Latte Trouble - By Cleo Coyle Page 0,8

arm, then attached it to a bottle of intravenous fluid of some kind.

At the front doors, officer Langley stepped aside to admit a third paramedic who entered rolling a stretcher in front of him. He joined the other two and the trio quickly laid Ricky’s still-alive boyfriend on the gurney. Then they pushed through the crowd, out the door, and across the sidewalk. While the boyfriend was loaded into the ambulance, a second ambulance rolled up. Its siren cut out and the brakes squealed as it bounced onto the sidewalk and stopped just outside the Blend’s front entrance.

After a short conversation with the first group of paramedics, the second pair opened the rear doors of their vehicle and wrestled a gurney to the sidewalk. As the first vehicle pulled away, the two paramedics from the second ambulance hustled inside. The pair, a young Hispanic man and a middle-aged Asian woman, wore patches on their shoulders that indicated they worked for St. Vincent’s, a hospital not far from the Blend (whose sleepless interns also happened to be excellent triple espresso customers). But when this pair tried to move Ricky, Officer Demetrios prevented them from touching the man.

“This is a possible crime scene,” he said. “The victim isn’t going to be moved until the detectives clear it. I don’t want the area contaminated.”

The young paramedic exploded. “What?! Who do you think you are, man? The freaking coroner? This guy ain’t officially dead yet, which means we’re taking him to St. Vincent’s.”

Demetrios stared at the paramedic. “He looks dead to me.”

The female paramedic sighed. She examined the body. “He looks dead to me, too.”

The obviously overwrought male paramedic shot daggers at Officer Demetrios but finally stepped away from the body.

Another commotion erupted at the front door. I rushed over to find a fashionista riot brewing. Members of the crowd were voicing their determination to get to the other Fashion Week parties being thrown by designers tonight—a bellini bash at Cipriani, a sushi soiree at Nobu, and a Proseco party at Otto. The only thing keeping them from their appointed rounds was Officer Langley, who stood like an unmovable Irish seawall against the swelling tide.

“Everyone stay calm!” I cried, downright relieved to have something constructive to do at last. “I’m sure everything will be fine.”

“Fine?!” a woman exclaimed. “For all I know I’ve been poisoned, just like that poor man dead on the floor.”

“Nobody’s been poisoned,” Matteo loudly barked.

I shot my ex a grateful glance, and noticed Breanne Summour sashaying up to stand beside him. He turned and she whispered something into his ear. He nodded. I frowned. Ms. Summour’s high cheekbones and gazelle-like neck were annoying me. Not to mention her forehead, which had to be at least as broad as one of those widescreen TVs at the Twenty-third Street Best Buy.

“Please, everyone calm down and return to your seats,” Officer Demetrios cried over the increasing din of complaints. The crowd ignored his command and more people pressed for the door, forcing Langley’s body inches from the beveled glass. Unfortunately, Demetrios could do no more than yell orders, since he was left to guard the area immediately around Ricky Flatt’s corpse from “contamination.”

Good lord, I thought, Demetrios and Langley certainly had come a long way. When I’d first met them, they’d been so green they’d let me traipse all over a crime scene—that is, before Detective Quinn had shown up and chewed them out.

The thought of Mike Quinn striding through my front door again made me feel a little better, until I heard Esther say, “Maybe everyone would like some coffee?”

“NO!”

Suddenly the front door opened from outside, the frame smacking Officer Langley in the back of his head. He stepped to the side as the portal yawned. The mob began to surge forward, sensing a chance for escape. Then, strangely, they all took a step backwards again and parted with biblical soberness.

A tall, imposing woman in navy blue slacks, a white blouse, and an open gray trenchcoat swept through their ranks. She strode in on three-inch platform heels, an NYPD detective shield dangling from a black strap around her neck. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, her expression hard and sharp as a razor, her blue eyes cold and challenging. She wore no makeup, and her long straw-blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail so tight it seemed to stretch the flesh of her face.

Coming through the door behind the woman was a far less impressive figure. Well into middle age,