Dead to the Last Drop Read online

  Fifteen

  “MIKE, start the engine. What are you waiting for? Get us out of here!”

  “Relax, Clare. Sit back and relax.”

  “Don’t you see the cop behind us? Look in your mirror!”

  “I don’t have to. I expected this.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The guy’s a good cop. He saw me in the donut shop with the sunglasses and ball cap, trying to avoid the security camera. I figured he and his partner would run our plates. And we’re going to let them. So why don’t you educate me?”

  “Educate you? On what?!”

  “On the coffee. I want your mind—and eyes—off that mirror. So tell me what a city roast is.”

  I cleared my throat and closed my eyes, willing myself not to gawk into the mirror. It wasn’t easy. I couldn’t stop picturing those uniformed men walking up to our SUV, guns drawn.

  “Clare, talk to me now.”

  “Right, okay . . . uh, city roast. You’ve heard me say roasting different coffees is akin to cooking different foods?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, a professional roaster chooses what level of cooking best suits a varietal’s profile. Vienna, French, Italian, Spanish, those are . . .” I clenched my fists, trying not to picture Quinn and me in the back of that cruiser wearing handcuffs.

  “Keep talking, Clare, what about them?”

  “Uh, those are the darker end of the spectrum; they come after the second crack. On the lighter end, you’ve got city, city plus, full city, and full city plus. They come after the first crack and before the second.”

  “Crack?”

  “The beans make a popping sound as they’re roasted. That’s how we judge the cooking time. We call it crack.”

  “In my business we call something else crack. But I’d rather get my jolts from caffeine.”

  “Then you’re in luck with this donut shop coffee. A light roast like this preserves more caffeine than a darker roast would.” I gulped down half the cup and whispered, “Are they still there?”

  “Yes, but now the officer behind the wheel is shaking his head, laughing with his partner. He’s starting his engine, and . . .”

  Zoom! The cruiser rolled by my window and disappeared around the bend.

  I slumped back. “They’re gone.”

  “Yeah, and I’m not surprised.”

  “Why?”

  “Because these plates don’t belong to me. They belong to a federal employee who resides in DC, and that radio call would have confirmed it. He probably figured me for a hotshot agent out here on a fact-finding jaunt, and off he went.”

  “Why didn’t he come up to your window and check your driver’s license?”

  “Because his coffee was hot, his donuts were warm, and he didn’t feel like dealing with federal arrogance, or . . .”

  “Or what?”

  Quinn shrugged. “Or he saw me get into this SUV with an attractive woman, miles away from my home and work, and decided the sunglasses served another purpose.”

  I was about to ask what? when light dawned. “A married man with his mistress wouldn’t want to be recognized.”

  “Sorry, sweetheart.”

  “Hey, whatever it took for him to leave us alone is fine with me, and—wait a second. If the DC police or federal authorities are out looking for me, or you and me, they’re still doing it within the Beltway. That cop wouldn’t have driven off if there was a nationwide APB out describing us.”

  “Exactly right. It’s good news. For now.” He regarded me. “So what do you actually think of the coffee?”

  “It’s fine.”

  Mike raised an eyebrow.

  “Okay, it’s one-dimensional and a little flat, but it has a pleasant nuttiness and it’s freshly brewed—an acceptable choice for serving with donuts this good; after all, they’re the star.”

  “I’ll say . . .” Quinn garbled, mouth full. By now he was on his third. “Too bad this place is so far from DC.”

  “Tell you what, if we actually get out of this mess alive, I’ll ask Luther for his recipe and make you a dozen. He makes fantastic glazed donuts for the staff.”

  “Positive thinking. I like that. A reason to get out of this mess alive.”

  “Donuts aren’t the only reason . . .”

  As I touched Mike’s cheek, his gaze melted. My fingers were sticky from the honey glaze, but he didn’t care. He turned his face enough to taste the sweetness. Then I reached around his neck to pull his kisses closer, and we held on. We both needed it.

