THREE

WITH the patience of a professor explaining thermodynamics to a chimpanzee, Matt informed me that he was not talking about the sunken flagship of the Italia Line.

“This will be a brand-new replica of the Andrea Doria. Get it now?”

“A replica?” I sat back, appalled. “Why rebuild a sunken ship? That’s bad luck!”

“Oh, please. That’s your nonna talking. Don’t be so Old World.”

“Excuse me, but I’ll take Old World charm over New World smarm any day.”

“Fine, then create the coffee as a matter of honor. The original Andrea Doria was the pride of Italy.”

“That’s your argument? The same come-on as every restaurant in Esquilino. ‘Prego, prego. Our pasta is the pride of Italy!’”

“You can’t compare the tourist traps of Rome to the Andrea Doria! That ship was a jewel on the ocean. Gourmet food. Top-notch service. Celebrity passengers, even royalty. Her decks were decorated with original art and sculpture, all of it lost when she went down. She was a beauty that deserves resurrection—and a loaded investor decided to do just that.”

Matt waved his smartphone. “I want you to see something.”

A few taps, and we were watching a prospectus documentary with a smooth storyteller talking up his dream come true, a new, ultramodern Andrea Doria that closely resembled the original—but with Wi-Fi, spa, fitness facilities, and other amenities today’s travelers expected.

“Who is this narrator?”

“That’s Victor Fontana, head of the consortium that built the ship. He’s some kind of investor with a playboy reputation in Europe. You’ll meet him soon, but we’ve already made an impression. Fontana is one of our regular Billionaire Blend customers—it’s how we got this opportunity.”

Matt froze the screen. “That’s him.”

Dressed with casual elegance, Victor Fontana’s impressive appearance matched his reputation. Fortyish with an aquiline nose and direct chin, the man projected relaxed confidence and sharp intelligence, an attractive combination I’d seen often, in my recent brushes with the upper echelons of high tech.

Intense purpose shined in his aquamarine eyes, an aggressive energy nicely softened by boyish, Harry Potter glasses, shaggy brown “surfer” hair, and a crookedly enthusiastic grin.

“Fontana announced this plan last July,” Matt continued. “He timed the replica’s launch to coincide with the sixtieth anniversary of the original Andrea Doria’s sinking. They’re a few months behind schedule, but the superstructure of the new ship is finally completed. Now she’s outfitted, and he’s preparing to unveil her to the world.”

“I don’t know . . . It still feels wrong.”

“This is a lucrative opportunity. Once in a lifetime. Are you going to let superstition drive your business decisions?”

“Don’t put it like that.”

“It is like that. You can use logic or cast runes and visit a palm reader. Which is it going to be?”

I hated to admit it, but I was out of arguments. No matter what I thought of the project, it was a tempting offer. Someone was going to supply the coffee to that ship. Why not the Village Blend?

At my reluctant thumbs-up, Matt clapped his hands. “Good decision!”

“Not so fast.” I grabbed his damp tee as he tried to dash away. “I still have questions. For starters, if this is a true replica, the ship’s galley may be re-creating the original menus. What kind of coffee did the Andrea Doria serve?”

Matt sat back down. “As far as I know, the surviving menu lists ‘Italian and American coffees.’”

“That’s it? No other details?”

He shrugged.

“Then I’ll have to do research.”

“We don’t have time for that! Look, it’s a luxury cruise liner, filled with sophisticated travelers who know quality when they taste it. Just create a versatile, premium blend that brews up rich, sweet espressos, magnificently complex cups of French press, and a smooth, clean cold brew.”

“And while I’m at it, I’ll cure the common cold and compose a thesis on the meaning of life.”

“It’s a tall order, I admit. But you have two weeks.”

“Two weeks?!”

“Or we forfeit to the other roasters.”

“Other roasters?!”

“Did I forget to mention this is a competition? There are five roasters in all, four of them European. We’re the only Americans invited to participate, so it’s double the honor.”

“Oh, Matt, you made this sound like a sure thing.”

“It is a sure thing. All you have to do is come up with an Andrea Doria blend that will blow those investors away, present it to the judges, and we’re in.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“You can do it. Come on. Remember, I went along with that whole Billionaire Blend project, despite the fact that it took up too much of my time and failed to deliver nearly as much profit as we’d hoped. Now I’m asking you to come through for me. I need the revenue. We need the revenue.”

Matt didn’t have to sell me on that. Salaries were up, along with inflation and taxes. And I hadn’t forgotten Madame’s belief that her son was in trouble. If it was financial trouble (my assumption from this exchange), how could I say no?

“Okay,” I replied. “But I insist on doing some research.”

Matt thought a moment and nodded. “Why don’t you talk to my godfather, Gustavo Campana?”

“Gus? The jeweler?”

“Gus was on that final crossing. He survived the Andrea Doria shipwreck . . .”

Everyone in New York had heard of the Campana family’s jewelry business. They were renowned for creating highly original pieces for an exclusive clientele—musicians, actors, the superrich.

Despite all the celebrity attention, Gus was a down-to-earth artisan who remained dedicated to quality craftsmanship. I’d spoken with the charming elderly man dozens of times, but never had a clue he’d survived an epic sea disaster.

“Did Gus ever tell you about the sinking?” I asked.

“He never said a word. It was Mother who let me in on that secret. He and his late wife, Angelica, survived, along with their daughter Perla—but she was little more than a baby at the time.”

“If Gus never mentioned his experience to you, why would he talk to me?”

“I’ll tell you what . . . Tomorrow we’ll visit him together. I’m sure he’ll open up—especially if you bring a box of those cannoli cupcakes you baked for Mother’s last birthday party. Gus took home a half-dozen leftovers.”

“It’s worth a try. I’ve bribed harder cases than Gus with my goodies.”

“Your goodies?” With a teasing smile, Matt leaned over the V-neck of my sweater. “You know that’s a perfect setup for a wisecrack.”

“Are you angling for another punch?”

“Not unless it’s foreplay.”

I pushed him away.

“Okay, I’m going . . .” He moved to grab his Windbreaker. “Just don’t be disappointed if Gus doesn’t remember the Doria’s coffee. When your ship is sinking, you’ve got bigger concerns than fine dining.”

“I get it.”

“Good. I’ll see you—” His words stopped short when he noticed the folded newspaper in his jacket pocket. “Oh, yeah, almost forget. How’s your flatfoot boyfriend? I don’t smell his drugstore buy-it-by-the-gallon aftershave, so I’m guessing he’s not around this morning.”

“If you’re referring to Mike Quinn, he’s on an overnight stakeout. I’ll be seeing him sometime today.”

“He’s okay then?”

That question surprised me. Although Matt had gained a grudging respect for Quinn over time, it struck me as odd that he’d ask after the man’s health, and I said so.

“My concern is for you, Clare. I know you have feelings for that Boy Scout, so I figured you’d be tied up in knots over this.”

“Over what?”

Matt pulled out the damp New York tabloid and showed me the front page. The picture was a target, its bull’s-eye an NYPD shield haloed by an explosion of lurid red ink.

The headline was even more disturbing . . .

OPEN SEASON ON THE NYPD:

4 COPS SHOT IN 3 DAYS!