Seventy-seven

TWO nights later, I was watching my ex-husband dress for a romantic dinner, followed—if he had his way—by a passionate seduction.

Matt was in his Brooklyn man cave, wrapped in nothing but a towel, his hair and beard glistening from the shower. He looked confident and comfortable in his natural habitat, circling a table set for an intimate dinner, complete with white cloth, crystal and china, champagne on ice, candles, and something delicious on the menu.

I was outside, in the warehouse parking lot, shivering behind the wheel of the Village Blend’s panel van. As rain beat slowly on the metal roof, water drops traced curvy rivers on the windshield. With the engine off, the air was getting nippy, cold enough for my breath to cloud. So I sipped my warmth from a travel mug of coffee—with plenty of backup in the thermos beside me.

My laptop was open on the dash with the Matt Allegro Show playing on its big screen. So far, the streaming setup with Matt’s phone and my computer was working as advertised, and I was recording every second of the feed on my hard drive. But since I never trust technology all that much, I’d also set up a voice-activated digital recorder in the man cave for backup. Either way, I wasn’t going to miss a word.

My smartphone was activated, too, and I spoke into it.

“You are going to put clothes on, right? Marilyn’s going to be here in half an hour. If you plan to reveal your true self the moment she arrives, I don’t see much time to coax a murder confession out of her.”

“You’re breaking my concentration, Clare. I’m trying to focus.”

“Don’t worry, Romeo, your seduction scene will be pristine.”

He checked the temperature of the champagne, then added more ice to the bucket.

“Are you finished cooking yet? I’m asking because you always say dinner’s ready, and then you’re ten more minutes in the kitchen. That’s a mood killer, you know.”

I watched Matt roll his eyes. “It’s ready, Clare. The main course, the side dish, the salad—even the sauce.”

“What are they serving at Chez Allegro tonight?”

Matt lit the candles. “They are serving grilled steaks with my Brandy Mushroom Gravy and Fluffy Garlic Mashed Potatoes, along with a simple salad.”

“No dessert?”

“No pastries. I had a different dessert in mind when I arranged this rendezvous.”

“I know, and I appreciate what you’re doing. But you really should know what kind of woman you’re dealing with.”

“Marilyn is a lot of things, but a cold-blooded killer isn’t one of them,” Matt replied. “We’ll know that in a little while, when you see this is all a big dumb misunderstanding.”

“Well, don’t forget to go for the confession before you close the deal. After she’s relaxed, maybe had some champagne, start to grill her. Don’t wait until . . . you know . . . Not unless you want an audience.”

“And if Marilyn doesn’t confess, if she laughs in my face at the very thought of murder, you’ll stop watching, right?”

“I promise.”

“I’m getting dressed now. Have Soles and Bass arrived?”

“Help is arriving any minute,” I replied. That part was true, at least. Though it wouldn’t be Soles and Bass, I knew Matt was better off not knowing who’d be serving as our police backup tonight.

Luckily, Matt was too distracted to pursue the subject. “Before I put on my clothes, I’m going to mute this phone, so you won’t distract me,” he said. “It’s bad enough you’re watching. I don’t want to hear you, too.”

Before I could reply, his giant hand closed over the phone. When he pulled it away, he was grinning.

“Now you can hear me but I can’t hear you, which so works for me.” Chuckling, he sauntered out of camera range.

Five minutes passed. The rain increased, beating a faster drumroll on the van’s roof. I drained my travel mug and refilled it from a large thermos of Wide Awake blend—light-roasted Colombian with a smattering of robusta beans for a high-caffeine kick. I would need the jolt to get through this night.

I’d just finished pouring when a knock on the window startled me.

I popped the lock, the door opened, and Sergeant Emmanuel Franco climbed into the passenger seat. Shaking raindrops off his shaved head, he flung a dripping slicker in the back. Under the storm gear, he’d dressed like the Franco I remembered—worn denims, sweatshirt, and heavy work boots, his gun and badge on his wide belt.

“Thanks for coming,” I said. “Soles and Bass were called to a crime scene in the Village and bailed on me at the last minute. Mike is out of town, and I didn’t have anyone else to call.”

Franco detected the cold tone in my voice, but I couldn’t hide it—not after the pain he caused my daughter.

“I’m always happy to help, Coffee Lady. But, I have to admit, your invitation to meet inside a van in a warehouse parking lot had me wondering about your intentions.”

He’d cracked that like a joke, yet there was an uncomfortably brittle edge to it. Ignoring the awkwardness, I pressed on—

“Before I tell you what this is about, I need to know if you did as I asked and parked your car around the block and out of sight.”

“Sure, how do you think I got soaked?”

“Good.”

We sat in silence for a moment, tension thick between us. Finally, I spoke. “One more thing before we get down to police business.”

“What’s that?”

“Who’s Joan?”