Dead to the Last Drop (A Coffeehouse Mystery) - Softcover

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

May you eat, drink, and read with joy!
—Cleo Coyle

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Cleo Coyle

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Chapter Forty-six

Chapter Forty-seven

Chapter Forty-eight

Chapter Forty-nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-one

Chapter Fifty-two

Chapter Fifty-three

Chapter Fifty-four

Chapter Fifty-five

Chapter Fifty-six

Chapter Fifty-seven

Chapter Fifty-eight

Chapter Fifty-nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-one

Chapter Sixty-two

Chapter Sixty-three

Chapter Sixty-four

Chapter Sixty-five

Chapter Sixty-six

Chapter Sixty-seven

Chapter Sixty-eight

Chapter Sixty-nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-one

Chapter Seventy-two

Chapter Seventy-three

Chapter Seventy-four

Chapter Seventy-five

Chapter Seventy-six

Chapter Seventy-seven

Chapter Seventy-eight

Chapter Seventy-nine

Chapter Eighty

Chapter Eighty-one

Chapter Eighty-two

Chapter Eighty-three

Chapter Eighty-four

Chapter Eighty-five

Chapter Eighty-six

Chapter Eighty-seven

Chapter Eighty-eight

Chapter Eighty-nine

Chapter Ninety

Chapter Ninety-one

Chapter Ninety-two

Chapter Ninety-three

Chapter Ninety-four

Chapter Ninety-five

Chapter Ninety-six

Chapter Ninety-seven

Chapter Ninety-eight

Chapter Ninety-nine

Chapter One Hundred

Chapter One Hundred One

Chapter One Hundred Two

Chapter One Hundred Three

Chapter One Hundred Four

Chapter One Hundred Five

Chapter One Hundred Six

Chapter One Hundred Seven

Chapter One Hundred Eight

Chapter One Hundred Nine

Chapter One Hundred Ten

Chapter One Hundred Eleven

Chapter One Hundred Twelve

Chapter One Hundred Thirteen

Epilogue

Coffee and the Presidency

Abby Lane’s Playlist

Freedom of Information Act Resources

Recipes and Tips from The Village Blend

Prologue

HE stomped the brake and glared at the BMW swerving into his lane. I could smash this idiot’s bumper, but it won’t get me to her any faster . . .

Suppressing the urge to turn this SUV into a battering ram, he laid on the horn instead. It worked. The Beemer swung out of his path and he hit the gas, running the next two yellow lights.

Thanks to the Cherry Blossom Festival, the DC streets were flooded with a sea of rentals, complete with drivers rattled by Washington’s infamous traffic circles.

Built for an era of horses and buggies, the circles were a rite of passage for newcomers, as confusing as many of the rules for navigating this town. His first boss at Justice had tried to warn him about some of those twists and turns before the cancer killed him.

Now she was his prime concern.

Fingers strangling the wheel, he feared the worst, that he might be too late. Seeing congestion ahead, he cut the wheel, swinging onto 31st, a Georgetown residential street that gave him clearance to fly. Then two quick lefts and he was exactly where he needed to be, Wisconsin’s 1200 block.

He double-parked, reached into his suit jacket, and popped the thumb snap on his holstered Glock. Whatever it takes to keep her safe . . .

The Village Blend, DC, was beyond busy, its line spilling onto the sunny sidewalk—locals, college kids, selfie-taking tourists.

“Hey!” A boy with a backpack poked the air. “Cutting the line’s not cool. You can’t—”

A single, arctic stare was all it took to freeze the kid—because in this city, a dead-eyed look from a big guy in a suit meant one thing . . . federal agent. In this case, armed and pissed federal agent.

Inside the shop, he looked for her, his body and soul relieved to find her busy behind the espresso bar. Green eyes brightened at the sight of his approach. Lips parted in surprise and then melted into that special smile, the one reserved only for him.

“Mike, I’m happy to see you, but I’m in the middle of—”

“You’re coming with me.”

“What?”

“Right now, Clare.”

Confusion wiped her smile. She didn’t want to go. But she will, he thought, even if I have to cuff her and carry her out.

“Can you tell me why?”

