Dead to the Last Drop (6 page)

Undeterred, he crossed the kitchen in a weaving run and plowed through the swinging doors.

I was on my feet and on his trail, bellowing—

“Help! Gardner! Anyone!”

Bursting out of the kitchen, I spotted the maniac man heading for the staircase.

“Help!” I called again. “There’s a crazy drunk in the coffeehouse!”

The second floor is where we kept the alcohol, and I assumed he was heading to the bar.

As I raced up the steps after him, I heard a table crash in the Jazz Space, followed by an ominous silence. I hurried through the archway to find a shocking tableau in the middle of the dining room—

Stan “Sticks” McGuire was holding the intruder at bay with his white Hoover cane. Onstage, First Daughter Abigail Prudence Parker stood fearfully, mouth agape.

What in heaven’s name is Abby doing here at this hour?!

My frantic scan of the room gave me another shock, a dreadful one.

“Abby, where is your security detail?”

Eyes wide, she shook her head.

Oh, my giddy aunt.
The President’s daughter was here
alone
with a half-blind, jazz-drumming army vet—and
without
Secret Service protection,
which could only mean one thing. The frowning agent Sharon Cage and her heavily armed security detail had
no idea
their charge had slipped away from her college dorm in the dead of night.

Exactly how Abby had managed this feat, I was determined to find out, but this was not the time to ask.

“Stay back,” Stan commanded, controlling the drunk.

“Stan, be careful!” Abby cried.

Hearing Abby’s voice, the well-dressed drunk turned his gaze toward her, and the fight went out of him.

“Your father . . . your father,” he slurred. The words were difficult to make out. I moved closer. “The truth . . . I have it. It’s right . . .”

With that, the drunk dropped to his knees and then toppled forward. His forehead struck the hardwood with a sickening thud.

“Omigoodness, what is going on?” Abigail whimpered. “Who is this guy? And what did he say about my father?”

Stan and I bent over the fallen man.

His breath was ragged, but at least he was breathing. With Stan’s help, I turned him onto his back and checked him for injury or a throat blockage. I couldn’t find anything, but I could see he was in distress.

“I’m calling 911,” I said, grabbing my smartphone.

“I can perform CPR,” Stan offered. “I learned it in the army.”

“And I learned it in the Girl Scouts,” I returned. “If he stops breathing, I’ll handle it. Right now I want you and Abby to leave.”

“But—”

“You listen to me, Stan McGuire: If the President’s daughter is found in this club, after hours, with a crazed intruder in this state, and
without
her Secret Service detail, you will never see her again. I guarantee it.”

“Dang, Ms. Cosi, I think you’re right.”

“Now, get her out of here!”

“Yes, ma’am!” Stan grabbed Abby’s hand. “C’mon!”

“Unlock the front door,” I called after them. “So the paramedics can get in. But leave through the back alley! You hear me?”

“Roger that!” Stan returned.

As the pair hurried down the stairs, I heard Abby cry out.

“Thank you, Ms. Cosi!”

With a gurgling moan, the intruder stirred, and I dialed 911.

For three long minutes I sat with the stranger, concerned for his life.
As his ragged breathing continued, my mind began to work, and I finally remembered where I’d seen him before—
right here
, a week ago.

He’d been sitting at a table with that stylish, middle-aged woman, swathed in the latest Fen suit, part of what I’d assumed was a “power couple” who’d come here specifically to watch Abby perform.

But how in the world did he know Abby was here at this hour? And what did he mean about the President?
“The truth . . . I have it. It’s right . . .”

Checking his vital signs again, I knew there was nothing more I could do for him, so I did something for Abby. She wanted to know who this man was, and so did I, so I went through his clothes.

The man’s pockets held little, a half-empty pack of cigarettes, a few after-dinner chocolate mints (from J., an excellent local chocolatier), and a fine leather wallet, which contained loose bills, credit cards, and a U.S. State Department ID.

I found nothing else on him—no “truth” as far as I could see.

That’s when I heard the siren in the distance.

I put everything back where I’d found it and waited for the paramedics.

E
leven

T
HE ambulance came and went, spiriting the unconscious man to MedStar Georgetown. Only two DC Metropolitan policemen remained.

