Dead to the Last Drop (11 page)

“They’re suspected of involvement in the crime,” Katerina explained, “providing information, setting Abigail up.”

Quinn wanted to explode, but he kept himself in check. Sitting back, he rubbed his jaw, as if in thought. “How strong is their case?”

His change in demeanor helped the situation. Katerina began to relax and open up with more details.

“I shouldn’t be telling you this, either, but I understand a known associate of Eastern Bloc organized crime and fringe terrorists has been tracked entering the back door of Ms. Cosi’s jazz club several times, after hours. And that’s not all. Metro DC police has been building a case against her.”

“For what?”

“A Sergeant Price sees Ms. Cosi as the prime suspect in the suspicious death of a State Department employee.” Katerina shrugged. “Mr. Jeevan Varma must have quarreled with Ms. Cosi or demanded a larger share of some kind of big payoff for helping the kidnappers. That’s the current theory.”

“I see,” Quinn replied, clenching his jaw to keep from screaming.

“I’m sorry, Michael, but it looks like you’ve been played.” With an almost gleeful condescension, she patted his shoulder. “You shouldn’t feel bad. Men in higher positions than yours have been fooled by slick operators like Ms. Cosi.”

Quinn took a breath, let it out. “All this is a shock, of course. But I’m not sure why you’re telling me. Do you need my help?”

“Help?”

“Do you want me to assist in the apprehensions?”

“Oh, no. I simply wanted to warn you. You’ll have to stay away from anyone on this list. Especially Clare Cosi.”

“Yes, that’s a given.” Quinn frowned a moment, pretending he was thinking it through. “I have to say, I’m impressed with you, Katerina. I appreciate your taking this risk to warn me about these pending actions.”

Katerina beamed, a look of triumph on her face. “It should all be over in twenty-four hours. Then that awful woman will be in custody and you can be rid of her and get on with your life.”

“I’m certainly relieved to hear it will be over soon.” Quinn shifted enough to allow his leg to make contact with hers.

Katerina reached out and gripped Quinn’s hand. Her touch made him queasy.

“Here,” he said, pulling his hand away to offer up his smartphone instead. “Maybe you better hold this until she’s apprehended. She might try to contact me.”

“That’s not necessary. You know I trust you. Just let her calls go to voice mail.”

“Good idea,” Quinn said, pocketing the mobile.

“I’m sure this is upsetting for you,” Katerina purred. “Why don’t I stop by tonight, say eight o’clock? We can order some dinner and—”

“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.

T
wenty-six

“W
E 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 . . .”

T
wenty-seven

A
S 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.