A Brew to a Kill (34 page)

(While flapjacks were fab, they were time-consuming to cook, only a few at a time on a stovetop griddle with a spatula-wielder forced to stand by and flip. My muffin tops, on the other hand, could be dropped on a sheet pan and baked all at once.)

The batter was your basic quick bread, plus the slight tanginess of a good quality yogurt. For the fat, I chose healthy canola oil. For flavor, I found the tartness of lemon zest was a must—though I balanced its smart mouth with a sweet kiss of vanilla.

An affectionate hug of ovenly heat seduced my plump farmer’s market blueberries to relax inside their little cake pillows. Some of them, I was delighted to see, became so overwhelmed that they oozed their sweet bluey goodness into the crumb.

With my two-dozen cakelets all baked and cooled, breakfast was ready. Well, almost. Using my still-sore wrist, I finished the pastries with a back-and-forth dusting of powdered sugar. Then I brought three empty cups to the table and filled them with the bright, nutty flavor of my fresh-brewed Morning Sunshine Blend. (Okay, so it was early afternoon, but we all needed the caffeine hit from the light roast.)

The men dug in and for a few minutes I enjoyed blissful silence—save the chewing of warm little blueberry cakes, slurping of hot coffee, and occasional guttural male noises of gustatory pleasure.

“So what
are
your plans today?” Quinn finally asked Matt.

“Oh, some partying in the Hamptons. Then clubbing in Soho.”

At Quinn’s dead-cold stare, Matt shrugged. “Or not. I have work. Clients in Japan and Germany are expecting updates on shipments, and I have to reply to e-mails and messages.”

“How are you going to do that without a working PDA?” I asked.

“I’ll have to use your computer later, okay? Tomorrow I’ll buy a new smart phone.”

“What about your address book?”

“I use the Cloud for backup.”

“The what?” I asked.
First Quinn’s talking to God, now Matt’s getting data from the heavens?

“The Cloud is a backup service, Clare. It saves computer data. I’ll download my files from their server later and—”

Quinn cut him off. “Before you do any of that, you’re coming downtown with me.”

“I am?”

“Yes, I want you to debrief with my squad and some people above my pay grade down at 1PP.”

The smirk was back. “What’s that you’re saying, Quinn? Something about PP? You have to use the John?”

“
One Police Plaza
is where the NYPD has its headquarters. And I’d lose the smart mouth. Not every gold shield has the extreme patience that I do.”

“Yes, Matt…”
(I know you can’t stand authority, but…)
“Please remember. The majority of these men are heavily armed.”

“And, by the way, I need things at my apartment—change of clothes, toiletries, my personal shaving kit.”

“Believe me, Allegro, we
all
want you to have your personal shaving kit.”

“So I’ll just run up there first—”

“You’re not running anywhere alone. Not for the foreseeable future. I’ll send Sully with you.”

“Who?”

“Finbar Sullivan, one of my men.”

“I do not need some Irish cop to babysit me while I go uptown and back.”

“It’s either him or Franco.”

“Fine.” He stood up, theatrically rewrapped Quinn’s bathrobe, and headed for the kitchen door. “Send the leprechaun.”

Quinn threw me a look, grabbed another muffin top, and opened his phone. Between bites, I heard him instruct Sully to bodyguard Matt to Sutton Place then straight to 1PP. “And I know you, Sully, do not let this operator sweet talk you.”

He hung up, exhaled, and took a long hit of coffee. “I
swear, Clare, if those two end up in a Soho bar drinking imported beer,
this
unhappy leprechaun will be going after more than their lucky charms.”

Note to self,
I thought, watching Quinn stew.
Work on recipe for Irish Coffee Muffins…double the whiskey.

“I take it you don’t need me down at 1PP?” I said.

“No. All I want you to do, Clare, is resume your normal routine. What’s your schedule this week?”

“I’m here in the Blend for most of it. Wednesday I go out with the Muffin Muse to the Dragon Boat exhibition. Friday we have a food-truck wedding reception in Central Park.”

“That’s fine.” Quinn checked his watch. “Franco should be here any minute. Remember, he’ll be with you wherever you go. Just make sure he looks like he belongs.”

“I know. Barista 101. Crash course. I only hope all the shots in our future come from my espresso machine.”

A
FTER
thirty minutes of uneven tamps and poor extractions, sampling espressos that were too flat, too sour, too bitter, or too weak, I watched the muscle-bound Franco attempt another delicate pull.

This time my undercover barista tamped the coffee evenly. I had high hopes for a nice, syrupy stream and a competent shot—until he mis-attached the portafilter and the grounds that didn’t hit Franco ended up on the floor.

“Whoa! My bad!”

“Don’t sweat it, honey,” Tucker called from the register. “I’ve been pulling espressos since the cows came home, and I made that same mistake last week.”

Tucker Burton had never dropped a portafilter in his life. My lanky, floppy-haired actor-cum-assistant-manager was an exceptional barista. His attempt to save Franco’s pride was just another example of his big heart and team spirit.

“I’ll get the broom,” Nancy sang, flipping a wheat-colored braid.

With patience Tucker had been watching my quest for the impossible—cramming three months of barista training into
one afternoon. But the portafilter drop had been the last straw. Grabbing my elbow, he pulled me aside.

