Free Decaffeinated Corpse by Cleo Coyle Page A

haven’t blown it with Ric yet.

    “Tomorrow morning,” I whispered, settling under the covers.

    Matt will be at Bree’s, and I can talk to Ric without interference.

    “One way or another,” I mumbled as my head hit the pillow, “I’m going to get my questions answered. . . .”

EIGHT

    “HOW about a fresh pot?”

    Ric nodded.

    When it came to mornings, I didn’t consider myself conscious until I’d sucked down at least one mammoth cup of our Breakfast Blend. But Ric was off caffeine. At his request, I was about to brew up a pot of the Gostwick Estate Reserve Decaf in my apartment’s kitchen. Ric said he’d been researching decaf so long, he’d grown to prefer it.

    Since I was going to use a standard drip method this time out, I set the burr grinder between coarse (for French presses) and fine (for espresso machines). I could almost hear Detective Mike Quinn’s voice over the grinder’s noisy whirring— “You know, Cosi, you might want to dial that same setting for your interrogation. Too coarse, you’ll spook the subject. Too refined, you won’t get what you need. Aim for the middle . . .”

    I’d already had hours to think about questioning Ric. I’d been up since five thirty, taking in the day’s bakery delivery downstairs and brewing urns of our Breakfast Blend.

     

BETWEEN six and seven, I’d served about twenty customers when the door jingled and in walked a welcome surprise—Dante Silva. The compact twenty-six-year-old strode right up to the coffee bar, looking a little uneasy. “Good morning, Ms. Cosi.”

    “You can call me Clare,” I said, and not for the first time. “What are you doing here? You said you were running a fever last night.”

    “I was, but I stayed in bed, slept it off . . . I’m good to go now, and I thought I’d make up the time by pulling a double shift today. I wouldn’t want to lose this job, you know? Rents are tough around here, even with the three of us in the two bedroom.”

    Dante lived on the Lower East Side near Teany (the recording artist Moby’s restaurant) in a two bedroom apartment he shared with two female friends from college. He said each of the girls had their own bedroom and he spent most of his nights on the sofabed in the living room. “Most” of his nights had a sort of Big Love bigamist ring to it, but I never pried.

    In the course of his barista chatting, I’d overheard him talk about a pipe dream of purchasing his own Soho loft— a pretty common wish for young painters who come to the big bad city expecting a sun-washed studio. The reality check, of course, was more than obvious with one glance at the Times real estate section. Those legendary spaces were priced for investment banker types, not aspiring artists working part-time at coffeehouses.

    “Dante, calling in sick every now and then isn’t going to get you fired,” I assured him. “But I’m glad you’re here. Apron up.”

    “Excellent.”

    He clapped his hands and came around the counter. Stepping into the pantry area, he removed the backward Red Sox baseball cap from his shaved head and peeled off his long flannel shirt, revealing more than a few tattoos on his ropey arms. I actually liked his pieces of skin art. My favorites were the demitasse on the top of his left wrist and a Picasso-esque Statue of Liberty on his right forearm.

    The day I’d met him, I’d asked what was up with the body art, and he admitted, with a great deal of pride, that he’d designed every tattoo he displayed. As a painter, he said he wasn’t about to let anyone else stain the canvas of his own skin.

    A new crowd of customers flowed into the store, and I put Dante on the espresso machine. “Take a few practice runs.”

    “Don’t need to, Ms. Cosi,” he said, tying on the Village Blend apron.

    “Humor me, Dante. Take them.”

    To me, espresso-making was an art. Like a perfectionist painter, a superior barista was one who exhibited an expert hand and palate. From day to