Shot in the Dark Page 11

  As Mike and I inhaled our afternoon breakfast, his phone buzzed. It was Franco again, but this time he wasn’t texting. He wanted to talk.

  I cleared the table and listened in—or tried to. Mike’s end of the conversation betrayed nothing, except at the close of the call. (And this was a shocker.) He actually smiled.

  “Good news?” I asked.

  “You remember our mugger?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “Well, Adam Thomas—that’s his name—is also an addict.”

  “Didn’t you already deduce that last night?”

  “Yes, and Franco confirmed it. He’s been interviewing this kid for three hours. Thomas has no record, and he’s flat broke. But he has something extremely valuable to offer us.”

  “Information?”

  “Key information, something we’ve been after for weeks. I guess small favors really can give up big rewards—at least in this case.”

  “So you’re happy?”

  “Happy? Sweetheart, I don’t know how to thank you for bringing me to that park. If this kid’s story turns out to be true, he could be the Rosetta Stone of Styx.”

  Twenty-eight

  STYX.

  Not the “Come Sail Away” retro rock band Styx or the River Styx of Greek mythology. This Styx was a dangerous new recreational drug. Chemists called it by its long, technical name. Law enforcement described it as a synthetic opioid, one that gave users a floating high like heroin.

  Styx was so new that none of Mike’s regular informants had a clue about it. The drug wasn’t being distributed on street corners or through Internet sites. Yet it was showing up in clubs and bars, and no one seemed to know how it got there. “I bought it from a guy who bought it from a girl” was the typical story. Its popularity was spreading fast; sadly, so were the overdoses.

  “They’re off to the underworld,” was how Franco put it.

  Since the discovery of Styx, the OD Squad even nicknamed their naloxone kits “Hercules.” Fitting enough, given their goal of dragging lost souls back to the land of the living.

  Styx was particularly alarming because it came in powder form and was being sold like old-fashioned Pixy Stix candies in a rainbow of straw-shaped wrappers. It hadn’t reached the school yards yet, but Mike feared it would—and that fear is what fueled his overtime.

  Every day now, Mike was camped out at One Police Plaza, working with the NYPD’s database to get a picture of sale and usage via reports filed by the city’s narcotics, gang, and precinct detectives. The port of entry for this drug appeared to be New York, and he’d been poring over toxicology reports, consulting with the DEA, and conducting conference calls with his counterparts across the Northeast.

  In the meantime, Sergeant Franco had been taking care of the day-to-day aspects of the OD Squad, including stakeout operations and stings. His dedication had freed up Mike to work on the larger, regional investigation—putting pieces together to get a bigger picture of the problem and form a strategy to solve it.

  “Thank goodness for Franco,” Mike said. “I’ll head over to find out more directly. But it looks like we’ve got a genuine crack in the case.”

  “I hope you do—and I’m happy to hear Franco’s promotion is working out so well.”

  “He’s become my right-hand man, and he’s been doing an outstanding job.”

  “I’m not surprised. Despite what Matt thinks of him, I’m relieved he and Joy are a couple. I think Franco will make a great husband.”

  “Hypothetically,” Mike said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  I narrowed my gaze. “You have something on your mind? Or is there something you know that I don’t? Come on, spill it.”

  “I just think . . .” Mike shrugged, his expression looking far too skeptical. “The issue with your ex disliking him—and that’s an understatement—isn’t going to make life peachy for them as a couple. And living in different cities isn’t easy on any relationship.”

  “We managed it.”

  “We’re older.”

  “Please!” I held up my hand, Esther-style. “Do not mess with my mother-of-the-bride fantasy of seeing my daughter married to a good man like Franco. I’m sorry, but I’d like to think of her as settling down soon. If she were unattached and using those dating apps, I’d worry myself sick, especially after that dream of mine. Did I tell you about it?”

  “Just the swimming part.”

  “Well, before I ended up in the river, Joy was dressed like Gun Girl—same blouse and skirt—and pretending to shoot the sky in Hudson River Park.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish!” I went on to describe the rest of the dream. “Mostly, I was trying to save my daughter from running off with Richard Crest, descending into an East Village basement, or drowning in the Hudson. It was horrible.”

  Mike rubbed his chin. “Mmm.”

  “What?”

  “Just that . . . it’s not helpful to your peace of mind to see your daughter in these victims—or these victims as your daughter.”

  “But that kind of thinking is natural for any parent. When you work so hard to get drugs off the street, aren’t you thinking of Jeremy and Molly? There, but for the grace of guardian angels, goes my baby.”

  “Except Joy has a mother who’s fiercer than St. Michael when it comes to protecting her child.”

  “I wish I could protect her—and all of these young women. But our world is far from a Garden of Eden; that’s how Madame put it. These days, I think we’re closer to that concrete Habitat Garden, filled with bizarre man-made structures of social interaction. And someone is always lurking in the shadows with dark intentions.”

  “Like our mugger?”

  “Like the killers in that boiler room. Or Richard Crest.”

