Dead to the Last Drop (17 page)

So why is he calling at the crack of 7:15?

“Don’t tell me we’re having trouble with the gas lines again.”

“No. I sent a link to your smartphone. You need to check it.
Now
.”

I sat up.

Whoa, too fast . . .

While the room spun, I vaguely registered Mike’s big, warm body, softly snoring next to me. As quietly as I could, I threw off the covers, tied on a robe, and moved into the master suite’s sitting room.

Tapping the phone screen, I followed Gard’s hotlink to
The District
, a website devoted to the Washington, DC, social scene.

The news was right there on the home page:

FIRST DAUGHTER “ABBY LANE” JAZZES THINGS UP IN GEORGETOWN!

Suddenly my legs had all the strength of wet noodles. As I sank onto the sofa, Gard informed me—

“I heard the news on the radio. They claimed their source was
The District
website, and that’s where I found the pics and video—”

“Video? They have video!”

I tapped the headline and up came the smartphone snaps of Abby playing at last Wednesday’s Open Mike, along with a short digital recording. The sound quality was poor, but I recognized a few bars of “Cool Reception.”

The post claimed the Village Blend, DC, provided the “publicity” materials. It listed tonight’s showtime and our address, making it look like we’d released the news ourselves.

“Who did this?!” Gardner wailed. “Do you think a fan figured out Abby’s identity and thought they were helping us?”

“It’s possible . . .” I played the video again and noticed a dark image flash into the frame. A quick rewind and pause revealed the guilty party’s thumb—and his all-too-familiar
thumb ring
.

“That Son of a Bunny!”

“Clare?”

“Tad Hopkins did this!”

“Are you sure?”

I squeezed my eyes shut, recalling yesterday morning’s argument at the espresso bar—right before Abby drove me to the White House, where I
promised
the First Lady that her daughter’s identity would remain a secret.

“Hopkins boasted to me that he found a way to attract customers to our Jazz Space.
‘They’ll come,’
he said,
‘because I figured out how to get buzz even if you can’t!’
”

Gardner cursed. “How did he know about Abby’s identity?”

“Maybe he overheard the band talking, maybe the two of us.” I pounded the sofa cushion. “
That’s
why he refused to serve Luther’s specials tonight. He assumed once Abby’s identity was out, we’d be packed, and he wanted to showcase his own food!”

“So what do we do? Kill the show?”

“That’s up to Abby. We have to find out how she feels about all this. Sit tight. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes . . .”

Cursing our former chef, Gardner and I ended our call.

Almost immediately, the phone went off again.

Between the bewildering news and last night’s bottle of bubbly, I was feeling disoriented. But seeing the name on my caller ID did more to shock me awake than a quad espresso down my throat and a bucket of ice water in my face.

With a hard swallow, I lifted the phone.

“Hello, Agent Cage . . .”

F
orty-four

“Y
OU’RE a real piece of work, Cosi. You know that?”

“I can explain—”

“The First Lady is not interested in excuses from you—or more lies.”

“I swear I didn’t want this to happen—”

“But it did.”

“
Please
just hear me out. Will you meet me at the Village Blend?”

“I’ll be there,” Sharon Cage barked. “But not to hear explanations. And I’m not coming alone . . .”

What does that mean?

It sounded like she was planning to arrest me! But as ugly as this situation was from an ethical standpoint, what took place wasn’t against the law. All of our Open Mike artists signed publicity releases.

Then she explained—

“I sent Agent Sharpe over to your java joint for an eyes-on. He says a small group of journalists and bloggers are already lining up for Abigail’s show, which is
thirteen hours
away.”

“Is
The District
website that big?”

“No, but the wire services picked it up. Then the
Drudge Report
posted it. You’ve heard of the
Drudge Report
, haven’t you, Cosi? Two million visitors a day. Seven hundred million page views a month.”

Give me strength.
“Yes, I’ve heard of it.”

“Believe me, we know how a story like this rolls out. Local radio has it now. Next the national morning cable shows will pick it up and then
the networks. The White House Press Secretary is already scrambling for an official reaction.”