“No time.” He extended his hand. “If you trust me, you’ll come . . .”

A moment’s hesitation and she took it.

He pulled her outside, practically pushed her into the vehicle, slammed their doors, and peeled out.

“Whose car is this?”

“Not mine and not yours—and that’s the point. If you have a mobile, we have to toss it.”

“It’s back at the coffeehouse, in my handbag!”

“Good. At least they can’t trace us. I’ve already disabled the LoJack.”

“Mike, what is going on?”

He swung off the crowded avenue and zigzagged his way toward the Potomac. “Open the glove compartment.”

She did, saw a travel guide, sunglasses, and a .45. “Now you’re scaring me.”

“Why? I taught you to shoot. You don’t have to be afraid of it.”

“I’m not afraid of it. What’s scaring me is you!”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but lives are in jeopardy.”

“Whose?”

“Ours. And we’ve only got a narrow window to change that.”

Glancing her way, he saw her struggling to process his words. For a rare minute of time, he realized Clare Cosi had been rendered speechless.

The afternoon sun was unforgiving, revealing the crow’s-feet at the edges of her eyes, the tiny wrinkles around her downturned mouth. But the golden light also burnished the red strands in her dark chestnut hair. And though her ponytail was coming undone, she wasn’t.

The woman he loved was strong, one of the most resilient spirits he knew, and one of the most stubborn, but it was her loyalty that made her one of the best partners he could have in this situation—that and her innate nosiness.

“Clare, I need you to talk to me about Abby.”

“Abby? You mean—”

“I need to know everything.”

“But you know most of it already.”

“Most of it, not all of it, and I need you to go over it all, even the parts you think I know. No matter how trivial a fact may seem, tell me. Remember, Clare, details matter . . .”

Leaning back, she took a breath. “Then I suppose I should start with Nox Horrenda.”

“What?”

“It’s how I think of it: that horrible night.”

“The night of the first homicide?”

“Yes—although I didn’t know it was murder. Not then. And it wasn’t the first time I saw the victim, that was a week before. The same night I spotted two armed men in my coffeehouse.”

“Back up, sweetheart. What armed men?”

And that’s where her story began . . .

One

“GARDNER, get off the phone.”

“Why?”

“Just do it!”

Still panting from my upstairs sprint, I counted the seconds, waiting for my young co-manager to end his call.

Like the rest of this former bakery, the top floor of our rented building felt as big as a barn. Tall windows bathed the place in sunshine—when the sun was up, that is. Nights were a different story.

None of the fireplaces were working yet, which made this high-ceilinged beauty impossible to properly heat; and on this moonless February evening, in heels, hose, and a little blue dress, I hugged myself to suppress a shiver.

Our DC location hadn’t always been a bakery. Around 1865, it became a confectionary shop with an ice cream parlor so beloved that the Smithsonian’s Museum of American History preserved a portion of its interior in its Hall of Everyday Life.

My everyday life wasn’t nearly so fixed.

At first my move here had been a joy. My elderly employer had found me an elegant situation, house-sitting a historic Georgetown mansion.

Madame Dreyfus Allegro Dubois had made flocks of influential friends in her eighty-plus years running her New York coffee business, so I wasn’t surprised that among them was the absent owner of said mansion.

Madame had even bunked with me for a few weeks to help us open our DC doors—and cut some red tape for a temporary liquor license. Then she headed back to New York, and for the next two months, I settled into a routine with my co-manager, a talented African American jazz musician named Gardner Evans who’d worked for years as a part-time barista in our New York shop.

Hailing from the Baltimore area, Gard had harbored a childhood dream to open a jazz club in Washington; and, given the longtime success of the legendary Blues Alley (just down the avenue from our DC digs), our elderly owner was thrilled to give the concept her blessing, as well as her funding.

After all, Georgetown was a picturesque, historically preserved neighborhood with collegiate ties and bohemian leanings, much like the Greenwich Village location of our original Village Blend. It seemed the perfect way to expand our century-old family business, a dream Madame had been fostering in recent years.

As for my dream, it had less to do with business than a man named Michael Ryan Francis Quinn—NYPD detective by trade, training, and instinct—who was now on temporary assignment at the United States Department of Justice.

