Once Upon a Grind (35 page)

W
HEN
I phoned Esther with the bad news, she screamed again. But this time she didn't bury her head under a pillow. Instead, she raced to the hospital to join the rest of us, crashing through the doors of the Intensive Care Unit, demanding to see “her Boris.”

Eldar, Nancy, Madame, and I waited until Boris was out of danger. But when we spoke with the docs and it was time to go, Esther remained behind, waiting for her man to open his eyes.

I knew that simply seeing his “czarina” would be the best medicine for Boris, and (thank goodness) Esther's ferocious vigil was a good sign for the future of their relationship.

The clock was close to striking twelve when I finally trudged into the Village Blend. I found Franco waiting at the espresso bar. He stood to greet me—

“I heard about your rough night, and I have news.”

“About Matt?”

“That, too . . .”

I pulled us fresh espressos and we took over a quiet corner table.

“Listen to this,” he began. “I talked to the team who collared Packer's bodyguard. Turns out the guy was more afraid of ‘Russian spies' than he was of the arresting officers. He confessed because he thought exposing foreign agents would get him pardoned.”

“What did he confess to exactly?”

Franco frowned. “Not Red's murder, or Anya's drugging. He and his boss were both way out on Long Island, in the Hamptons. Ironclad alibis. Someone, probably an accomplice, tipped them about Anya landing in the hospital with what looked like a drug overdose. The bodyguard took a helicopter to Manhattan, arriving in time to pull that gender switcheroo at the hospital.

“The bodyguard also admitted to phoning Anya a few days before—and that morning. He spoke to her in Russian, trying to convince her that if she didn't drop the lawsuit against the Wall Street Wolf—who has important financial connections in Russia—her mother would be killed in prison. It was a fake threat. He said he was only trying to shake her up, get her to drop the lawsuit.”

“And who's the Cuckoo nurse's accomplice?” I asked. “The fat guy who fired the gun?”

“The bodyguard is mum about that, even with a weapons charge hanging over his head.”

The news was so depressing I changed the subject.

“How's Matt holding up?”

“He's still being interrogated. Plesky and Endicott are pulling an all-nighter and tag-teaming him.”

“Not you?”

“They figured out I was working my own angle at Dwayne Galloway's Meat-dieval Tournament and Feast. Endicott is keeping me at arm's length now.”

“How long can they hold Matt?”

“The full twenty-four hours, if Mr. DNA has his way. Or they can charge him with a crime and keep him longer. Endicott is hoping for a confession because the evidence is circumstantial.”

Franco shook his head. “He and Plesky are so off the mark it's scary.”

“What do you mean?”

“They're hoping Matt's hooked on this mystery drug, and if they keep him away from it long enough, he'll break down in a cold-turkey sweat and confess to his crimes to get a fix.”

“Fat chance.”

“No chance at all.” Franco grunted. “I suggested they keep bringing Matt coffee so he'll stay alert. Endicott and Plesky are delivering cups every hour. Your ex-husband's complaining about the ‘crappie cop swill,' but he's drinking it.”

“Thank you, Franco!” I hugged him, smiling for the first time that evening. “As long as he gets his caffeine fix, Matt will be okay.”

“I think so,” he said. “We may get out of the woods yet.”

“You two look chipper,” a familiar voice proclaimed. “What am I missing?”

Wilson approached us, a big grin on his face. Without an invitation he pulled out a chair and sat down.

I'd promised Mike that the next time Wilson showed up, I'd let Franco deal with him.

Okay, Franco was here, and that would have to do—because I was angry and frustrated enough to “deal” with Wilson myself.

“L
ISTEN,
Mr. Government Agent, my business partner is in jail and possibly facing a murder rap. You can fix this. You need to tell the police that Red's murder is connected to a cold case from the nineties, that there is no way Matt could be involved.”

Wilson scratched his chin. “Well—”

“No! Don't even try it! No hemming. No hawing. Start with Franco. Tell him what you told me.”

Franco narrowed his gaze. “Who is this guy exactly, and what is he supposed to tell me?”

After a quick introduction, Wilson did as I asked. Then he explained to us why going to Endicott with this information wouldn't do us any good.

“It's only a theory. I can't prove a thing. That's why I came to you, Clare. In a few short days you've uncovered more leads than I could.”

“But I'm at a dead end!”

“For now. You're also close to the principal players, closer than me, and in one case, practically a part of the family.”

Part of the family?
I stared at him. “You're talking about Leila, aren't you? You actually consider Mike's ex-wife a suspect in a CIA agent's murder?”

“She came to the city at seventeen as a young model. She fits the profile, and Anya Krevchenko was working for her at the time she was drugged. I can see how much this distresses you, Clare, but you have to consider every possibility. The clock is ticking.”

“Clock? What clock?”

“The police are likely to release Matteo Allegro in the morning. If that happens, he'll be dead within the week.”

“What?!” Franco and I cried in unison.