“What should we do? Cancel Abby’s show?”

“We
should
cancel. But Abby
insists
on performing, despite the publicity, and the higher level of risk, and do you know why? Because she doesn’t want to ‘
let down
’ her ‘new friends,’ which means
my
advance security team will be at
your
coffeehouse within the hour. I’ll see you there.”

When Cage broke our connection, I snatched fresh slacks and a blouse from the closet, and sat down on the edge of the bed to dress.

That’s when I felt a strong arm wrap around my waist.

“Hey!” I protested.

“Hey, yourself,” Mike countered. “You’ve got the morning off. What are you doing?”

“Getting dressed.”

Suddenly I was tugged backward onto the bed, and gently but forcibly pinned to the mattress. Mike’s sandy hair was mussed from sleep, and his beard stubble sandpaper-rough as he nuzzled my neck. Then he lifted his head and gazed down, those cobalt eyes still able to cut the breath from my lungs.

“I thought we were going to have breakfast—
in bed
.”

“I’m sorry; I can’t. Not now. How about a rain check for
tomorrow
morning?”

I moved to peck his cheek, but the wily detective made our lips meet instead and a heated kiss followed.

“Man,” he growled, “I’m hungrier than I thought . . .”

With regret in my touch, I cupped his cheek. Then I squirmed out from under him.

Mike sighed. “Do I at least get an explanation?”

“There’s an emergency at work. And I better tell you about it because I don’t want you to be shocked when you find out.”

“Shocked?” Rolling onto his side, he propped his head on one elbow. “This I’ve got to hear . . .”

As Quinn watched me dress, I boiled down the crazy events that had happened to the two major points: (1) The President’s daughter had been playing anonymously at our Jazz Space Open Mikes since we opened and (2) The news got out about her headlining tonight.

(And, yes, I left out all the messy stuff about the White House, the First Lady, Abby’s secret assignations with an army vet jazz drummer, my simmering feud with a female Secret Service agent, and my actionable lies to the DC Metro police!)

“It’s all a complete FUBAR!” I cried, borrowing Stan McGuire’s handy term. “Abby’s identity was supposed to be kept secret—and we are in no way prepared to handle the publicity!”

When I finished, Quinn stared a moment. “You’re right, Cosi, I am shocked. When did you get so good at keeping secrets?”

“A certain police detective taught me. A guy who’s far better at it than I am.”

“Touché.”

Snatching my keys from the dresser, I blew him a final air kiss—mainly because the sight of Quinn’s powerful body lying there, half-draped in Egyptian cotton, made me certain of one thing: any more physical contact between us and I’d leave Gardner, Cage, and her entire advance team hanging till noon.

“Give ’em hell, sweetheart!”

As Quinn’s deep voice echoed down the mansion’s staircase, I found myself smiling, despite the impossible situation. Then I put on my game face, pulled up my speed dial numbers, and hailed New York.

“Clare? What time is it? Did you butt-dial me again?”

“No, Matt. This is a real, actual, ‘meant to call you’ call.”

A short pause followed as the sound of Matteo Allegro’s groaning yawn traveled down the eastern seaboard.

“What’s up? Is something wrong?”

“Very. And I’ll explain everything. But first I need you to get
your
butt out of bed and do something.”

“What?”

“SOS.”

“Clare, did you just say—”

“Yes. Send Our Staff!”

F
orty-five

“L
ISTEN up, Cosi, you will need to provide accommodations for my detail. That means a room on the ground floor where we can establish a command post. I’d get on that, first thing . . .”

Despite her youth and bouncy blond ponytail, Agent Cage spoke like a battle-hardened general preparing for combat. In her crisp navy blue pantsuit, athletic form erect, she stood like a military pillar in the middle of my relaxed, bohemian coffeehouse.

Needless to say, the contrast was unnerving.

Flanking her were two members of her detail—the tall, dark, and irritated Agent Sharpe, and a bald, brawny guy in a dark blue vest with
SECRET SERVICE
emblazoned across the back.

Obviously
not
one of the agents meant to blend in with the environment.

When I first arrived, I found the “small group” of reporters and bloggers, which Agent Cage had described, was much bigger—and growing.

