Seventy-three
Minutes after Cody took off, two NYPD officers arrived in response to Esther’s call. They came with no siren, no drama, and (in the end) left us with almost no hope of catching the criminal.
As we quickly learned, Esther’s cycling mugger was a literal bicycle thief.
Fifteen minutes before Esther was mowed down, a woman reported that her Citi Bike was stolen by a person who matched the description of Esther’s attacker.
One of the responding officers told us that many street thieves used this method of operation. Since Citi Bikes could be traced to an ID through a payment method, these perps would steal the bikes, use them to commit their drive-by crimes, and then ditch the stolen vehicles.
“Same thing happens with cars,” the officer said. “A stolen car becomes a getaway car and is dumped right after the crime…”
I couldn’t argue with that since I’d been a victim myself when a thief slammed me with a stolen scooter and sped off, leaving me in the street before ditching his hot wheels near the river.
According to the officer, such tactics made it more difficult to track down these thieves, and in the end I was left with little hope that Esther would get her messenger bag back or anything inside it, including Mr. Scrib’s notebook.
“Random crimes” like these, he said, were all too common.
When the police business was finished, I put Esther in a taxi. And I didn’t stop fretting until she called to say she was safe at home, defrosting the last of her frozen peas for Wacker’s midnight snack.
After that, I fed my own pampered pets, took a long, hot shower, and crawled into bed.
Lying alone in the big four-poster, I stared at the ceiling missing Mike. With all the excitement, I’d even missed his good night call. He’d left a sweet message and invited me to call him back, but I was too exhausted to talk.
Java and Frothy seemed to sense my sadness and cuddled up close. I was glad for their purring company; and as I rubbed their soft chins and scratched their little ears, I thought about that responding officer’s words.
He’d described Esther’s mugging as a “random crime.”
I wasn’t so sure.
I had no proof, of course, but Addison Ford Babcock had tried to bribe Esther out of that notebook earlier today. So now I wondered: Did Addy hire someone to steal it? Or did her granddaughter Blair arrange the theft? She’d been hanging out in the Village Blend for hours, snooping around in her baggy jeans and oversized hoodie. Was it Blair who’d pulled on a big black coat and ski mask? Or did she hire someone to do it?
And then there was Joan Gibson. The icy publishing exec was equally desperate to get her hands on Mr. Scrib’s notebook. I told her that Esther didn’t have the material she was looking for, but did she believe me? Or did she send her assistant Kenny in a ski mask to grab it?
Who really robbed Esther?
Lying there in the dark, I couldn’t say. But the timing seemed far too suspicious to be mere coincidence.
In the morning, I fully intended to tell Detective Russell about the mugging, though I doubted his response would be much different than the equivalent of the cop shrug we’d gotten tonight.
When I finally slipped into slumber, my sleep was fitful. I tossed and turned so much that even Java and Frothy complained. As the sun came up, my girls issued even louder meows.
I didn’t blame them for the feline reveille. My little beasties were bellowing for breakfast because I was usually rising and shining by now. This morning, however, was one that came too soon.
Dragging myself out of bed, I felt like a drooling zombie, arms outstretched, desperate not for human flesh but that first cup of coffee.
Why is that first sip of the day always the most amazing?
I had my theories, but my favorite boiled down to my own poetic thought (one even Mr. Scrib might like):
A lover denied in the night is fulfilled in the morning.
As I stood in my cozy little kitchen, watching Java and Frothy happily devour their favorite fishy cat food, I consumed my effervescent Breakfast blend (voted best in the city) with equal purity of pleasure. This rich, warm, freshly roasted joy was an energizing embrace.
Maybe that’s why Cody and his Driftwood dreck were so unspeakably distressing to me. A rocket-ship sports car was more important to that golden-haired gangster than serving his customers a quality product.
If there was one thing I could not stand, one thing I could never tolerate, one thing that drove me absolutely bat-guano crazy, it was this: A BAD CUP OF COFFEE.
And that was why I could never, ever, ever work for Cody Wood.
Cody’s visit had been disturbing on many levels—the least of which was his shameless job offer. Even worse was the hard evidence (thanks to Esther’s camera flash) of Cody’s underhanded attempt to sabotage the budding success of our Writer’s Block Lounge.
These were serious revelations, and I did not want to convey them to Matt in a phone call or text message. So, with my second cup of the day, I sent him a quick request.
We need to talk about Cody.
Come by the shop today.
Matt needed to hear what had happened last night, but I was also looking for advice. People like Cody Wood could be dangerous. They would do almost anything to get what they wanted. And this man wanted to buy me and erase the Village Blend. How far would he go to achieve those ends?
The idea unnerved me, and Matt’s reply to my request for a meeting didn’t help. Sorry, he texted. No can do…
On my way to Baltimore to pick up a diverted shipment. We’ll talk about Cody when Mother flies back from FLA. Unless she and her astronaut elope to the International Space Station. CU soon. Matt
A few hours later, I was on the job again, resigned to waiting out a meeting with Matt and his mother, which (since I had no choice in the matter) I concluded was for the best.
The week ahead would give me the chance to prove our retail business could be profitable again. And (so far) today was looking good.
Our ground-floor tables were full, and the upstairs lounge was functioning even better, thanks to the permanent ejection of Cody’s hired henchman and the helpful suggestions from Madame’s gallant captain.
I was just finishing up a morning session in the roasting room when I heard from my favorite officer—a lieutenant, not a captain, but gallant just the same.
Mike had phoned me from Miami during breakfast, but this time it wasn’t sweet talk. He’d stepped out of a meeting to relay some urgent news—
“Mr. Van Dyne is conscious,” he said. “Detective Russell tried to interview him but didn’t get far. He’d like you and Esther to meet him at the hospital. He’s hoping the man will respond to questioning better if Esther is present.”
I didn’t hesitate. Tearing off my apron, I raced upstairs.
After Dante and Nancy agreed to cover for Esther, I bundled her up, grabbed her hand, and pulled my duck-rescuing barista out the front door.