  “Even so, Clare, you can’t let your fears shake you.” Mike pulled his patron saint medal from his pocket and held it up. “Do you remember how that little prayer goes?”

  “What prayer?”

  Mike smiled. “‘Angel of God, my guardian dear. To whom God’s love commits me here. Ever this night, be at my side . . . ’”

  I hesitated then finished— “‘To light, to guard, to rule, and guide.’ Yeah, I guess I do remember.”

  “So there you go. You’re not alone. Not even when you face those dark nights of the soul.”

  “And what about dark souls? What do you do when you have to face them?”

  He dropped St. Michael back in his pocket. “Sometimes you have to fight them, before you can help them.”

  * * *

  • • •

  AFTER one more pot of coffee, Mike was kissing me good-bye. When he headed for the door, I heard his phone going off again.

  Suddenly, he was back.

  “What is it?” I asked, worried.

  “Another text from Emmanuel Franco—about you.”

  “Me?”

  “Take a look . . .”

  Tell the Coffee Lady to turn on her phone.

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ve got to run—” Mike tapped his watch. “Maybe you should take his advice.”

  The moment I powered my smartphone back on, it vibrated like crazy. I checked the caller ID—my daughter! She was trying to reach me.

  “Joy, what’s the matter? Are you okay?”

  “That’s my question for you, Mom. Manny swore to me that you were fine, but I just saw the video of you and that girl with the gun—and I’m freaking!”

  “I’m okay, honey. Calm down. Did you see it on Chatter?”

  “No, on cable news! All the networks are playing it, every one!”

  For a moment, I was speechless.

  I’d expected that video to be history by now. But it wasn’t, which meant the
Village Blend hadn’t dodged this bullet. The shot was simply delayed. Now it was headed straight for the heart of my beloved coffeehouse.

  Twenty-nine

  TWO days later, I was once again standing behind my shop’s counter. Sunlight streamed through our wall of French doors, its golden rays gleaming on the spotless plank floor. A fire crackled in the hearth, dispelling the chill of the autumn afternoon. The espresso machine perfumed the air with freshly brewed ambrosia.

  Too bad there were few customers to enjoy it.

  At two o’clock on a hectic Manhattan weekday, my coffeehouse had precisely two patrons.

  At the window, a brunette twenty-something in a pleated skirt and pastel tee tapped away on her laptop, a rolling Pullman parked by her side. She chewed her pink lips with intensity—probably a traveling graduate student who hadn’t checked in with the outside world in days.

  Sitting by the fireplace, a big guy with a curly red beard nursed a cappuccino and glowered at our neglected front door, obviously waiting for someone who had yet to arrive.

  I knew how he felt. I was impatiently waiting, too—and not just for more customers.

  By now, detectives would have been assigned to investigate the case of the dead girl in the river. I had plenty to say to them, mostly about Richard Crest, but they had yet to contact me.

  Quinn warned me it would take time. The police already had my statement. What they really needed was a ruling by the medical examiner on cause of death. An autopsy report and any forensic evidence collected by the CSU would give them more hard facts than I could.

  Even my baristas weren’t able to tell me the girl’s name or where she worked, and only Esther recalled seeing her with Richard Crest. I had yet to hear back from my assistant manager, Tucker Burton, who was out on vacation. But I assumed he received the group text message I sent about “Heart Girl” and would have contacted me if he had any information.

  When the bell over the door rang, I looked up expectantly. It was only our mailman. I gritted my teeth. Just two customers in an hour meant I had more staff (and newly arrived bills) than patrons, not the best business model.

  The trouble began, as I guessed it would, when the cable news started playing that viral video. Next our local news showed it. Then newspapers picked up the story with glaring headlines:

  Espresso Shot of Hot Lead

  Gunplay at a Village Café

  You’re “App” to Get Shot at This Coffeehouse

  Most of the articles were reprints of a single wire service report, which relied on the police blotter for facts. The new Cinder app was a prominent part of the story’s background, since it brought shooter and victim together; and users of the app had rated the Village Blend a favorite hookup hot spot. But the articles failed to inform readers that the “bullets” were blanks until the very last paragraph!

  If that weren’t bad enough, Nancy called from her Critter Crawl workout class to tell me the video on Chatter was “even more viral than ever,” now with over one million views.

  Nancy thought it was “awesome free publicity.”

  It was, but not the good kind.

  The public was not intrigued by Gun Girl’s story; they were alarmed and disturbed. Dating app users wanted a safe space to meet, not one that attracted a gun-wielding banshee, and the result was a devastating downturn in customer traffic.

  By last night, business went from dire to disastrous. Though we managed to stay open the entire evening (no weaponized tootsie to close us this time), the City Harvest food pantry ended up with more pastries than we’d sold.

  With all those leftovers, I didn’t need the end-of-day receipts to know business was in la toilette.

  Today was even worse. Both the morning and lunch rush were duds—so bad I cut tomorrow’s bakery order in half, and the dairy order by a third. Another week like this, and I’d be forced to lay people off.

  The good news was our coffee brand hadn’t suffered, and probably wouldn’t. We still had an excellent business supplying our beans to select restaurants and hotels.

