on the back of the door. “You get a fruit-toned complexity from the Indonesian, and a nice resonance from the less subtle Latin American bean, with just the right amount of dry acidity. In my opinion, most breakfast blends are bitter and dry. But not ours.”
“Right.”
I closed the door, then smoothed my khaki slacks, adjusted my pink long-sleeved jersey, and sat down in the desk chair. “Too much information?”
He raised an eyebrow. “In my opinion, you can never give a detective too much information.”
I raised my own eyebrow. “Then you should also know we change the blend every year—mainly because the Indonesian beans tend to be inconsistent from season to season due to the old fashioned way they’re processed.”
Quinn took another sip and sat back. “Ah, the vagaries of international agriculture.”
I sampled my own cup and we sat quietly for a moment.
“I didn’t mean to be short with you downstairs,” he said.
“It’s okay. You look like hell. I gather you were over near the West Tenth accident this morning?”
Quinn’s face froze in mid-yawn. “And you know that how?”
“Esther Best, one of my part-timers, lives on that street. She got here a little while ago and told us what happened.”
“I’d like to talk to her,” Quinn said. “Find out if she saw or heard anything.”
“She didn’t,” I replied. “Just the gory aftermath. Has her pretty rattled, though.”
“Yeah. Me too.” Quinn sighed as he rubbed the back of his neck.
“I didn’t know you investigated traffic accidents.”
“I don’t. This morning’s ‘accident’ was a homicide.”
I stiffened. The idea of someone being crushed accidentally under the wheels of a ten ton sanitation truck was bad enough—hearing Quinn confirm it was no accident gave me an unnatural chill.
“You’re sure?” I asked.
Quinn nodded. “We have two witnesses. The assistant manager at a nearby bar came in early to clean up. Heard a woman scream the word ‘no’ and glanced out the window just in time to see Ms. McNeil fall under the truck’s wheels.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Did you say McNeil?”
Quinn reached into his pocket and drew out a dog-eared leather-covered rectangular note pad.
“Sally McNeil, a.k.a. ‘Sahara’ McNeil. West Tenth Street, apartment number—”
“I know the name,” I said.
Quinn closed his pad. “You want to tell me how you know her? Regular customer?”
“Yes, I’ve seen her here before, but it was more than that. She came here last Saturday night for our Cappuccino Connection.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“You see her leave alone.”
“No. She left with a…mutual friend.”
Quinn sat up. “Male or female?”
“A man,” I replied. “An old college friend of hers…I understand.”
“His name?”
“Bruce Bowman. But I don’t think—”
It was Quinn’s turn to blink. “You know Bruce Bowman?” His tone was even but his eyes were hard. I suddenly felt like one of his collars sitting under an interrogation room spotlight.
“I just met him…during this last Cappuccino Connection,” I stammered, smoothing my khaki slacks compulsively now.
“Did you meet Bowman professionally, as the manager of this place?”
“Well, actually, I participated in the Cappuccino thing, too…just because, you know, Joy wanted to do it and I wanted to screen the men who’d signed up…screen them for my daughter, but then—”
“But then you made a date with Bowman yourself?”
Though Quinn was wearing his detective hat, his questions were getting far too personal.
“The Cappuccino Connection is just a neighborhood social introduction group,” I told him defensively. “It’s run by a local church. Bruce Bowman was there, Joy was there, too. And everybody meets everybody for a couple of minutes. It’s all innocent fun…”
Quinn gave me a look he probably gave pickpockets who claimed they had “absolutely no idea” how that woman’s wallet and credit cards got inside their coat. “The reason I ask,” he finally said, “is because Bowman’s name has turned up during my background checks of two women: the late Valerie Lathem and the late Inga Berg.”
“How is Bruce connected?”
“Bruce…” repeated Quinn, leaning slightly forward.
I shrank back in my seat, suddenly feeling like Alice after she’d eaten the mushroom.
Quinn continued. “Mr. Bowman dated Valerie Lathem for about three weeks in October. They met through her job at an executive travel agency.”
“And Inga Berg?”
Quinn paused and took another sip of coffee, a lengthy one. He set the cup down and observed me long enough to make my palms sweat.
“What I’m about to tell you is strictly confidential. But if you or your daughter is considering a date with Mr. Bowman, consider this first: Bowman was involved with Inga Berg for a short time. Starting in late October and ending at the beginning of November, just