my lips. “Some of us have to report to work.”

I sighed. “I have work, too. Matt’s wedding’s tomorrow, and I have so much to do, including a final batch of beans to roast-the trickiest ones yet, and the most expensive. Kopi Luwak sells for three to five hundred a pound-”

“Dollars? You’re kidding?”

“Drop by early this evening, say eight o’clock? I’m brewing samples for my baristas on the Clover.”

“Free coffee? I’m there.”

He rose up off the bed and crossed to his new faux-mahogany bureau. As my eyes watched him dress, my mind strayed back to the Breanne-in-peril case.

“Mike?”

“Yeah?”

“With Winslow in custody, do you think Breanne’s safe now?”

Mike glanced up from buttoning his shirt. “She hired a bodyguard. You know that, right?”

“Right. I spoke with her yesterday.”

“And I spoke with your ex-husband while I was making our coffee, filled him in on everything.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

He shrugged. “Well, like him or not, I guess we’re all in this together.”

“Yeah, that’s basically what I told Breanne on the bathroom floor of Machu Picchu. So you think it was Winslow who hired the hit man? Arranged for that bathroom attack?”

Mike pulled on his pants, tucked in his dress shirt. “It’s the angle that makes the most sense, doesn’t it? Winslow’s scum. He paid off Monica Purcell in drugs to commit a crime. He probably did the same with the man who attacked Breanne in the bathroom. Whether or not Winslow was in custody is beside the point if he already paid the guy to take her out.”

“I’d have to come to the same conclusion-at least based on what we know. I’ve been thinking about Randall Knox, and I can’t make him as a murderer.”

“The gossip guy?” Mike grabbed his wallet, cell phone, and gold shield off the dresser. “You think he’s innocent?”

“I wouldn’t call him innocent, but after sleeping on it, I’m willing to bet his hits are limited to the pen, not the sword.”

“Good bet. After I spoke to you, I ran a background check. No felonies. No outstanding warrants or restraining orders. Just a lot of unpaid parking tickets. Whereas you can see what kind of nut job Winslow is.”

“Exactly. If I had to guess, I’d say Knox and Miriam Perry were toasting something other than Breanne’s demise. Probably whatever smut story Knox is planning to publish on Monday.”

“The one on Breanne?”

I nodded. “He claims Breanne and the dead stripper shared more than a physical resemblance.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It might mean they shared Matt, in which case the gossip column will be about a particularly embarrassing episode in my ex-husband’s playboy past.”

Mike tightened the knot on his tie. “Will something like that hurt his new marriage?”

“I don’t know. Breanne’s one tough fashionista. Something tells me she’ll be able to handle whatever Knox throws at her. As for Matt, I think he may actually care for the woman he’s about to make his new wife.”

“Then maybe they’ll just get their first lesson in making a marriage work.”

I met Mike’s eyes. “Forgiveness?”

He winked. “Got it in one.”

I smiled. “The thing is… I found something else out last night, something that makes me think the story has nothing to do with Matt.”

He slipped on his shoulder holster. “I’m listening.”

I climbed out of bed, crossed to the new computer desk, and opened his old laptop.

“What are you doing?”

“You’ll see.”

I logged onto my Internet account and called up Breanne’s official biography on the Trend Web site. “It says here that Breanne Summour is a pen name she legally uses to shield her aristocratic family from publicity. They reside in Europe, and Breanne grew up all over the world, studying at the Sorbonne with sons and daughters of royalty. She has an impeccable sense of fashion that she acquired at the knee of an older family friend, a stunning beauty who once modeled for world-renowned Parisian designer Coco Chanel.”

“So?” Mike said.

“So it doesn’t add up. Breanne was well educated and well connected. It doesn’t exactly fit with what Winslow implied. Or what Nunzio told me last night.”

“Wait. Who’s Nunzio?”

“An Italian sculptor-he’s not important, but what he said is. Breanne’s been wheeling and dealing behind the scenes, making bargains to get herself freebies. It doesn’t sound like the woman in her bio.”

Mike leaned over my shoulder to read the computer screen. “Yeah. There’s a lot of spongy language here.” He pointed. “ ‘Studied at the Sorbonne.’ When? Doesn’t say she actually graduated. And who’s this ‘family friend’? No hard dates, names, facts. She admits in the bio that she’s legally changed her name, which would discourage any cursory background checks; someone would have to spend money and a whole lot of time to dig up a story, if there even is one, on her past. You’re right. Sounds like a scam job. Why don’t you ask Breanne about it?”

“If it’s just résumé enhancement, it’s no big deal, right?”

Mike laughed. “If that were a crime, I’d have to arrest half the city-and all the politicians.”

“Maybe it’s nothing,” I said. “But with Knox threatening an exposé, and my own investigation turning up facts about Breanne that don’t add up, I’d really like to know what Matt is marrying into.”

Mike began to massage my shoulders. “Joy’s about to get a stepmother. Is that it?”

“I’d just like to know what Breanne is hiding, what’s behind the cashmere curtain.”

“Will she tell you if you ask?”

“Doubtful. She’s got the brick wall thing down pretty well.”

“You know, Cosi, whenever I hit a brick wall, I go the other direction.”

“What do you mean?”

“You said Randall Knox implied there was some kind of link between Breanne and the stripper Hazel Boggs. They shared more than a physical resemblance, right?”

“Right.”

“So look at Hazel to find out what they shared. Call the Fish Squad. Ask them what they dug up on the girl. Maybe you’ll find a connection to Breanne.”

A horn honked outside, and Mike glanced at his watch. “Sorry, sweetheart. I’ve got to go. Sully’s picking me up down on the-”

The horn honked again. Mike poked his head out the window. “Knock if off, Sully!”

“You’re late!”

“I’m coming! Stop disturbing the peace!”

He brought his head back in. “Don’t forget, you have a change of clothes here in the top drawer. Your sneakers are in my closet. Now kiss me good-bye.”

I did (and for a lot longer than was probably prudent, given Sully’s third horn blast). Mike slipped out the door, and I sighed. It was hard to see my man go. I hung out the window, waited for him to hit the street-one last look.

“Bye, honey!” I shouted.

“See you tonight!” he shouted back.

He threw me a kiss and climbed into Sully’s car. I drew my head inside the window, went to the kitchen, and poured another cup of Mike’s coffee. Then I called the Sixth Precinct.

“Detective Lori Soles.”

“This is Clare Cosi, Detective. I’d like to talk to you one more time about Hazel Boggs…”

I didn’t dress for Trend ’s offices. The sneakers, jeans, and sweater that I’d stashed at Mike’s apartment would have to do.

“Breanne, I need to speak with you.”

“What?” Breanne glanced up from her massive glass desk, her delicate eyewear perched on the end of her nose. “Clare? What are you doing here?”

I walked into her office, shut the door, and threw the lock. “I’m here to get your side of the story.”