In the corner, I saw folding chairs and a card table had been set up. On the table were several digital cameras, a laptop computer, and a photo printer. Next to the printer I found two neat stacks of photographs. I picked up the first stack, which consisted entirely of shots taken at David Mintzer’s Fourth of July party—celebrity photos mostly, though there were several pictures of David himself. The second stack were photos taken at Bom Felloes bash the next day, including several shots of Keith Judd. I put the photos down and continued looking around the room.
A second bedroom door led to a bathroom with a large glass-enclosed shower stall. Inside the stall I saw a tangle of rubber hoses, three large air tanks, two pairs of swim fins, and several pairs of underwater goggles. They’d been carefully cleaned. Sea salt and seaweed still encrusted the shower’s drain.
For the second time in as many hours I thought—Gotcha.
I couldn’t help feeling the rush. I smiled as I backed out of the bathroom, deciding I’d found the lair of the Creature from the Black Lagoon. For now, I’d seen enough. Unfortunately, I was about to see more than I’d bargained for.
At the distinct click-clock of a weapon cocking, I spun and found myself facing the business end of a very large handgun. Motorcycle Man had leveled it directly at my heart.
“Now ordinarily, finding a tight little package in my bedroom is not something a man like me would object to.” His voice was low, even, and unexpectedly casual. “But since you’re here without an invitation, you can understand why I’m a little bit peeved.”
I didn’t know how it happened. I’d never heard the rumble of his motorcycle engine. I’d never heard him opening the front door. Yet here the man stood with the drop on me that I’d been sure he’d never get.
“Please put the gun down. I’m unarmed.”
He studied me, his brown eyes weren’t so much angry as curious. His fortyish face was weathered, his jawline strong but brushed with stubble, the day’s growth of beard a shade darker than his shaggy copper hair. I noticed a small earring in his left ear, a dagger with a jewel in the hilt.
“Breaking and entering is a crime, you know?”
“You’ve got the gun.” I spoke as calmly as I could, given the circumstances. I was plenty scared, but I knew if I wanted control of this situation, I’d have to start by controlling my own emotions. “You can just call the police. And they can cuff me and haul me off to jail. Or you can put that weapon away and we can talk like civilized people.”
He didn’t put the weapon away, or even lower it. “Sit down,” he said, gesturing to the bed behind me.
I sat on the edge of it.
“Good. Follow my instructions and we’ll get along just fine. Now you talk. And I’ll listen. Got it?”
I nodded.
“Who are you?”
I saw no point in lying. “Clare Cosi. Who are you?”
His gaze went cold. “How quickly we forget. This is how it works, Clare. You talk, I listen. Remember? Now who do you work for?”
“I’m a barista manager and, technically speaking, also a coffee steward, at Cuppa J…that’s a restaurant…in East Hampton.”
He blinked. Obviously that was not the answer he expected to hear. “Wait a minute. That’s Mintzer’s new place, right? The one that’s getting all the write-ups this season?”
I nodded, he frowned. “So you work for David Mintzer?”
I didn’t reply.
“Listen sweetheart, take my advice, when a guy’s got a gun on you, answer his questions.”
I folded my arms, trying my damnedest to mask my fears with bravado. “When a guy’s got a gun on me who hasn’t shot me yet, I don’t think he’s going to.”
Almost imperceptibly, the man’s dark eyes widened. “You’re willing to take a chance like that?”
“Mr. Barnes,” I continued reasonably, “I’m trusting my own judgment. If you were going to shoot me, you would have done it already.”
“Mr. Barnes, huh?” He smirked. “How the hell did you track me down?”
“I saw you on the beach last night, outside The Sandcastle. I couldn’t see the name of your boat from the shore, so I took a little late night swim.”
“You swam out to my boat?”
“Yes.”
“Last night?”
“That’s right, Mr. Barnes.”
“Christ, I must have been sixty or seventy yards offshore. I’m surprised you didn’t get hypothermia.”
“I didn’t say it was easy. Or smart for that matter. But I got the name of the yacht you rented. I found your marina, and bribed a couple of very sweet Bonackers.”
“Where the hell do you get your nerve, Clare Cosi?”
“Eight to ten cups of coffee a day. At least.”
The man actually laughed. Then, to my great relief, he lowered his weapon, put on the safety, and tucked it behind him, presumably into a holster fastened to his belt at the base of his spine—the same place my ex-husband carried when he went coffee hunting in Africa.
“That’s better,” I said, rising from the bed. “Guns make me nervous…especially when they’re pointed in my general direction.”
The man folded his muscled arms and regarded me, about a foot below him. “If I were you, Clare, I wouldn’t let my guard down in a situation like this one.” His dark eyebrow arched. “What makes you think I won’t beat the truth out of you?”
“Oh, puh-leeze!” I threw up my hands. “This is the Hamptons. What are you going to do? Flog me with a Louis Vuitton briefcase? Anyway, Mr. Barnes, my partner knows where I am and if anything should happen to me—”
“Spare me. You don’t have a partner. That gambit is so tired, I doubt even you would buy it. Besides which, I saw you watching me from your Honda across the street. You were alone.”
“You saw me?”
“And if we’re going to talk like ‘civilized people,’ you can stop calling me Mr. Barnes because there is no Mr. Barnes—”
“What?”
“Sally Barnes is the woman who owns this place. She rents it out every summer…and for too damn much money if you ask me.”
“Well, that explains it,” I muttered.
“Explains what?”
“The Barbie-pink living room and rogue-male bedroom. The beer bottles and Twinkie wrappers and the neat kitchen and espresso pot. I take it you don’t make your own?”
“Make my own what?”
“Espresso,” I said. “Do you want a cup? I could really use one. Unless you really do know how to make your own, then by all means you can play host.”
“Clare, I’m trying to follow you. But you’re tempting me to go nuclear again—”
“Look, let me make you some coffee, okay? Then we actually can talk like civilized people.” Before he could object, I pushed past him. He followed me out to the kitchen. I searched the cabinets and found a small vacuum-sealed bag of beans from a local gourmet store.
“Good. They’re Arabica. Can’t abide robusta. Arabica’s the way to go—high grown, high quality.”
“Excuse me?”
“Just talking out loud. It’s a nervous habit.”
I rummaged around some more, found a small grinder, burred the beans finely, then filled the bottom half of the pot with water, tamped the ground coffee tightly into the filter, and dropped the filter into place.
Motorcycle Man watched it all with intense fascination, arms folded, one lean hip resting against the counter. “It looks like you’re making a bomb.”
“Close enough. It’s an Italian blast.”
“Are you finishing anytime soon?”
“Just have to screw the two parts together.” I did, sealing the pot’s top to its bottom. I felt his eyes on me again and looked up.
He was smirking. “You screw very nicely, Clare.”
I narrowed my gaze. “We’re striving for civilized. Remember?”
The man snorted. He pushed his lean hips off the counter and took a seat at the kitchen table. His gaze stayed on me as I scrounged up two demitasses and a bowl of sugar.
The room filled with the heavenly aroma of the earthy, nutty beans, and I filled the cups with the hot, fresh espresso. I handed him one. He didn’t ask for cream or milk, didn’t touch the sugar.