Once Upon a Grind (14 page)

F
RESH
tears sprang up, and I pulled Esther into my arms.

“Oh, Esther, do you really think so?”

“Boris has too much integrity to break it off in a crummy text. But face-to-face, in a public place, while I'm distracted with my MC duties at the Slam and can't make a scene, that's when he's going to finish us.”

“Maybe you simply need to be patient and hear what he has to say.”

“Why are you taking his side? That doesn't help me!” Esther broke our clinch and grimaced. “Even Madame Tesla predicted it in my coffee reading. My love life is on the rocks!”

“First of all, you told me your grinds showed a ‘bumpy road ahead'—which this clearly is, but the ride's not over yet. You need to hold on; have a little faith in Boris; and not let some silly fortune-telling session make you believe something is happening when it may not.”

“No. I'm doing what I have to, avoiding total humiliation at the Poetry Slam tomorrow by facing my feelings now . . .” She reached for the Village Blend cup beside her and groaned. “Look at this. With all my stupid bawling, I let my perfect latte go cold.”

I saw the sad remains of the latte art Esther had created—a heart with a ragged crack down the middle. She noticed my stare and shrugged.

“What can I say? Turning misery into art is what I do.” She blew her nose into a fresh napkin.

“You're a poet, Esther, which means you have a great imagination. But I think you're using it too much in this case.”

“Better to prepare yourself for the worst, I say. And I
will
be. I'm sorry I asked Boris to live with me—and I'm beginning to
hate
him, which is good. I'll be totally ready for him when he dumps me. I'll have plenty to say to that jerk!”

There it was. If hurt was anger turned inward, then it was only a matter of time before it turned outward again.

“And if you're not careful, Clare, it's going to happen to you and your blue knight . . .”

It was Madame's voice that issued the haunting warning in my head.

I ignored it, refusing to believe a thing like that could happen between me and Mike. I still couldn't believe it was happening to Esther and Boris.

When those two first met at a Brooklyn Poetry Slam, it was love at first phrase. In the years after, I saw the adoring passion in Boris's eyes whenever he gazed at his Esther, rapping on the stage, doing her work with inner-city kids, or pouring her perfect latte art.

“I know that young man loves you,” I told Esther. “You two were made for each other. I'm sure Boris is on your side. You'll see . . .”

With a hard shake of her head, Esther rose.

“Let's give it a rest, okay? It's late. I better fix myself up and go home.”

“Then I'll see you tomorrow.” I gave her another hug. “Look, no matter what happens, I'm here for you, and I'll even try to finagle that raise, too.”

Before I headed for the steps, I glanced at the roasting schedule near the Probat. It was the bright red color of the machine that reminded me—

“Esther, I'm sorry, but I need to ask you something. Were you speaking with someone earlier? A dark-haired young woman wearing a hoodie—”

“You mean Red?” she garbled, bobby pins in her teeth as she righted her leaning tower of hair.

“Her
name
is Red?”

“Her name is Roz something. I'm not sure. Red is what she wants to be known by—it's her performance handle. She updated it recently to Red in the 'Hood now that
Red Riding Hood: The Musical
is bringing in major bucks on Broadway.”

“Is she in the show?”

“No, she's
using
the show. It's so popular that she's making the most of it on the Slam circuit. Wears the red hoodie, raps what she calls ‘urban fairy tales' in English and Russian. They like her in Manhattan; they
love
her in Brighton Beach.”

“So she's Russian?”

“She came over when she was a little girl. I actually know her through Boris. She's one of his sketchy friends.”

“Sketchy how?”

Esther shrugged. “Her income fluctuates more than a bipolar torch singer. She's in a thrift shop coat one week and a designer outfit the next. She's taking the subway one time and the next she's got a hired driver chauffeuring her around. Same with her living sitch. From month to month she seems to move from posh digs to dives and back again.”

“And you have no idea why?”

“Hey, when it comes to Boris's Russian friends, I learned not to ask questions. Red's a first-class rapper. That's all I know, and all I
want
to know.”

“So were you two talking about Boris and your situation?”

Esther shook her head. “She came in asking about Mr. Boss.”

“Matt?”

Esther nodded. “She saw him at our coffee truck this morning and asked me all about him. Then she asked if he was going to be at the Poetry Slam tomorrow night. I said I didn't know.”

“Is she
interested
in Matt?”