  From Joy’s reports, our store in Washington, DC, was also doing fine. Only this landmark location had been damaged by the bad publicity. While I didn’t expect this boycott to last forever, I feared it would go on long enough to threaten our financial viability. If traffic didn’t return soon, this century-old shop could end up shuttering.

  Madame’s heart would certainly be broken, and I couldn’t live with myself after disappointing her. It was almost too horrible to contemplate, but the business had to be saved, even if our flagship store couldn’t be.

  Esther was perceptive enough to sense the storm brewing (pun intended), but she glumly chose to catch up on chores in our basement roasting room rather than face this empty room.

  Dante was getting a clue, too. With a dearth of NYU co-eds to charm, he doodled a dozen artistic ideas on napkins before sending himself to the pantry to inspect our porcelain cups for chips and cracks.

  The part-timers I usually employed for busy afternoons and evenings were already sent home.

  Sadly, the only staff member I felt comfortable discussing this problem with was missing in action—and, boy, did I miss him.

  Tucker was my rock-steady right hand and the best American barista I had ever known. Personable, capable, and trustworthy, he was also a beloved fixture of our Village shop. His showman’s wit and Southern charm were as embedded in these walls as its exposed red bricks.

  For the past week, however, Tuck had taken a well-deserved leave to practice his second career as a thespian. He and I usually arranged his Village Blend hours around his theatrical schedule, but this was something different.

  Tuck had landed a speaking role in a feature film now shooting at Astoria Studios in Queens, and his part required him to be on set sixteen hours every day.

  I hadn’t heard a word from him since he’d started the gig, so I was shocked when the bell jangled and he walked through the front door. Elated, I raced around the counter and gave him a tight hug. He stiffened unnaturally as I wrapped my arms around his lanky form.

  “I was just thinking about you! Did your shoot end early? How have you been?”

  Only then did I notice the dark circles under his eyes and deep frown on his usually cheerful, boyish face.

  “Tuck, what’s wrong? You look terrible . . .”

  Avoiding my gaze, he ran a knobby hand through his floppy brown hair. “The production isn’t over. But I’ve been given a few days off, along with the cast and most of the crew. The shooting schedule is a mess because of the police investigation.”

  “What police investigation?!”

  “Clare, I came here today to explain—and apologize.”

  “For what? What’s this all about?”

  As Tucker’s narrow shoulders slumped, his gangly frame seemed to shed inches. “It’s about what happened with Carol Lynn.”

  “Carol Lynn Kendall?”

  He nodded. “What happened in our upstairs lounge, that whole awful scene? It was my fault.”

  Thirty

  “ARE you talking about Gun Girl?”

  Tuck’s brown eyes widened. “Oh, God! Is that what they’re calling her now?”

  At his anguished cry, the young brunette by the window stopped tapping and peeked over her computer screen.

  Time for privacy!

  I hustled Tuck to the empty coffee bar, sat him on a stool, and pulled him a fresh espresso. Then I slid the demitasse in front of him, rested my elbows on the marble counter, and quietly commanded—

  “Tell me what’s going on.”

  For the first time in recent memory, Tucker Burton refused to meet my gaze.

  “Oh, Clare, I wanted to help Carol Lynn, that’s all. I never imagined she’d do what she did, right here in our Village Blend.”

  “I still don’t understand. I knew you wer
e acquainted with Carol Lynn, but—”

  “More than acquainted!” he cried, rattling the demitasse. “She’s a friend. And a wonderful, generous person! She’s also vulnerable and lonely and a walking pharmacy—”

  “A what?”

  Tuck raised a hand. “All prescribed by her psychiatrist. She has a few emotional issues. But mostly she’s just naïve to the ways of this big bad town, like you were—”

  “Me?”

  “I took the girl under my wise and seasoned wing, like I did with you—”

  “Me!?!”

  “Of course. You both needed advice and guidance when you arrived in Manhattan, and I was happy to provide it.”

  “Let’s stick to the present, shall we? How exactly did you meet Ms. Kendall?”

  “She did seamstress work for Punch. Those cabaret gowns are a bitch to take care of, especially the sequined numbers, and she did a fabulous job. So I hired her to do all the costuming for my superhero charity show. She’s a whiz at mending spandex, too, let me tell you! That’s how she got noticed by the costume designer on the movie I’m in. After she was hired to assist in wardrobe, she told me about a late casting call for an actor who dropped out. Carol Lynn is the whole reason I got the part!”

  “I don’t even know the name of your movie.”

  “Swipe to Meat. That’s Meat with an A. It’s the story of a New York chef turned serial killer who hooks up with his beautiful victims through a dating app, kills them in the throes of passion, and bakes their hearts into meat pies—kind of a Sweeney Todd meets He’s Just Not That Into You. I play the genial doorman who keeps helping the killer with his garbage bags and wondering why there are so many of them. I catch on eventually and have the greatest death scene! It’s just spectacular—on paper. They paused the production before we shot it!”

  I shuddered. “I don’t know if I could take seeing you killed, Tuck, even as a fictional character.”