Latte Trouble - By Cleo Coyle Page 0,9
the wrinkled Asian man seemed nearly as wide as he was tall. Under a flapping beige overcoat, he wore a dark suit, white shirt with a fraying collar, and a wide striped tie that had been out of fashion since Jimmy Carter was president. His expression was bland, neither tired nor bored—more like he was suffering from a mild but chronic case of irritation.
Officer Demetrios let out a soft, unhappy moan at the sight of the pair, but he quickly shook off the momentary distress, straightened his uniform, and corrected his posture. The tall blond detective marched by Demetrios, strode directly to the corpse sprawled on the bare wooden floor, and with silent intensity studied the scene.
Even Esther seemed rattled by the detective’s ominous aura of authority. As the female detective pulled out a pair of latex gloves and snapped them on, Esther appeared to suddenly remember her assigned duty for the night—to keep the coffeehouse as tidy as possible. Worried the detective would reprimand her for allowing debris to clutter up her crime scene, Esther bent down and reached for the crumpled napkins and tall glass mug that had tumbled to the floor when the fashion editor was first stricken.
“FREEZE!”
The crowd seemed to gasp simultaneously. The detective’s latex-covered index finger pointed directly at Esther, whose eyes widened larger than the black glasses framing them.
“Don’t touch anything.”
As Esther shrunk away, the detective’s blue eyes played across the scene as if memorizing it. Then she knelt down and touched Ricky Flatt’s throat with two fingers.
Throughout the woman’s inspection, Ricky’s unseeing eyes continued to stare up at the Blend’s vintage tin ceiling. Beside the victim, the female detective finally turned her attention to the glass mug near the corpse—the one Esther had nearly disturbed. She drew a pencil from an inside pocket of her trenchcoat, carefully touched the interior of the glass with the tip of the eraser, then lifted the writing implement to her nose and sniffed it. Finally, she rose and faced Officer Demetrios. They spoke softly for a minute or two, too softly for me to hear them over the still pounding music. It looked as if the woman was giving Officer Demetrios instructions, because he nodded occasionally, face nervous. Then the woman turned to address the crowd.
“Okay, what happened here?”
FOUR
A dozen voices spoke at once, mine and Matteo’s among them.
“Quiet!” the woman barked. “One at a time.”
Matteo stepped up to her, taking on the police woman directly. I was suddenly afraid my ex-husband’s inbred antagonism toward authority figures in general and members of the law enforcement community in particular was about to assert itself. I was right.
“Look, lady, I don’t know what you think happened here, but nobody was poisoned.”
This isn’t the right approach, Matt, I silently wailed. Then I stepped between them—while attempting to push Matteo backward with my elbow. Given that he was over six feet and all muscle, and I was under five-five with zero weight training, the effect was nil.
“Hello,” I said, extending my hand. “My name is Clare Cosi. I’m the manager of the Village Blend.”
“Detective Rachel Starkey,” she replied, ignoring my proffered palm. Then she eyed Matteo behind me. “And who’s the big bohunk behind you?”
Bohunk? Who talks like that?
“He’s Matteo Allegro, my—”
“Business partner,” Matteo finished for me with a glance at Breanne Summour.
“Okay, Mr. Allegro. My partner here will get your statement, while I speak with your partner here, and the rest of her staff.”
I realized as I was listening to Detective Starkey that she had the very slight but telling signs of a Queens accent—a drawling of vowels and dropping of Rs. The Blend’s private carting company was based in Queens, and I heard that accent at least twice a week because I always invited the sanitation crew in for a coffee break when they stopped by to empty our dumpster.
Like me, it appeared Detective Starkey had cleaned up well, virtually masking her working-class accent and dressing for a slick presentation of authority.
Starkey faced the rest of the room. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said loud enough to be heard over the dance music, “the uniformed officers will take statements from everyone else.”
“Excuse me, Detective,” declared the Truman Capote wannabe. “But I should think you’d want to talk with me. I saw the whole thing. That poor man was poisoned. His friend said so before he collapsed, too.”
A middle-aged woman in a silk pantsuit and tinted glasses placed a hand on her hip. “Well, I saw it, too.”
I couldn’t believe this