“You mean like
hot
for him? No, I don't think so. She wasn't dreamy. She was upset.”

“Upset how?”

“Nervous, gnawing at her fingernails. And angry. She kept muttering in Russian.”

“What sort of mutters?”

“Run-of-the-mill Russian curses. The kind of things Boris spits out when he cuts himself shaving. Except for an odd phrase—
Ya budu ryadom. Ya budu ryadom.
She kept repeating it.”

“What does it mean?”

“No clue. A new curse maybe?”

“Do you at least know where she lives now?”

“She bounces around too much. But I can text her.”

“Good. Tell her that Matt is absolutely going to be at the Poetry Slam tomorrow. Do it right now.”

“It's that important?”

“Trust me, it is.”

W
HILE
Esther communed with her smartphone, my mind raced.

If this “sketchy” girl rapper had drug connections, then she could very well be the reason Anya was lying in a hospital bed tonight. She could be the key to Matt's release.

“Okay, boss, I sent the text.”

“Good,” I said and headed for the stairs.

“Hey,” she called.

I turned. “Something else?”

“I was wondering about Mr. Boss. Is he okay? I heard the cops were questioning him tonight.”

“They let him go. For now anyway . . .”

Esther shifted. “You know, he's the reason I'm still working here.”

“What do you mean? You're not harboring a secret crush on him, like Nancy, are you?”

“Nothing like that. It happened before you came back to manage the place. This awful guy was in charge.”

“You mean Flaste?” I shuddered at the memory.

“That jerk actually fired me.”

“I never knew that. Why?”

“No real reason. He wanted to hire a crony, and I was some ‘chubby young nobody'—I overheard him leaving the snotty phone message for Mr. Boss. I was easy to dispose of and Flaste threw me out like a pile of trash.”

“But when I took over, you were still working here.”

“That's because your ex-husband blew a gasket. He flew all the way back from God knows where, didn't even change his clothes. He called me up from the airport, told me to meet him at the shop, and he chewed Flaste out right in front of me. He told the jerk we weren't some corporate franchise. We were a family. And anyone the Village Blend hired
stayed
in the family unless there was a
very
good reason to kick us to the curb.”

Esther shook her head with pleasure at the memory. “Flaste was stuttering by the end, totally red in the face. But he was scared of Mr. Boss, who made him apologize and give me my job back. So like I said, if there's anything I can do to help the man . . .”

“You just did, Esther.” (At least I hoped so.)

“You and Mr. Allegro are the only people who ever fought for me.” She studied her combat boots. “Not many employers would have come down to this coffee cave with me bawling away in it.”

“I was glad to. Now get some rest. Things will feel better in the morning. And if they don't, please remember—what Matt said was right. We're family. We care about you, so don't be afraid to reach out for help.”

“Easy for you to say. Not so easy for me to do.”

“I know. But there's a life truth here, Esther, and you might as well accept it.”

“What?”

How did Quinn put it?
“At one time or another, even the toughest of us needs backup.”

I
found Mike in my apartment's kitchen. He put down his cell so quickly I assumed he was checking messages. But the pinched look around his blue eyes told me he was irritated by what he'd seen there.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

His tone was clipped. Something
was
wrong. He simply didn't want to talk about it.

“You tired?” he asked instead, slipping his suit jacket off my shoulders.

“You'd think I would be. My leg is aching, my jaw hurts, but my mind is racing, and I'm still wide awake.”

“It's the adrenaline,” he said, peeling off his shoulder holster. “Getting shot at will do that to you. I feel it, too.”

He bent close, but (unfortunately) not for a kiss. Instead, he coolly took hold of my chin and examined my jaw, where a nasty-looking bruise was beginning to show.

Below us, Java and Frothy circled our legs and made their way to the royal buffet I'd left for them (before our weekend travel plans went kaput).

As my furry girls consumed their crunchy feast, I told Mike about the Goth Cinderella crying in our basement—and her tenuous connection to a friend of Anya's. In the middle of my update, Mike tugged me over to a kitchen chair.

“Sit, will you? Get off that leg already.”

I did, and he agreed that “Red in the 'Hood” was a good lead.

“Well, she'll be here for tomorrow night's Poetry Slam, and she wants to see Matt. I'm sure he'll get something useful out of her.”

“Tell him to be careful. He shouldn't try to bait her. She could use what he says to burn him.”

