Dead to the Last Drop Read online

  “That would be nice, but I’m afraid Clare Cosi might do the same thing. You know, drop in on me? That would be . . . problematic.”

  “If that woman spends the night with you, you could be taken into custody with her. You know that.”

  “Yes. And I know I’ll have to answer questions for the FBI—but you’ve got my back, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So why don’t I visit my kids in New York for a few days? Let’s call it overdue personal time.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “And after Ms. Cosi is in custody, we can do that dinner. A nice long night for you to update me on what I missed while I was out. How about it?”

  Katerina studied Quinn a moment before wetting her lips and leaning close to his ear. “I can see you’re a survivor, too, Michael. Go ahead and take a few days; and if you need me—for anything—use that phone of yours to give me a call.”

  “Sure will,” Quinn said, swallowing hard to keep his lunch down. Then he removed her hand from his thigh, went back to his office, and strapped on his Glock.

  He also grabbed his .45, along with his extra magazines, tossed them into his gym bag, and locked his office door.

  On the street, he hailed a taxi and loudly asked to be taken to Union Station, where he used his credit card to purchase an Amtrak ticket to New York.

  Exiting through a back service door, he moved to a side street, hailed another cab, and took it to the nearest FedEx office, rerecording his voice mail message on the way:

  “I’ll be out of touch for a few days. Leave a message for me or contact Acting Director Katerina Lacey at the following number . . .”

  He dropped the phone and its charger into a FedEx box and sent it rush overnight to his son, along with a hastily scrawled note:

  Jeremy—

  Do me a favor. Keep my phone safe. Don’t make any calls or answer any. Let them go to voice mail. But you can play Dragon Whisperer all you want. The game app is loaded. Hug your sister for me.

  I love you both.

  —Dad

  There you go, Katerina, and whoever the hell you’re working with. Feel free to ping my phone ad nauseam.

  Then he picked up Agent Ned Bastian’s SUV and took off for Wisconsin Avenue to rescue the woman he loved.

  Twenty-six

  “WE can thank Katerina for one thing,” Mike said in conclusion. “She may have alerted me to the situation for reasons of her own, but it helped us. We got clear of the Beltway, and we’re free to do something about the situation besides rely on our defense attorneys.”

  “But what about Gardner and Stan?” I held my head. “Mike, I never would have left DC if you’d told me they were in trouble, too!”

  Quinn took hold of my shoulders. “That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you. I needed you to come with me; and you know as well as I do that the best way to help your friends is uncovering the truth about Abby.”

  “But we’re sitting in Baltimore, pursuing a case against your boss. How is that going to help us find out what happened to the President’s daughter?”

  “Add it up. Katerina conveyed facts to warn me away from you. But none of those facts should have crossed her desk. She’s an acting director of a marginal DOJ task force, Clare, one that primarily concerns itself with corporate and commercial malfeasance. She has nothing to do with advising the FBI on warrants, ethics, procedures, or anything else.”

  “But she could have a friend in that position at Justice, couldn’t she?”

  Quinn sat back, his hands curling into fists. “That woman always stinks of perfume, because somewhere down deep she knows she’s dirty. Look, I honestly don’t know whether she’s involved in these crimes; working behind the scenes to help frame you; using the information to manipulate me; or all three. But she’s got something to do with this. I can smell it.”

  “And you think the detective we’re meeting tonight has a lead on untangling this mess?”

  “Yes, I do. You just have to trust me a little longer.”

  “I’ll try. But I’ve been adding things up myself.”

  “And?”

  “I can’t explain the blood, but I think I know what the President’s daughter was doing in that park. She gave me the clue herself.”

  “When?”

  “The day after you came back from Los Angeles. I’ll never forget it—because it was the day she kidnapped me.”

  “She what?”

  “You heard me.”

  Quinn stared, astonished. “Okay, Cosi, I’m listening . . .”

  Twenty-seven

  AS I unlocked the front door of the Village Blend, DC, that Friday morning, my brain was fogged, my eyes half-closed. But duty called, so I took our morning bakery delivery, ground the coffee beans fresh, brewed up our morning selections, and filled the airpots. Finally, I calibrated the espresso machine, pulling the first oh-so-satisfying shots of the day.

  As the caffeine kick-started my heart, I heard the banging of pots and peeked through the swinging kitchen doors. Chef Tad Hopkins had entered the building, through the door to the back alley—like our unwanted visitor last night.

  Next on my to-do list: have that thing permanently bricked shut!

  It was highly unusual for Tad to come in this early, but I didn’t have a chance to quiz him. A gentle knock on the front door heralded the simultaneous arrival of two of my part-time baristas—Kimberly and Freddie, fresh-faced undergrads from nearby Georgetown University. As I unlocked the door for them, our first morning customers came in on their heels. Then the morning crush was on.

  The volume was much heavier than normal for a Friday, including a seemingly endless stream of police officers.

  “What’s with all the cops?” Freddie wondered after the two-hour tsunami of blue uniforms.

  “I don’t know,” Kim said. “Ms. Cosi, do you have any idea?”

  Unfortunately, I did.