  “Baltimore,” he finally murmured against my lips.

  “I know . . .”

  He started the engine and pulled away from the curb.

  By now, night was falling fast. Soon the trees looked black to me, the road ahead unbearably dark—until Quinn flipped on the headlights and asked me to go on with my story.

  “Which part?” I asked. “You know the State Department factors into this, right?”

  “I know. And a member of the White House staff. And that computer flash drive you told me about, the one you’ve been hiding . . . on your person. But don’t get ahead of yourself, Clare, because most of these early details are new to me. Keep the events in order.”

  “Okay. Where did we leave off?”

  “With Tom Landry.” Quinn’s eyebrow arched. “I believe he fumbled his pass at you. Or did that slip your mind already?”

  “No. Older ladies like myself find caffeine boosts our memories . . .”

  And with another hit of hot city roast, I refreshed my boyfriend’s memory on the second pass that came at me that night.

  Sixteen

  HUGGING myself against the February chill, I waited for Officer Landry’s cruiser to disappear around the corner. Then I turned to face my temporary home, one of five stately brick structures beautifully situated on a shady section of N Street.

  Though I was an art school dropout (by way of an unplanned pregnancy), I was still captivated by distinctive architecture, and this lineup of town houses, known as Cox’s Row, was one of the country’s finest examples of Federal period design. I couldn’t help admiring the solid brick construction, exquisite dormers, and graceful white swags beneath the tall, black-shuttered windows.

  The builder, John Cox, was a merchant, importer, and former mayor of Georgetown. He’d even served in the War of 1812, the same war in which Francis Scott Key, his M Street neighbor, wrote our national anthem. Soon after, the building I occupied became part of the Underground Railroad, that network of secret routes and safe houses run by brave abolitionists who’d defied the law to help slaves flee northward to freedom.

  That’s what I loved about this DC neighborhood. Like Greenwich Village, every block seemed to have a tale to tell. But there was a difference. In New York those tales were about artists and writers; in Georgetown, the stories filled me with national pride.

  Unlike most of the buildings in the area, the Cox’s Row homes were set back from the street, allowing patches of greenery to cheer up the severity of the lines.

  In the wee hours of this morning, however, as I walked up the little dooryard of evergreen boxwood shrubs, I didn’t feel cheered. What I felt was trepidation—as if someone were watching me.

  I’d left the porch light off, not wanting to call attention to my nocturnal activities. I now regretted that, as I fumbled for my keys in near-total darkness.

  The Canadian hemlock shrouded the small raised porch in shadows and I felt a shiver. Was that the whisper of tree branches swaying? Or a stranger’s heavy breathing?

  When I spun to find out, my spine turned to ice.

  A man’s silhouette was leaning against the front wall’s red bricks. His broad-shouldered form had been hidden by the greenery, barely illuminated by the streetlight’s distant glow.

  “Who’s there?!” I c
ried as my fingers frantically fished around my handbag. “Don’t come near me. I have Mace!”

  “I know you have Mace, sweetheart. I gave it to you last Valentine’s Day.”

  Out of the gloom stepped Mike Quinn.

  “For heaven’s sake, Mike, you stopped my heart! What are you doing here?!”

  “For starters? This—”

  His palms were warm on my cheeks, his lips soft then hungry, like a man who’d been deprived for days. I didn’t mind the scratches from his five-o’clock shadow, but when his hands dropped lower and began to roam I caught his wrists.

  “Mike, the neighbors . . .”

  As I broke our embrace, the sandy stubble of his unshaven cheeks looked even darker in the gloom. But that true-blue gaze was alive and bright as it focused on me.

  He’d been gone for a week and his presence tonight was, like our relationship, something of a miracle. After all I’d been through, and all my tortured thoughts, part of me was thrilled to see him—but another part was still agitated by the events of the night, and a little annoyed he hadn’t warned me of his change in plans.