“CC, I’m sure you had high hopes this boy would be some kind of espresso idiot savant. But as far as his barista skills go, he’s more of an—”

“Stop right there, because we need a good shot right now, one that has nothing to do with espresso. And Franco’s our man. He’s here to watch our backs after that shooting in Brooklyn yesterday.”
(A Quinn-worthy statement, misleading but necessary.)

“But the customers! I can’t believe you’re going to let him—”

“Take it easy. I have no intention of letting Franco pull espressos for customers. I simply want him to be familiar with the process. Be able to act the part.”

“Listen, honey, my directorial skills have been honed on and off-Broadway. Were Franco a competent thespian, I might be able to help him at least look competent behind our machine. But he’s a police detective, not an actor.”

“I have news for you, Tuck. Good detectives are
great
actors.” Quinn’s performance with the DEA deserved a Golden Globe nomination.

I felt a heavy arm on my shoulder and I was suddenly jerked into a three-way huddle.

“So what are we going to do with me now?” Franco asked.

“How about the register?” Tuck suggested, sinking slightly under the weight of Franco’s limb. “He’s a cop. I
think
we can trust him not to steal.”

“What a vote of confidence,” Franco said.

I’d already considered the register. “I don’t think that will work.”

“Agreed,” Franco said. “Here’s me, worrying about correct change or else the John Doe in front of me gives me grief—which means I’m not watching for guys I should be watching for. And, sorry, Coffee Lady, burying me behind your overcomplicated coffeemaker won’t be any better. It’ll cut off my line of sight.”

“I only wanted you to understand what we do here,” I explained.

“I get it,” Franco said, squeezing his arms a little tighter around us so we’d get the point. “Now it’s time to try something
new
.”

“I’m good with something new,” Tuck quickly agreed.

“Fine,” I said, “but what?”

“Ahem,
people
,” Nancy called to us in an exaggerated whisper. “I have a solution.”

Our youngest barista gestured to me and Tuck. “You two, come here…”

Franco released us so quickly from his powerful half-time huddle, we practically stumbled toward Nancy. She stared at Franco.

“Do me a favor. Go to the men’s room.”

“What?”

“Just do it,” said Nance, “I’ll have a solution by the time you come back.”

Franco shrugged and headed for the back. As he did, Nancy quietly directed me and Tuck to watch a table at the other end of the coffeehouse. A Sunday afternoon gathering of single women suddenly stopped talking. As Franco passed by them, they froze, their gazes tracking my undercover barista like searchlights on a fugitive.

“The boyfriend experience,” Tucker whispered. “Franco can bus, wipe tables, and
flirt
with customers.”

I tensed, thinking of that Three Stooges huddle. “I’m not sending him out there raw. He’s going to need a crash course in coffeehouse etiquette. Tuck, can you talk to him about the right touch with—”

“Wrong guy,” Tuck said, chucking his thumb to a table on the sidewalk, where his boyfriend Punch had his nose in
Variety
. “If you want an expert in charming coeds, you better ask Dante…”

“What are you three whispering about?” Franco asked a minute later.

We all jumped.

“We have a new assignment for you,” I replied. “And I think you’re going to enjoy this aspect of the job.”

But when I explained it, his response was a bemused smirk. “Just what are you selling here, Coffee Lady?”

“Java and a smile,” I insisted. “In the Italian tradition, a barista is outgoing, friendly, personable. He or she strives to give each customer a positive, uplifting experience. Take our Dante, for instance. He’s charming and friendly, but he’s
especially
friendly toward our female clientele.”

“Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge,” Nancy quipped.

“Dante makes eye contact,” I continued, “he engages them in conversation. In a very special way, he makes them feel like more than just a customer. We call this ‘the boyfriend experience.’”

“Using me as a boy toy? I feel so violated.”

“Chill, Sergeant,” Tuck said. “There are no lap dances in this coffeehouse.”

“I can certainly do the first part,” Franco said seriously. “I used to bus tables at a gin mill when I was a kid—”

“Child labor in a tavern?” Tuck said, horrified. “Is that legal?”

“No. But the tips were great.”

“Well, at least you have
some
food service experience,” Tuck conceded. “Let’s set you up…”

Minutes after Tuck and Franco wandered off, I noticed a familiar couple sitting at a table near the French doors.

John Fairway, the attorney from Two Wheels Good, loosened his tie while casually scanning an e-reader, a half-empty latte at his elbow. Beside the lawyer, Warrior Barbie had curled into a chair, her long legs tucked under her. The lithe young woman had traded silver bike pants and sports bra for pastel blue, and her frizzy blond hair had been freed from its ponytail. She appeared to be watching me between sips of bottled water.

Now what are they doing here?
I was about to approach the pair and fish when Dante burst through the door and strode up to me.

“We’re being punk’d on Twitter!” Dante declared, waving his iPad. “Check it out.”

His Twitter account was already up on the screen. The hashtag search was “urban violence,” the tweeter someone named
KittyKatKlubette
, and in one short tweet this person had fired a broadside at our newly minted food truck.

“Why do I think Kaylie’s behind this?” I said.