  The memory of Officer Tom Landry’s reaction to my coffee came back to me (“Liked it? I’m in love . . .”), along with his promise to spread the word—and his midnight pass, prompted by the misguided assumption that I was hot to jump his bones.

  “Uh, no idea,” I lied.

  “Well, they seem to like it an awful lot,” Kim said.

  Her tone wasn’t altogether happy. Though I’d trained her and Freddie personally, they were still fledgling baristas, and they had a difficult time keeping up with the morning’s demand.

  The constant crowd of cops attracted attention, and before we knew it, commuters and tourists were curious to try the coffee, too.

  If business increased any more, I would be forced to add staff to the morning shift—experienced staff, which was nearly impossible to come by.

  But, hey, increased business was good news. And by the time the AM crowd was ensconced in their government offices and university classrooms, I was feeling optimistic about the future.

  The feeling didn’t last.

  During the lull before lunch rush, I heard a tap-tap-tapping behind me—no, not tiny footsteps, but the tink of Chef Hopkins’s thumb rings rattling against his smartphone.

  Exhibiting impressive dexterity, he filled a personalized World’s Greatest Chef mug while simultaneously typing a text message. I noticed he’d chosen our most expensive offering in the process—the creamy-textured Sulawesi, which Matt (our coffee hunter) had sourced from the very old coffee trees of Indonesia’s Toraja region.

  I should have ignored the tinking and tapping. But since we worked together, I thought a civil greeting was common courtesy.

  Friendly. Casual. Respectful. That’s my motto.

  “Good morning, Tad.”

  He snorted. “It kills you to address me as Chef, doesn’t it?”

  Oh, brother.

  “Don’t be defensive,” I countered. “You
don’t hear me address Kimberly as barista, or our evening bartender, Tito, as sommelier, even though he’s worked as one. And I’m certainly not Master Roaster Clare. We’re all equals here.”

  Still thumbing his smartphone, the chef shook his blond head. “You must be exhausted.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Managing all this egalitarianism has to be really wearisome. And you do look tired . . . Clare.”

  “Your insult is duly noted. But I’m not put off—and I remain determined to see some of Luther’s dishes on tomorrow night’s menu.”

  The chef sighed and shook his head. “Up to now, Clare, you’ve coasted along on the reputation of a century-old brand name. But truly, you’re no more than hired help. You had nothing to do with starting the Village Blend, because you know nothing about starting a business from the ground up. Now you want me to cook to the tune of low-end customers by serving low-end crap.”

  He finally lowered his phone, to flash me a grim little grin.

  “But I was hired by your boss to execute my cuisine. Sophisticated dishes for discerning tastes. Food for the kind of people who don’t particularly care to fraternize with college kids and aging jazz junkies.”

  The volley of insults was too much to waste time swinging at, so I simply asked: “And how do you plan to pack the place with these rarefied big spenders?”

  Tad shifted his gaze back to the smartphone screen.

  “They’ll come,” he declared. “They’ll come because I figured out how to get buzz even if you can’t. In eleven months I’ll be collecting my performance bonus from Madame DuBois, and you’ll be running back to Manhattan with your tail between your legs, to your old job at the Village Blend—if they’ll have you.”

  So angry I could steam milk, I was about to let loose on the deluded peacock when Tito came through the door, reporting for his barista shift.

  Despite his youth, Tito had years of experience, having worked since childhood in his family’s restaurant near Milan. Blond and blue-eyed, his Northern Italian good looks made him a favorite with the college coeds, but it was his work ethic that made him one with me. He was also the most experienced staff member I had here in DC, and I was glad to see him on this busy morning.

  “Boss! You got a visitor,” he called, Italian accent thick. “It’s that piano girl. She’s outside beeping her horn like crazy and yelling for you.”

  “Abby’s alone?”

  “Solo? Sure. Why not?”

  I raced outside, and into a blast of chilly air that set me shivering.

  There she was. The President’s daughter, sitting behind the wheel of a red Ford Fusion, madly honking the horn. She looked more goth than usual this morning with her black-and-purple-striped tee over black leggings. Her window was rolled down and when she saw me she tossed back her beautiful dark curtain of hair and yelled—

  “Get in, Ms. Cosi! Hurry!”

  I looked down at my apron, while my hand reached for my fast-deconstructing ponytail. “Give me a minute to grab my purse and coat—”

  “No!” Abby cried, her tone desperate. “There’s no time!”

  At that moment a pair of identical black SUVs rolled onto Wisconsin Avenue. It wasn’t hard to guess who was behind the wheel.

  “Please,” she begged, “before Agent Cage catches up!”

  I ran to the door and climbed into the seat. Before I’d even settled in, Abby released the brake and hit the gas. I fumbled with the shoulder strap as we barreled down Wisconsin. Traffic was light, but Abby still did too much zigging and zagging around the few vehicles that were too slow for her mission.

  “Why the hurry?”

  Hunched over the wheel, she refused to meet my gaze. “I wanted to get to you before they did.”

  “They? Who’s they?”

  “The Secret Service.”

  “Abby, where are we going?”

  “My mother wants to meet you. We’re going to brunch at the White House.”