  “I was expecting you tomorrow. What happened?”

  “I missed you.” His worn expression cracked a sheepish smile. “So I took a late flight out of LA and came straight here from Reagan.”

  He jerked his head toward a Pullman behind him, leaning against the front wall. “Unfortunately, I left my keys to Scarlett’s mansion back at my apartment—where I was about to go, until I saw you roll up in a Metro DC cruiser. I thought I’d duck out of sight, surprise you.”

  “Congratulations, you did.”

  “So why the police escort? Did they release you on your own recognizance?”

  “Something like that . . .” Turning quickly, I busied myself with unlocking the front door.

  “Clare? What happened?”

  “Nothing. A little trouble at the coffeehouse.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “A drunk broke in and collapsed, but the paramedics took care of him.”

  “Why were you there so late?”

  The front door opened onto a long hallway, and I busied myself with hanging up our coats. “Are you tired?” I called from the closet. “Because I’m wide awake.”

  “I slept on the plane—and you’re evading a direct question.”

  “You know, I could use a midnight snack. How about you? Are you hungry?”

  Quinn caught my arm. “Cosi, what have you been up to?”

  “Look, some things at the coffeehouse are broken. Tonight I was trying to fix them.”

  “That’s pretty vague.”

  “I know. But I don’t want to rehash it right now, okay?”

  He studied me. “Okay. And the answer is I’m starving.”

  “At last, something I can fix. Come on . . .”

  Seventeen

  I led Mike down the hall, through a pair of white columns, and into the elegantly furnished double parlor. The space was magnificent, with high ceilings, two fireplaces, and a display of eclectic souvenirs from the owner’s world travels.

  In fact, evidence of the former ambassador’s extraordinary life was scattered all over her five stories, six bedrooms, seven baths, finished basement, and whimsical checkerboard patio. At the moment, however, I was leading Quinn beyond her double parlor and through a small connecting den. This led to a formal dining room, and finally—

  “The kitchen!” I announced, flipping on the lights.

  “Is that an echo?” Mike put a hand to his ear.

  “I know. It’s a cavern . . .”

  Mrs. Bittmore-Black’s gourmet kitchen was also a cook’s dream, decked out with a built-in Sub-Zero, a professional double gas range, and miles of countertop.

  Mike didn’t care. “I prefer your cozy kitchen back in New York.”

  “Me too. But you have to remember, this wasn’t a family kitchen. Mrs. B. used it for catering her Washington parties, which, according to Madame, were legendary . . .”

  As I went to the fridge, Quinn moved with me.

  “So, what are we having?” he asked, snaking his arms around me.

  “Well, since I was expecting you tomorrow, I already made a succulent prime rib roast . . .”

  Quinn made yummy noises in my ear, a ticklish delight as I pulled out the tray of beautifully cooked beef. Unfortunately—

  “Houston, we’ve got a problem. No bread. Your premature homecoming came before I had a chance to shop.”

  “No problem,” he murmured, “just give me a fork.”

  Back in New York, I would have used split tortas for the sandwiches. The Latino population had made them popular in the city and the chewy little flatbreads made amazing French dips. Here in Georgetown, baguettes were easier to find, and I was going to buy fresh-baked loaves—but Quinn failed to give me a heads-up.

  This begged a return to a question still bothering me.

  “Mike, why did you really come home early?”

  “What?”

  The sudden tension in him said it all. “Okay. What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Sweetheart, I missed you,” he claimed again. Then he gave me the boyfriend pout. “Aren’t you glad I’m here?”

  “Of course . . .”

  But I had a strong suspicion that I was dying to check out.

  “Tell you what, you get comfortable,” I said, pulling off his blue blazer and draping it over a chair, “and I’m going to make you my Thirty-Minute Dinner Rolls.”

  “Oooh,” he moaned, loosening his tie. “I do love your fresh bread . . .”

