A Brew to a Kill (12 page)

“Clare, it’s past midnight. Why are we looking at this?”

“Because I have a hunch. Be patient and watch.”

As Esther ended her rap, the camera drew back to show the entire Kupcake truck. Then it panned around to record the crowd, and that’s when I hit the pause key.

“There it is! Look!” I cried.

“What?”

“The van!”

“Where?”

I enlarged the video to full screen. Like a great white, waiting to feed, the cargo van was parked just around the corner from the Blend. I could see the front and part of the side, but I couldn’t tell if anyone was behind the wheel. Either the front window was tinted or the evening light had cast one too many shadows.

“Is that the same van, Clare? How can you be sure?”

“I can’t. But I can find the kid who shot this video and ask him if he shot any more. He may have been filming something when the accident occurred. And if he was, we may get part of a license plate or a glimpse of the driver. I’ll check the kid’s YouTube channel to see if he uploaded anything…”

“Are you telling me traffic accidents get uploaded to YouTube?”

“All the time.”

But in this case, there was nothing.

I noticed the kid’s user name, “Homers_HomeBoy,” but no first or last name. No website or blog.

“There must be an e-mail address…”

I checked around HomeBoy’s channel page and found one. But I knew a phone number or address would save Detective Buckman valuable time. So I tried a quick trick I’d learned from Mike. I typed the kid’s e-mail address into Google.

“Got you!”

“Got who?”

The Google search results showed all the sites where the kid had included his e-mail address. I hit a link half-way down the page. Up came the kid’s digital address again, but this time attached to his profile at the Five Points Arts Collective in downtown Manhattan.

“I know Five Points! Our Dante belongs to that group!”

This was very good luck. The kid’s profile wasn’t anonymous here. No phone number or address, but his first and last names were displayed: Calvin Hermes.

“Hello, HomeBoy!”

I immediately called my
artista
barista. He answered on the first ring.

“Huruffftt.”

“Dante? Is that you?”

“Sorry, boss. I forgot I was wearing a mask.”

“Mask? What are you doing, robbing a liquor store?”

“Nadine and I were mixing paint,” he explained. “Josh just
got here and we’re about to apply the base coat to the truck…”

Of course.
I had forgotten. Dante had wanted to get a primer on the Muffin Muse before tomorrow’s party. “Listen,” I said, “I have an important question to ask. Do you know someone named Calvin Hermes?”

“HomeBoy? Sure.”

“First thing in the morning, I want you to get in touch with Calvin. Tell him to put together anything he recorded around the Blend tonight and send those digital files to Detective Buckman of the NYPD…”

I finished explaining it all to Dante. Then I sent him an e-mail with Buckman’s contact information. Finally, I e-mailed Max Buckman directly, telling him to expect digital evidence from Calvin.

I paused, my fingers floating over the keyboard. Should I type up my thoughts on Kaylie Crimini, too?

No, I decided. It was late and Buckman was likely in bed. An e-mail message about a food-truck war might sound like a rant—or half-baked. I needed to explain it calmly, logically, and be ready to answer his questions. So I opted for a request to explain my theory in person, if not face-to-face, then over the phone.

That sounded sane enough, didn’t it?

Hitting send on the e-mail, I took another look at the freeze-frame of video, felt my outrage mounting again. “Look at that thing. That metal monster was just sitting there, waiting for the chance to attack someone from our Blend…”

“I hope you’re wrong,” Matt said, “but I have to admit, what happened out front tonight—I can’t shake it off. And I don’t like the idea of leaving you here all alone…”

“Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate it.”

“You’re the mother of my daughter, Clare. My partner. My friend. You think I’d let anything happen to you?” He smiled then checked his watch. “So where is Big Foot tonight, anyway? On a stakeout or something?”

“Mike’s in D.C. for a few days.”

“What’s he doing in Washington?”

“Consulting with the Feds—at their request. He didn’t want to make the trip, said it was pointless, that a simple phone conversation would have sufficed. But his superiors insisted.”

“I get it. Politics. Waste of time.”

“Mike doesn’t like it, either, but it’s part of his job—and he loves his job. And since you’ve brought up politics—”

“I didn’t bring it up.”

“I have a favor to ask. I need your help schmoozing some Very Important People at our party tomorrow.”

Matt frowned. “What party?”

“Dante’s going to paint our Muffin Muse truck, and we created an event around it—an Arts in the Street party. We’ll have rap artists, live music. The baristas have been distributing flyers…”

I handed him one from a stack on my desk. “Isn’t it clever? Dante did it.”

Matt nodded at the pop art fun of the little advertisement. “So what’s he going to put on the truck?”

“It’s a surprise. All I know is he’s parodying a famous painting.”

“As long as coffee’s in the composition, I’ll be happy.”

“That’s what I told him—coffee and muffins. Anyway,
Time Out New York
listed it in their events page, and if we’re lucky, New York 1 news will send a reporter.”

“Sounds like hundreds of people could show.”

“Easily.”

“So where are you holding this thing? Not in front of our shop?”

“No. Brooklyn.”

Matt stiffened. “Where in Brooklyn, Clare.”

“Your new warehouse.”