  Twenty-eight

  “I can’t go to the White House looking like this! I don’t have my purse. I don’t have makeup. I don’t even have lipstick!”

  “You look fine,” Abby assured me as she swung the car onto M Street—without applying the brakes. The tires squealed as we made the turn, then she punched the gas, and I was pressed into my seat by the sudden acceleration.

  But our speed was only one on a list of my concerns.

  Topping it was my coffeehouse, which I’d unwittingly abandoned. At least Tito had arrived to man the espresso machine. I knew he was capable of handling the staff and customers until I returned. That boy was assistant manager material if ever I’d seen it, so I considered this a test. If he can handle my freakish absence with reasonable aplomb, I swear I’ll promote him.

  Next on my list of concerns—my appearance.

  I glanced down at my black skirt, black tights, and thin, black V-neck sweater—all covered by a blueberry-hued Village Blend, DC, apron.

  I twisted the ceiling rearview mirror to check my face. After the night I’d had, what I saw wasn’t pretty—

  “I’m going to need that!”

  Abby tugged my hand away from the mirror as the sedan swerved into the opposite lane. This time someone else’s tires screamed.

  “Why are we going so fast?”

  Abby glanced at the rearview. “They’re catching up.”

  “This is the second time you’ve done this,” I said. “Last night—”

  Abby cut me off. “Last night I was staying at my friend’s house. It’s a beautiful home, with a private garden right next to Glover-Archbold Park.” As she spoke Abby put her index finger to her lips and then tapped her ear.

  “Bugged?” I mouthed, incredulous, and she nodded.

  The park she mentioned was a beautiful strip of land running from Northwest Washington all the way down to the Potomac. My GU baristas said students used it to jog or bike the worn dirt paths between Georgetown and American University.

  With that one clue, I could easily see how she’d gotten away.

  If Abby had insisted the Secret Service give her privacy in her friend’s home, they probably stationed a few agents on the public street. She could have left her panic button and tracker in her guest bedroom, slipped out a window or back door, and moved through the home’s private garden, or even over a low wall, right into the park.

  Then it would be a straight shot, under the canopy of trees, away from closely observed streets, to Georgetown’s campus, where she could easily blend in as a student and finally make a short walk to the Village Blend, DC.

  The blare of the car radio brought my attention back to our Washington speedway. Abby had turned up the radio’s volume to hide our conversation from the planted listening device. Waving me close, she spoke low into my ear.

  “I wanted to have some time alone.”

  I studied her. “You mean alone with Stan, don’t you?”

  She nodded yes.

  “You really care for him?”

  She nodded again, with much more enthusiasm. “Please don’t give me away, Ms. Cosi.”

  “Abby, I don’t know what to say. What you did was a risk—”

  “Promise me. Please? It will be hard on me if you rat me out.”

  She looked so desperate. “Okay,” I found myself saying, “as long as you promise never to do that again.”

  “I won’t,” she said and smiled with relief.

  We swerved right, onto Pennsylvania Avenue. I glanced over my shoulder to find one SUV closing fast. A dour Agent Cage sat in the passenger seat. Our eyes met and the agent telegraphed her disapproval.

  “They’re right behind us,” I warned.

  Abby’s black leather boot hit the gas.

  “It’s clear you learned to drive at the Indy 500,” I said, hands gripping the shoulder strap. “But
where did you learn to ditch a security detail?”

  “Easy,” Abby replied. “I did my research.”

  Twenty-nine

  “RESEARCH?”

  “Of course!” Eyes on the road, Abby beamed with pride. “After the election, but before we moved to the White House, I wanted to know what I was getting into.”

  Abby passed a slow-moving car—no biggie, except she did it by swerving into a lane with oncoming traffic!

  “I looked into the lives of other First Daughters to see how they survived living in a bell jar. It proved helpful.” She grinned. “Jenna and Barbara Bush were free spirits. A lot of times, the Bush girls did what they wanted, and the Secret Service had to play catch-up.”

  A traffic light went from green to yellow, but Abby didn’t stop. And the heavy flow of cross traffic left a brace of Secret Service agents behind at the red light, playing “catch-up.”

  “Chelsea Clinton was lucky,” Abby continued. “The Secret Service gave her a lot of space while she was in college. Of course an agent lived in the room next door, and they installed bulletproof windows in her dorm, too. But at least she could open them when she wanted fresh air.”

  “You can’t open your dorm windows?”

  Abby shook her head. “My room is on the sixth floor and they sealed them . . .”

  She didn’t finish her thought, but I wondered, given those scars on her wrist. Were they afraid Abby might lose it and jump?

  “I researched the Princess of Wales, too. Do you remember Lady Di, Ms. Cosi?”

  Yes, I thought, the memory is distant but it’s still stored somewhere in my “older-lady” brain.

  “Lady Di did all kinds of things to bamboozle her security detail.” Abby’s grin widened. “She was so cool!”

  Another wild ride through a fast-changing yellow light set the Fusion’s tires to howling again.

  “Abby, you do know that Lady Di tragically perished in a high-speed traffic accident?”

  The First Daughter’s reply was to pass another slow-moving car.