The protracted duration of Quinn’s supposedly “transitory” duty was compelling enough for me to relocate. In plain speaking: I missed the man. As a result, I’d agreed to help Gard get this DC branch of our Village Blend coffee business up on its feet—unfortunately, after eight weeks of coaxing, this promising baby was still on its knees.

I handled the day-shift coffee business on the first floor, which was decent, but it wasn’t brisk enough to carry the jazz club, which was hemorrhaging money.

Gardner managed the club, and we agreed the music wasn’t the problem; it was the food. (One recent devastating print review and a dozen online reviews concurred.) That’s why he’d asked me to stop by this evening and evaluate the menu issues, which I’d been doing, table by table—until I spotted the man with the gun.

Keeping my cool, I moved slowly to the stairs and raced up them.

Now I stood before Gardner in our small office on the third floor. He and I shared the space. The rest of this large top floor served other purposes, including a small apartment that Gard used and a “greenroom” for the performers he booked. At the moment, however, I regretted the floor plan didn’t include an armory.

“Okay, talk to me—” Gardner said, putting down his phone. “What’s up?”

“I think we’re about to be robbed.”

“What?!” His espresso-hued eyes went wide. “Have you called the police?”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“Because nothing’s happened yet.”

“Then what makes you think—”

“Remember that holdup in the news last week? The bistro on Connecticut Avenue? Two armed men took wallets, smartphones, and jewelry at gunpoint. The perps waited at separate tables for the right time to strike. Well, I think I’ve spotted them downstairs.”

“In the coffeehouse?”

“No, the club. As I was chatting up customers, I came upon this man, sitting alone, wearing a baseball jacket. He’s not eating or drinking alcohol, just sipping a Coke. He’s scanning the room, hardly paying attention to the stage.”

“Is that all?” Gardner smoothed his goatee. “There could be any number of reasons why—”

“Except a big, bald guy, at the opposite end of the room, is doing the same thing—and making occasional eye contact with the first man. When I moved closer, I saw the gun in the big guy’s suit jacket!”

“He’s strapped?”

“Yes!”

“Did either of these guys notice you noticing them?”

“I could feel their eyes on me as I crossed the dining room, but I don’t know that they know I know.”

Now Gardner was on his feet. “Do they look Middle Eastern?”

“Why does that matter?”

“You never heard of prejudiced profiling? We call the cops and we’re wrong, they could sue us for discrimination, defamation, harassment!”

“I suppose the guy in the baseball jacket could pass for a Saudi.”

Gardner moaned.

“Let’s not panic,” I said. “We’ll have to involve the police, but we can do it carefully. Business has been pretty lousy around here without bad publicity killing it completely—”

“Or a lawsuit!”

“I have an idea.”

“I’m all ears.”

I explained my plan, and Gardner nodded. “Let’s do it. But I still hope you’re wrong.”

“That makes two of us.”

Two

I led the way down the stairs to our second floor Jazz Space. Sweet music flowed from the low stage, where three members of Gardner’s own band, Four on the Floor, were wrapping up their first set.

We entered the dining area behind the polished coffee and wine bar. Our young, Italian bartender was helping out on the floor, along with our sole server for the evening.

To keep us from spooking these robbers, I directed Gardner to turn his back on the customers and gaze instead into the ornate mirror mounted behind the long bar. The LED light star field on the twilight blue ceiling and opposite wall were reflected there, along with tonight’s sparsely occupied tables.

As Gardner prepared a drink, I pretended to help.

“Where do I look?” he whispered.

“By the exit to the restroom. See the big bald guy in a suit? He’s the one I know is armed . . .”

As Gardner observed the man, the band ended their set.

Stan “Sticks” McGuire, the band’s wiry new drummer, grabbed his Hoover cane. Stan had a permanent limp, unruly brown hair, and tremendous energy. Despite his leg injury and visual impairment—a blind eye, which he masked with a Captain America eyepatch—he moved smoothly off the stage, unassisted.

Jackson placed his bass into its stand and grabbed the microphone.

“Thanks, folks. Now it’s time for us to clear out so you can listen to our Open Mike favorite. ...