I’d already dealt with Sergeant Reginald Price, a heavyset African American police officer. He took my written statement and then began wandering around the building from the first-floor kitchen to the second-floor club.

I was left in the care of a rookie cop who came after all the others. He was so fresh-faced with his boyish dimples and eager smile that he seemed to have skipped his junior prom to play dress-up in a blue uniform and badge. When he told me his name was Patrolman Tom Landry, I thought my hearing was off.

“Yes, ma’am, that’s my name.”

“Did your parents name you after the coach?”

“What coach?”

“Head coach of the Dallas Cowboys. He led them to Super Bowl victories in 1971 and ’77.”

He shrugged. “Far as I know, I was named after my granddaddy. He mostly played golf.”

“Sorry. My mind makes odd connections when I’m nervous . . .”

I was careful to leave out the fact that I grew up in Western Pennsylvania with a pop who ran a sports booking operation out of the back of my nonna’s little Italian grocery. Sure, it was Pop who made a living on the wrong side of the law, not me. But why give him a reason to question my veracity?

The truth was—I hated the idea of giving false statements to the
police, especially one as sweet and polite as Patrolman Landry. But that’s exactly what I had to do for Abby’s sake.

I said that I was alone in the coffeehouse.
False.
But nearly everything else I told Landry and his sergeant was the truth, including the man’s drunken rantings about the President and the fact that I went through his pockets, although I fibbed about the reason. (I said I was looking for an asthma inhaler or any type of medication.)

“You know, ma’am, you were lucky you weren’t hurt,” Patrolman Landry said, “I mean, being alone and all.”

Instead of replying, I poured the young officer a cup of coffee—because making coffee is another thing I do when I’m nervous.

After a loud slurp he sighed contentedly. “This sure beats the stuff I get at my regular joint.”

“Is that right . . . ?” (I couldn’t help myself.) “Where do you usually go for coffee?”

Landry named America’s most famous burger-and-fries franchise. Then he blissfully drained his cup.

“Awesome,” he declared.

“That’s our Wake Up Washington blend. And I’m glad you liked it.”

“Liked it? I’m in love.” Landry smiled. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“I’ll be glad to see you. We could use the business.”

He smiled wider. “Then I’ll spread the word.”

“Thanks.”

He nodded. “So . . . you didn’t know Mr. Varma?”

“Afraid not. Until I looked in his pockets, I didn’t even know his name. What is it again?”

“Varma . . . Jeevan Varma,” Landry replied. “Forty-seven years old. Mr. Varma works for the government, according to the IDs in his wallet.”

Not just the government
, I thought.
He works for the State Department.
But what I said was—

“Oh, really?” Then I gave Landry my best “puzzled citizen” look. “Don’t you think it’s odd that a man who works for the government would go crazy like that?”

Landry appeared to stifle a laugh. “You haven’t been in this town long, have you?”

“A few months.”

“Well, ma’am, the District of Columbia is a government town, so people here tend to work for the government—sane and insane alike.”

“I see.”

“Ma’am . . . don’t you have any idea why Mr. Varma pounded on your door and raced up here?”

“He said he knew something was here . . .”
The President’s daughter, maybe?
But I couldn’t say that. Instead, I muttered: “I assumed he was looking for alcohol.”

“Because . . . ?”

“He smelled of alcohol. He was slurring his words. And when he burst through the door, he ran up the stairs toward our beer and wine bar—”

“Except he didn’t stop at the bar, did he, Ms. Cosi?”

The gravelly voice belonged to Sergeant Price, who seemed to materialize out of the shadows.

“What do you mean, Sergeant?”

“The paramedics found Mr. Varma on the floor in the middle of the club, correct?”

I nodded. “He’d collapsed. That’s where I found him. Then I checked his throat for blockage and monitored his breathing until the paramedics came.”

“Very commendable . . .”

As Sergeant Price’s voice trailed off, he closed his deceptively sleepy-looking eyes and added—

“But I wonder if you realize, Ms. Cosi, that to reach the middle of the club, Mr. Varma had to pass the bar entirely? He never even touched all those bottles lined up behind the counter.”