“Are you crazy? That warehouse is climate controlled! You can’t have a party inside—”

“Take it easy, Blackbeard. Nobody’s setting foot inside your bean vault. The party is in the parking lot, and everything’s taken care of—the permits, the Porta-Pottys—”

“Porta-Pottys? Oh, man…”

“Look, you’re worried about money, aren’t you? The big monetary investment in our truck? Well, this party could alleviate some of that debt risk. Part of the reason we’re holding this event is to win a city grant for the summer.”

“A grant?” Matt’s annoyed expression suddenly shifted to interested. “Okay, I’m listening…”

“It was Esther’s idea. She’s been working with inner-city kids as part of her NYU practicum. She starts where they are, with their interest in hip-hop and rap, encourages them to write down their stuff. Then she shows them how what they’re doing fits into a larger literary movement within the history of poetry. She teaches them some new forms, gets them reading award-winning poets, and shows them where they can go in the public libraries to discover more inspirations for their street poems.”

“That sounds laudable, but how the hell does it connect to the coffee business?”

“The Muffin Muse truck travels regularly into parks and pedestrian malls where city kids hang. Esther wants to create a summer poetry program with our truck—a first-step outreach.” I turned back to my laptop screen. “I bet you’ve never seen a Fast-Food Rap, have you?”

“A what?”

I brought up YouTube again and typed Fast-Food Rap into its search engine. Hundreds of results appeared.

“Young people across the country love to rap their fast-food orders. They tape themselves performing the rap and upload the video. It’s amazing, listen to this…”

I played Matt a few, actually had him laughing. “Clever,”
he said, shaking his head. “I can’t believe a hip-hop order at a Taco Bell window has six million views.”

“It’s a crack in the door. That’s what Esther calls it. She wants to build on that nascent level of interest in performance poetry.”

“Yes, but how, exactly?”

“We’re going to install recording equipment on the truck, beside the ordering window. Kids can try out any sort of rap for our Live Stream. Esther will judge whether it’s original and worthy. If it is, they get a free muffin—and she invites them to the next level, a weekly poetry slam right here on the Blend’s second floor. By the end of summer, she’s confident she’ll have a team to take to the National Poetry Slam.”

“She’s that committed?”

“Oh, yes. Esther is determined to find the kids with real interest and potential. We could help her change lives, Matt.”

“All right. You sold me. Who do I have to schmooze?”

“Dominic Chin, for one. He’s a city councilman and the odds-on favorite to be our next mayor—”

“I’ve met Dom. Even better, I like him. Who else?”

“The city’s public advocate.”

“Aw, crap…” Matt closed his eyes, shook his head.

“What’s the matter?”

“Tanya Harmon?”

“Yes,” I said, “that’s her name.”

Suddenly, Matt’s face took on a stricken, slightly guilty look—one I’d seen far too many times. “Don’t tell me. Did you and she… ?”

“It was a long time ago, right after our divorce. We met at one of my mother’s fund-raisers. As I recall, lots of champagne was involved. ‘When I see what I want, I go for it.’ She said something along those lines. And that night, it was me.”

“Did you part well, at least?”

“I think so. Like I said, lots of champagne was involved.”

“Well, do what you can tomorrow,” I said, “short of sleeping with her.”

“Believe me, that won’t be an issue.”

“The only issue I can see is political. With Dom there, we have to watch things don’t turn ugly.”

“Why would they?”

“Tanya’s announced she’s making a run for the mayor’s office, too.”

“Then Dom better watch his back.”

“They’re just politicians. What can they do, short of sniping?”

“Is that it? Who else do I need to impress?”

“Another woman—Helen Bailey-Burke.”

Matt scratched his thick beard. “On her, I need more.”

“She’s in her late forties. Upper East Side. Divorced. Director of special funding for New York Art Trusts. Her approval is key. Make her happy, Matt.”

“Hey, making females happy is my specialty.”

“I know. My primary problem with you was the plural of the noun: females. As opposed to the singular: wife.

“Bree’s not complaining. Speak for yourself.”

“I was.”

“Okay, enough work for one night.” Matt shook his shaggy head and yawned. “I’m wiped.”

“Me too.” I switched off my computer and locked the office door.

“Uptown feels a world away. Mind if I crash here on a couch?”

“Won’t Bree miss you?”

“She’s in Milan for the week.”

“Well, I really need you schmooze-ready tomorrow, and these couches will destroy your back. Just come upstairs. You’ll get a better night’s sleep in the spare room.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate it.”

H
AVING
Matteo Allegro’s larger-than-life presence in my apartment after so long felt a tad awkward, I had to admit, although he didn’t appear to feel it. In fact, he acted right at home.

“I’m taking a shower…”

“I’ll get you some fresh towels.”

As Matt headed for the bathroom, I went to the hall closet and was surprised to hear him bring up Quinn again.

“So what did the Feds want with your guy, anyway?”

“I’m not sure exactly. Some U.S. attorney is hot to conduct an epic sting operation—something to do with drug trafficking on the Internet. Mike’s OD squad routinely liaises with the DEA, so I guess his name came up as a good man to consult. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Mike’s assuming this whole trip is carsmetic.”

“Don’t you mean cosmetic?”

“
Carsmetic
is a term Mike and his guys use when someone tries to ‘grease the wheels’ for an ulterior motive. In this case, he says he’s being called down there to make life easier for somebody else’s operation.”

“You lost me.”

“If they ‘consult’ with Mike on what they’re doing, they assume he’ll feel like he’s part of the team instead of an opposing player in some turf war.”