Coffeehouse 9 - Roast Mortem by Cleo Coyle

Author:Cleo Coyle [Coyle, Cleo]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Berkley
Published: 2010-08-03T04:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-TWO

IT was the longest drive of my life—with the possible exception of that predawn cab ride to the ICU all those years ago, when my young, stupid husband had nearly killed himself partying too hard.

Northern Boulevard led straight to the Queensboro, and I ascended the bridge ramp in record time. Just one day ago, shades of magic hour light had gilded this span. Tonight’s lonely crossing felt blacker than outer space.

Twice I smacked the button on my car’s heater, but the unit was hardly working. It failed to lessen my bone-cold chill, and the dark void between bridge and river only made me shiver harder.

As I hurled my old car toward Manhattan’s wall of flickering windows, a distant memory flashed through my mind—the image of a luna moth, throwing herself against the glass of our porch lantern.

“Why is she doing that, Daddy!”

“Just her nature, honey. It’s how God made her . . .”

“But she’ll burn up!”

“She’s not worrying about that part, muffin. She’s just trying to get to the light . . .”

Now I knew how that little moth felt. A part of me wanted to soar away, fly off somewhere to get some peace, think everything through. But that’s not how I was made. As long as I cared, there was no flying away.

Traffic thickened at the bridge’s end and my impatience rose. Spotting an opening, I sped up. Angry horns bleated as I cut off slow-moving bumpers, swung in a careening arc onto the wide, multilaned spectacle of Second Avenue.

Now I was racing south from Fifty-ninth, a straight shot downtown. Green lights tasted sweet, like seedless grapes; red lights were bitter. Yellow felt longer than midsummer days, my excuse to squash down the pedal.

At Fourteenth I turned west, zoomed across the island to Manhattan’s West Side, traveled south again and looped around to Hudson. I parked in front of the Blend, cut the engine. The shop’s front door was locked but the lights were on. Tucker, Dante, and Matt were standing inside. I rapped on the glass.

“Where is it!” I cried when Tucker threw the bolt.

“Calm down, sweetie.” He held up his palms. “Like I told you before you hung up on me, there’s no bomb in the package.”

“Where!”

“Take it easy, Clare . . .” Matt’s face was in front of me now, gaze steady. “I looked the whole package over myself. It’s like Tucker told you. There was no need to call the bomb squad. There’s no firebomb . . .”

My ex-husband’s hands felt firm on my shoulders, but worry lines were creasing his forehead.

“Show me,” I said.

Matt led me to the marble counter. Dante stood silently behind it, head still bandaged under his fedora, ropey arms folded. I met his eyes.

“That arsonist’s ass is mine,” he said quietly.

I’d never heard this tone from Dante before. I mean, sure, he was serious about his painting, but as a barista at the Blend, he was always a carefree dude, as mellow as his ambient playlists.

Not at the moment. The burning demons in Dante’s retinas now rivaled Captain Michael’s.

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