Up to now, our Jazz Space didn’t take reservations, and these folks were clearly desperate to get in.

But it didn’t mean all of them would.

Gard and I agreed to come up with a plan that would give Abby’s loyal Open Mike fans the chance to see her headline tonight, while still allowing these early line squatters their earned entry.

Until then, Gard was happy to finally use those brass posts and velvet ropes that, sadly, we’d never needed before today. The deep blue color of the velvet matched our Jazz Space motif, adding panache to our exterior, and (honestly) seeing them put to use on our sidewalk gave me a little thrill.

Meanwhile, the Secret Service troops began to move in. Several of their large, black vehicles were parked along the street as more rolled down Wisconsin. Inside one of the windowless vans, I heard
barking
. Apparently, bomb-sniffing dogs would be searching our premises—and re-searching them all day.

Do they bring dog food for something like this?
I wondered.
Or was I supposed to supply the kibble?

Next, agents from the Uniformed Division began shifting tables and chairs by the front door.

“We need a screening area,” one of the men announced.

With a sigh, I ducked behind the counter, pulled my first espresso of the day, and shot it back like a gunslinger getting the nerve up for a high-noon standoff.

Gardner was already back there, filling airpots.

“Matt’s sending people down from New York,” I informed him. “In the meantime, we need to call in every part-timer we have in DC. I’ve already phoned Luther and warned him . . .” I paused, getting an idea. “Be right back.”

“Agent Cage,” I called, dodging a few big males and one skyscraper of a female. “Your people can use my former chef’s office. He won’t be back today, or ever.”

“Show me,” Cage commanded.

Leaving her team behind, she followed me through the kitchen to the former large closet turned small office. She poked her head through the door and scanned the windowless room.

“This will do,” she declared. “I’ll get back to you on our security plan. And I’ll need a list of your employee names and social security numbers.”

“What are you going to do with them?”

“Standard background checks. If anything questionable comes up, I’ll let you know.”

“Can I allow customers to come in now? We’ve got coffee and pastries ready to sell.”

“It shouldn’t be too long. When the magnetometers are in place, Sharpe will give you the okay.”

As I turned to go, she called me back. “Cosi . . .” The agent actually looked sheepish. “Would you mind . . .”

“What?” I tensed. “Do you need something else?”

“A triple espresso? And one of those muffins in your glass case?”

“Which?” I asked with relief. National security freaked me out, but coffee and pastries I could handle. “How about our Oatmeal Cookie Muffin? The oats are soaked in buttermilk to soften them, and the muffins are packed with the flavors of brown sugar, cinnamon, and raisins, so they taste just like a fresh-baked oatmeal cookie. Or maybe you’re more of a Farmhouse Peach Muffin kind of girl? That one has sour cream in the batter and a beautiful peach glaze drizzled on top. Our Maple-Bacon Pancake Muffin is excellent with coffee, but so is our Charming Chocolate Chip. The crumb is delectable, and if you sip your espresso as you eat the muffin, the rich roasted flavor of the coffee mingles on the palate with the bits of chocolate in a mind-blowingly sensuous dance . . .”

Sharon Cage stared at me, speechless. Her lower jaw had gone slack and a tiny drop of saliva glistened at the corner of her mouth.

Obviously the woman skipped breakfast.

“I’ll bring a selection!” I declared. “And I’ll get an airpot of hot coffee for your team, too.”

“Thanks,” she managed.

I turned to leave but stopped and faced the woman again.

“Agent Cage, I want you to know, for the record, that our former chef was the one who released the news about Abby—without my knowledge. I’ve fired the man, and he won’t be back. Please believe me. Gardner and I will do anything to keep Abby safe.”

Cage refused to meet my eyes. “What I believe doesn’t matter. The only thing that does is the safety of the President’s daughter in the next twenty-four hours. I want to get Abigail through this without harm or incident . . .”

As I turned to go, she added one last thing.

“Please remember, Ms. Cosi. I’m willing to stake my life on it.”

F
orty-six

S
HARON Cage’s last words made me realize how serious the situation was.