  “The smell of it baking?” I asked, moving to get the flour.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Or the butter melting on the hot, warm crumb?” I purred, taking out the mixing bowl.

  “Oh, hell, now you’re just torturing me—” He grabbed my hand. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  “Not yet.” I tugged my appendage back. “I’ll need this hand to mix the dough.”

  “Clare, you’re not really baking bread at three in the morning.”

  “Why not? That’s when most bakers make it. And like you, I’m wide awake. After what I went through tonight, I’m also wired. Baking the rolls will calm me down.”

  He hooked my waist. “I can think of something else that will do that.”

  “I know, and I’m looking forward to it—after we eat.”

  “You’re sure you want to wait?”

  “Yes, Mike,” I said, breaking away to preheat the oven, “because I know exactly what will happen if we rush upstairs like we usually do. You’ll still be starving; and after we, uh—spend our energy—you’ll come right back down here to raid the fridge. Let’s try taking things in a civilized order tonight, shall we?”

  “When the lady’s right, she’s right. Be right back . . .”

  It wasn’t easy letting Mike depart. As his long legs strode across the room, he pulled off the leather straps of his shoulder holster, and I couldn’t help noticing his muscles move beneath his dress shirt.

  I quietly sighed.

  Baking rolls was a ruse. What I really wanted was to follow him upstairs and help him off with that shirt. But tonight my curiosity trumped my libido. And, besides, my evil plan was hatching perfectly.

  Quinn had left his blazer on the kitchen chair.

  It took me one minute to stir together the warm water, oil, and sugar, and sprinkle on the RapidRise yeast. As the mixture proofed, I dried my hands and fished around the coat’s side pocket to find—handcuffs? Whoops. Not what I was looking for. I tried his other pocket without any luck. But in his breast pocket—bingo!

  Quinn’s mobile phone.

  I fired it up and (unlike Chef Hopkins’s private office) found it unlocked.

  Okay, Mike, in the interest of truth in our r
elationship, let’s see what you’re hiding from me . . .

  Eighteen

  FIFTEEN minutes later, Quinn returned looking comfortable (and distractingly masculine) in his NYPD sweatpants and tee. But there was now an intensity in his blue eyes that wasn’t so comfortable.

  He accepted the cup of French-pressed Sumatra I’d made him (bold but smooth with a comfortingly thick body) and sat down at the center island to watch me blend salt, egg, and flour into the yeast mixture; knead the dough smooth; break it into pieces; and shape it into dinner rolls.

  Quinn’s steady gaze was unnerving, but I ignored it. And as the pale white dough balls waited out their quickie rise in the greased pan, I heated up slices of the prime rib on the stove with some of my special American-style au jus. Then into the oven the rolls went, sending the heavenly aroma of fresh baked bread throughout the house.

  Minutes later, they came out golden brown, and (much like Quinn) crusty on the outside, fluffy and tender in. He split two of them warm, slathered butter like crazy, and inhaled them before we settled into the formal dining room.

  “Table for twelve?” he quipped, looking down the long expanse of polished mahogany. “I think the Walton family is missing.”

  “Walton’s Mountain never saw a dining room with four sets of bone china, a wall of priceless paintings, and sideboard that once served Abraham Lincoln.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You think my bottle of beer is outclassed?”

  “No. It’s got a coaster.”

  “But no opener.”

  “Oh, sorry. I’ll get it.”

  “Allow me,” he said, gently pushing me back in my chair.

  “Top drawer, next to the fridge!” I called.

  Some grumbling ensued about not being able to find it, but before I could get up again, he reappeared with something that was definitely not a bottle opener.

  “Mike, what in the heaven’s name are you doing with those?”

  “You’ll see . . .”

  In one swift move, he closed his handcuffs around the neck of my frosty bottle, angled the metal edge upward, flipped off the top, and handed it back to me.

  I blinked, staring at my open bottle.