Now the sergeant’s eyes were wide open and fixed on me.

“Looks like your intruder was running toward
the stage
, not the bar. But since nobody was here but you, that doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

T
welve

I
T was hard not to flinch as Sergeant Price’s ebony eyes bored into mine, but somehow I managed to keep my cool.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I couldn’t tell you what Mr. Varma was after.” (And
that
was absolutely true.)

“By the way, I found this on the kitchen floor.” The sergeant dangled a gallon-sized Ziploc bag he’d purloined from our supplies. Inside, a blue and white tie was curled like an exotic snake.

“You didn’t write anything about the intruder losing a tie, so I wasn’t sure if this belonged to Mr. Jeevan Varma. That is, until I saw the monogram—
JV
.”

“Oh, yes, I’d forgotten about the tie. Sorry about that.”

Price tossed the bag onto the polished coffee bar. “Now, Ms. Cosi, tell me
again
why you opened the door for this man, whom you didn’t know, in the middle of the night.”

“It’s all right there, in my statement . . .” I pointed to the pages tucked into his dark blue police jacket.

“Tell me again anyway.”

I took a breath. “My executive chef has been known to frequent the kitchen at odd hours, and I understand he entertains acquaintances after closing. I thought the man pounding on the door was there to see Chef Hopkins. I didn’t anticipate trouble.”

Sergeant Price’s eyebrow lifted. “Then why were you holding a meat cleaver?”

I cleared my throat. “Meat cleaver?”

“Your kitchen is spotless, everything in its place. Yet I found
this
on the floor near the door—” The sergeant produced a second Ziploc bag. Inside was the meat cleaver I’d been clutching. “Now, whose fingerprints are we going to find on the handle, do you think?”

Gritting my teeth, I blinked hard. “You’ll find mine. I admit it. When I heard the pounding on the door, it alarmed me. I grabbed the meat cleaver in case I needed to defend myself.”

“Why open the door at all?”

“I’ll level with you, okay? I don’t trust my chef. I’m not sure what exactly he’s up to at odd hours, and I was hoping to find some answers on the other side of the door . . .”

My explanation seemed to soften Sergeant Price’s stony expression.

“I think I’m beginning to get the picture. And if what you say is true, then what you did was foolhardy, Ms. Cosi, considering you were alone in the building.”

“You’re right,” I said because I couldn’t admit that I wasn’t alone. Not without landing Abby and Stan, and (at this point) myself, in hot water.

Price offered me his hardest stare. “You seem nervous. Do you find my questions disturbing?”

“Yes, I do, because . . . well, I have questions of my own.”

“Ask away.”

“Not questions for you. For my night manager and my bartender. Until I question them, I won’t know if the poor man who barged in here tonight was a regular customer. I won’t know if he was here earlier this evening, if he’d been drinking, or how much alcohol he was served.” Now it was my turn to stare. “You and I both know this business could be held culpable if one of my employees poured Mr. Varma a few too many.”

“Where is your night manager, Ms. Cosi? You say he lives upstairs, but he’s not there now.”

“I’m sure Gardner and his bandmates are hitting some after-hours spots so they can keep playing. The members of Four on the Floor are passionate about their music, and they don’t usually hit the sack until seven in the morning. That’s why Gard is the night manager.”

Sergeant Price gazed at a poster of our house band, propped on a tripod near the staircase. “I’m going to have to check out Mr. Gardner Evans . . . and his bandmates.”

“Do you think they did something wrong?”

Sergeant Price cracked what passed for a smile, then he shook his head.

“I want to hear them play, that’s all.”

Patrolman Landry had been silent throughout his sergeant’s tricky interview. Now he let out an audible sigh.

“I think that will be all, Ms. Cosi,” Sergeant Price concluded. Then he tucked the meat cleaver and tie into his bag, and slung it over his shoulder. “I’m heading back to the precinct to file the report. If you need the case number, for insurance purposes or any other reason, let me know.”

He laid a card on the counter and wished me a good night.

So it was that easy
, I thought.
A seasoned law enforcement officer had accepted my obfuscations as truth . . .

Or had he?

T
hirteen