“Then I'll feel her out first. Maybe she'll agree to speak with Franco.”

As Mike nodded his approval, his attention strayed—first to my empty cookie jar, then to my nearly empty fridge.

“What are you looking for?”

“Snacks. Your cats are having them. We can, too.”

“Mike, you ate
four
hot dogs three hours ago.”

“Ah, yes, but no
dessert
.”

“And your ex-wife called
me
the pastry pusher.”

“Push away, sweetheart. Dealing with scumbags always makes me hungry. Case in point—those amazing meltaway cookies you baked for me last week, the ones with chopped hazelnuts around the edges? Got any of those around?”

“I'm sorry, but Mother Hubbard's cupboard is bare. I was supposed to spend the weekend with you, and Esther was going to look after these two.”

In reply, Java began licking her coffee-bean-colored paw. Frothy plumed her tail, and slipped her long-haired body around Mike's leg, leaving a white fur trail on his charcoal pants as he tried to detect what was in my freezer.

“Not even any ice cream?” he whined, reaching down to scratch the ears of a purring Frothy.

“Check the fridge again. What's in there, remind me?”

“A jar of olives, a bottle of champagne, a carton of almond milk, three eggs, and one lemon.”

My culinary gray cells started spinning. “Get out the last three ingredients.”

“Why?”

“We're going make something that's even better than ice cream on a chilly night like this.”

“Okay, I'm officially curious. What else do we need?”

“A medium saucepan—” I started to get up, but Mike pushed me back in the chair and dropped Frothy on my lap.

“You sit. I'll cook.”

With my sore leg, I didn't argue. Frothy appeared happy with the arrangement and settled in for the show—and some chin rubbing.

“Go on,” Mike prompted. “What else do we need?”

“Cornstarch, vanilla, and a little salt . . .”

Watching this formidable man obey my every directive was surprisingly enjoyable, and I couldn't help thinking up a few more commands for Detective Lieutenant Mike Quinn. But I'd have to hold off on those, because they had
nothing
to do with cooking.

*   *   *

T
EN
minutes later, Quinn had followed my foolproof steps for stirring up Almond Milk Custard.

“Holy cow, Cosi, this is amazing.”

I watched his eyes roll back in ecstasy and laughed. “I told you it was better than ice cream.”

“It's official. You're a kitchen witch.”

“Thanks, but my spells are limited by my ingredients.”

“Maybe, but the proof is in the pudding.”

“Ouch, there's a hoary saying.”

“Believe it or not, when I was a young rookie, one of my field training officers did his best to pound that little ditty into my skull.”

“Why?”

“Two reasons—
one
, the guy was obsessed with pudding: chocolate, vanilla, mousse, flan, custard pie, you name it, he sampled it, wherever we stopped for coffee.”

“And reason number two?”

“The proof really is in the pudding. As he used to put it: ‘Evidence and facts are the ingredients we gather to make cases. But we can only serve a DA what we can cook up from it, a proof that a court of law will swallow.'”

While Mike continued to enjoy silky spoonfuls of warm custard, I digested those words.

“Okay, given our situation, how do I
prove
that Matt didn't do anything wrong?”

“You can't prove a negative, not without a solid alibi. Allegro was there, and he was paired with Anya for most of the day. If you want Endicott off Matt's case, you're going to have to do better than just claim he's not guilty. You'll need to serve him up another suspect—or scenario. Do you have a theory? Can you tell me what happened to Anya in those woods?”

I thought it over. “This Red sounds like a party girl. Maybe she gave Anya the overdose by accident and is freaking out now. Maybe she wants to speak with Matt to find out what the cops know.”

“Maybe, but like I said, Anya wasn't a drug user. She was a happy mother's helper. How likely was it that she went into the woods with her friend, during a children's festival, to get high? And if she overdosed, why would Anya's
friend
leave her in the woods? What's Red's story? What's her motive? What kind of drug did she use on Anya? And how did Anya ingest it?”

“I don't have answers. Not yet.”

“Then get some rest.”

“But—”

“Sweetheart, I've learned a few things doing this kind of work. The mind is a black box. Solutions come when you're
not
looking for them.”

“I get it. But I don't feel like going to sleep yet.”

Quinn's eyes lit up. “Then why don't you go upstairs, take a nice, hot bath, and I'll make things . . .
cozy
for us.”