Sixty-nine

ONCE again, my coffeehouse was a crime scene.

Outside our front door were four squad cars, two vans from the Crime Scene Unit, a truck from Traffic Control, an FDNY ambulance, and an SUV from the medical examiner’s office. Hudson Street was so clogged that officers in reflective vests were redirecting traffic away from the area.

Yellow police tape blocked all the sidewalks around our shop, too, even though most of the action—and the bright tower lights—were concentrated in one small corner, at one table, around one very dead body.

Esther, Tucker, and I had been told to wait at a table “until detectives arrive to question you.” A rookie officer was also stationed inside the shop to make sure we stayed put. As of now, we’d been here for nearly an hour—a conscience-stricken sixty minutes as Esther and I pondered our role in this mess.

Did I lure this man to his death?

Esther wondered the same thing, though Tuck pooh-poohed the notion, stopping just short of declaring that the dead man had it coming.

Guilty feelings aside, it was a question I was certain the detectives would also be asking—if not tonight, then after they cracked the victim’s phone and found a message from bikini babe “Kara,” inviting him to the scene of his demise.

I dreaded what was to come as the Fish Squad pushed through the front door. Soles and Bass were grim faced as they crossed the polished plank floor, though Sue Ellen’s hard expression was softened somewhat by her loose hair, flowery skirt, soft sweater, and dangly earrings.

They were accompanied by a grizzled sergeant with a beer belly, and another policeman in a yellow NYPD Traffic vest, bearing an industrial-strength laptop.

The sergeant went behind our counter and looked around. Soon he disappeared into the pantry. Meanwhile, the traffic officer set the laptop on the marble coffee bar, turned it so we couldn’t see the screen, and began to type. Soles and Bass watched for a few minutes, sometimes whispering instructions to the cop.

The sergeant’s alarming two-word call—“Back here!”—interrupted them.

Soles and Bass strode into the pantry, where they lingered for a few minutes. When they came out again, the two detectives walked right up to our table, shaking their heads.

“Nice catch, Cosi,” Lori Soles said. “Looks like you were right when you said this guy was trouble.”

“I don’t think we’re going to get much out of him, though,” Sue Ellen cracked. “Not after someone took the trouble of whacking him.”

“Did you find out his real name?” I asked.

“He’s got IDs for one Harry Krinkle,” Sue Ellen replied, “but that identity might be as phony as the last one.”

I brought out my phone and showed the detectives the photo I took of the man’s bank withdrawal receipt. They asked me to send it to them forthwith. Then Lori’s hands went to her hips.

“You know, you’re lucky we were running a sting in Hudson River Park. We understand what you were trying to do here, but the Night Watch might have come to some wrong conclusions once they took a look at those two wanted posters in your pantry.”

Sue Ellen sent a chuckle in my direction. “Dead or alive, eh, Sheriff? So does the shooter collect the reward?”

“You know that’s not what I wanted,” I firmly stated. “But if you think I’m guilty, arrest me alone. Please leave my staff out of it—”

Lori silenced me with a raised hand.

“Relax, Cosi. We’ve got our suspect. A traffic camera captured the actual murder. We’d like you and your people to look at the raw footage. It’s disturbing, but maybe one of you can ID the woman in question.”

“Woman?!” Tuck cried.

“That’s right. Like I said, it’s disturbing. So if any of you would rather not watch the—”

“We’ll watch it!” Tuck, Esther, and I practically shouted together.

Lori pointed to the counter. “Okay, let’s do it.”