“That's what I came here tonight to tell you, Clare. I wasn't completely honest with you.”

“Is that so?”

Wilson nodded. “Back in the nineteen nineties, when that KGB coup failed in Moscow, Petrov—also known as Vasily Petrovus—was called back to the Soviet Union.”

“You told me that.”

“What I didn't tell you was that he never arrived. Petrov ignored his superiors. He was preparing to flee the USA, but not for Mother Russia. He'd established a new identity for himself in Quebec. He even had a young wife and a son resettled there. And he never got to them.”

“What happened?”

“Petrov was shot through the head inside his apartment. On his corpse they found a vial of the drug used to kill my agent—and my love—Faith. The murder weapon was traced back to Cuba, so the CIA concluded Vasily Petrovus was murdered by the KGB to prevent him from defecting, or as punishment for his part in the August Coup.”

Franco's eyes widened. “But you don't buy that?”

“Clare knows my theory, Sergeant. I believe one of Petrov's agents killed him and framed him for Faith's murder. If I had to guess, I would say this agent felt betrayed by Petrov, and was exacting revenge on him for being abandoned.”

Wilson leaned across the table.

“I also believe the pattern is about to be repeated. Once again, this clever killer will set up someone to take the fall. That someone is Matteo Allegro. Whether Allegro is released for lack of evidence or makes bail before a trial, he'll be murdered and the drug will be discovered in his possession. And just like Petrov, it will be case closed.”

I felt weak. “We have to do something.”

Wilson smiled. “Good to hear you say that because I have an idea. Why not use Matt as bait?”

“What!” I cried, horrified. “No! Absolutely not. Better he gets out of town.”

“I doubt the police will allow him to leave town. They're probably going to seize his passport. And this killer can wait weeks. Months. They've already waited decades.”

Franco nodded. “He's right. Matt will never be safe.”

“What if he stays in jail?” I said.

“What?” Franco and Wilson both replied.

I turned to Franco. “You have to press charges. Matt hit you when you were cuffing him, right? That's assaulting an officer. Charge him.”

Franco stared at me in horror. “He'll hate me forever. Joy will be crushed!”

“But you'll save his life.”

“There's no guarantee of that.”

“If your charge keeps Matt in jail another day, maybe two, we can track down the real killer and keep Matt from being set up and murdered.”

Franco covered his eyes. “Oh, man. I'm sick about this.”

Now Wilson spoke up. “Clare, listen to me. This won't stop the clock.”

“No,” I said, “but it will slow it down, give us a little more time to find the killer. We
need
it.”

“I'm going.” Franco rose. “Sleep on this, okay? If you feel the same way in the morning, call me. I'll press charges.”

When Franco was gone, Wilson regarded me.

“What is it?”

“Something that I think I should tell you. It's not about the case, and you may not want to hear it.”

“Of course I want to hear it. What do you know?”

“Have you spoken with that man of yours?”

“Mike? No, he's flying to LA tonight for a meeting tomorrow.”

Wilson rose and touched my shoulder. “I have a little free advice. The next time he speaks with you about moving down to Washington, listen a little harder, okay? Listen to what he's saying, between the lines.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Men like Mike Quinn don't often admit to needing personal backup. But from what I've seen, you can handle it.”

“Handle what?”

Wilson didn't tell me. “I'm sure we'll talk again, Clare. Good night.”

And just like that, he was gone.

A
N
hour later, I was upstairs, sitting at my kitchen table, Frothy and Java circling my legs. While I absently stroked their fur, I stared at the shiny green bag containing Matt's magic beans.

If I drink the coffee again, will there be answers in my visions? Could I finally solve the case?

Wilson's cryptic words about Quinn were disturbing, to say the least, and I was desperate to know more. But tonight, the clock was ticking down for
Matt
, and none of us could be certain about who the real killer was.

Matt's Lake Tana coffee beans might give me a clue, but I absolutely loathed the idea of drinking them again. I had no control over the mind trips it gave me. And the last time I chugged it, I'd blacked out. Matt even warned me not to take it again—not on my own.

But I was alone now. And he was in some awful interrogation room with his life in danger. The least I could do was have a bad dream.

After mulling over my options, I rose and headed for the bedroom. I'd left a business card on my dresser, something Matt had given me.

Though it was close to two in the morning, I gave the man a call. Miraculously, he answered.

“Hello?”

“Good evening, Dr. Pepper, this is Clare Cosi. I'm in the coffee business with Matteo Allegro—”

“You are the Coffee Lady!” He sounded ecstatic. “You are the one with the visions from the Lake Tana beans?”

“Yes. I guess Matt told you about me?”

“Of course! And I am very pleased you called. Very pleased.”

“Dr. Pepper, I would like to drink the coffee again, but not without supervision.”

“Oh, my goodness! How exciting! This is perfect timing, Ms. Cosi. Perfect! I'm in my lab now. Columbia University. Come right up, and we'll get started.”