Free A Brew to a Kill by Cleo Coyle Page A

yourself.”
     
    “We have some solid clues to go on. The graffiti on the side of the truck could be a gang marker. Gang markers are very specific to a place and even a time—”
     
    “So you might know where the van’s been, or where it came from. That’s good!” I couldn’t hide my hope. “That means you’ll find it, right?”
     
    “We’ll try.”
     
    “I want you to do more than try, Detective. And if there’s anything else I can do to support you and your team, let me know.”
     
    That’s when he handed me his card. “My mobile phone number’s on there. Call me whenever you like. I mean it. Anytime.”
     
    “Thank you.”
     
    “You’re welcome.” He studied me a moment. “You okay then?”
     
    “I will be… after you catch this bastard.”
     
    With those words, Buckman’s dour expression lessened enough to bestow a shining half smile of approval my way. Then he turned and strode off, his substantial silhouette vanishing in the floodlights.
     

N INE
     

    I wanted Mike. That’s all I could think as I numbly moved through the next few hours. I ached for the reassurance in his voice, the strength in his spirit, the affection in his gaze. I wanted him to take me to bed, cover me with his body, and ease me into a deep, forgetful sleep.
    But Mike Quinn was scheduled to sleep on another mattress tonight, one with cold, stiff sheets and nightly turndown service. I wouldn’t be hearing his voice until I was ready to turn down my own covers.
     
    In the interim, I checked on Lilly.
     
    First I dialed the hospital. Lilly was “in surgery” I was told (and little else), so I phoned Lilly’s longtime friend, Terry Simone, who immediately volunteered to contact Lilly’s mother as well as Beth Israel. (As an RN on staff, she was likely to excavate more information than I could.)
     
    In the meantime, my own Village Blend still had paying customers—and nonpaying, too, because I’d asked Nancy to deliver coffee to Buckman and his team. Esther was willing to help, but she looked so tired and shaky that I put her in a taxi.
     
    About then, Matt came to my rescue.
     
    After escorting his mother back to her Fifth Avenue digs, he returned to the shop to lend his experienced hands and much-needed vigor. Then I sent Nancy home, and Matt sent me upstairs.
     
    A long shower revived me, and I considered hitting the sack. But the chilly duplex felt too lonely, and my nerves were too raw for sleep. So I stepped into clean jeans, pulled on a long-sleeved T-shirt, and went back downstairs.
     
    M ATT had kindled a fire in our shop’s brick hearth, and I was glad to see it. The night breeze off the Hudson had grown colder, and the crackling flames warmed my skin and spirit.
    When it was time to close, we cleaned and restocked, secured the outdoor tables, and bid the last of our customers good night. Then I locked the entrance, dimmed the lights, and shut our wall of French doors tighter than a Gallic fortress.
     
    Now Matt and I were alone in the coffeehouse, just like the old days. He waved me over to the espresso bar, and I weaved through the tables and chairs of our darkened shop.
     
    Suddenly I couldn’t stop appreciating how sturdy the Blend’s wood planks felt beneath me, how vivid the flickering firelight appeared, how darkly sweet the shop’s beans smelled.
     
    When Death rattles your windows, jams a foot in your door, something cracks you open. Colors seem brighter, angles sharper, noises louder. Quinn attributed this sort of thing to adrenaline. But he was a street-hardened detective. With me it was something more.
     
    As I settled on a stool, Matt slid a cream-colored demitasse across the polished blue marble with an expression so agonized it made me choke up.
     
    Taking a long sip of the
doppio
, I closed my eyes. A heated tear slid down my cold cheek. At nearly the same moment, the caramel-chocolate notes of the espresso double flowed through me like molten lava down an arctic