“It’s got chocolate smudges,” I pointed out. “Part of a little hand print. You have a small child at home, don’t you? A little one who checks Daddy’s pocket for a treat when he comes home?”
Langley smiled. Demetrios let out an amused grunt. And the detective’s face reddened slightly. He sent a warning look to the two young officers, then turned his sharp blue eyes back on me.
“Ms. Cosi, I’m asking the questions here—”
“If you have a child, then you must understand how I feel about Anabelle. I didn’t know her long, but she’s my employee, and only one year older than my daughter—”
“Which is?”
“Twenty.” It was Langley who answered this time, consulting his own notebook. “The victim was—uh, sorry”—he glanced guiltily at me—“is twenty. Dance student. We interviewed the girl’s roommate before she went to the hospital.”
Quinn squinted at me. “So you have a nineteen-year-old daughter?”
I nodded, and he gave me a skeptical once-over. The entire assessment probably took a few seconds at the most. To me, however, it felt as though time had stopped for a day or so.
He started at the tips of my black boots, ran quickly up my straight-legged blue jeans, slowing on the curve of my hip like a sports car on a sharp turn. The scrutiny continued up my black turtleneck sweater. He lingered much longer than necessary on my C-cups, which, I admit, have been a generous advantage for a woman with a petite frame, but under the circumstances I wasn’t at all comfortable with any attention given to that particular determination. Finally, his gaze took in my heart-shaped face and shoulder-length, Italian-roast brown hair.
His cobalt eyes narrowed on my green ones. “And you’re how old?”
“Thirty-nine.” God, it pained me to say that out loud.
The detective glanced away, flipping back a few pages in his notebook. “You don’t look it,” he said softly as he jotted it down.
“Thank you,” I said, just as softly.
Then the detective turned to Langley and Demetrios. “Okay, show me.”
The two officers led the detective across the coffeehouse’s rectangular-shaped main floor. There were fifteen coral-colored marble-topped tables here, many of them circa 1919, stretching along a row of white French doors, which drenched the room in sunlight and, in warmer months, were thrown open for sidewalk seating. As we walked, the detective seemed to be surveying these floor-to-ceiling doors, I assumed, for any sign of forced entry. There was none.
At the back end of the main room was an exposed brick wall with a fireplace and a circular staircase of wrought iron that led to the second-floor seating area, which was also used for private parties. The circular staircase was just for customers. The staff used the service staircase, which was where we were headed.
The officers and detective moved along the short hallway to the back door, which was located on the landing just above the flight of service stairs that led to the basement. I watched the detective make silent observations and jot down notes. He frowned at the mess of black, slippery grounds overflowing from the heavy stainless steel waste can.
“That shouldn’t be there,” I said. “The can, I mean.”
“Where did it come from?” asked the detective.
“We keep three cans in the work area, behind the marble counter—one under the sink, one under the coffee urns, and one next to the dishwasher. This one was under the sink, the closest to this back area.”
“I see.”
“It makes no sense, though,” I said. “Anabelle knows better than to drag this heavy can over here. Our policy is to remove the plastic lining and take it to the Dumpster.”
“And where is the Dumpster?”
“Out this back door, down four concrete steps and to the right. It’s a private alley. We’ve used the same garbage pickup company for the last twenty years.”
“Paserelli and Sons?”
“Yes.”
The detective nodded as he examined the back door, hands behind his back. It was heavy steel with no window. “They’ve got the contract for most of Hudson. This the way you found the door?”
“Yes,” I told him. “Bolted but unchained.”
“You normally keep it chained?”
“Yes, especially at night.”
“And Anabelle Hart was your closer last night?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“And what time do you close?”
“On weeknights like last evening, at midnight. On Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays, it depends on the customers.”
“Because those are date nights?” the detective asked.
“Yes, we get lots of restaurant and nightclub overflow. You know, a couple hits it off and needs a place to continue to get to know each other after the dinner or the clubbing.”
“Very romantic,” said Langley absently.
Demetrios laughed. “Geez, Langley, I didn’t know you were such a Romeo.”
“That’s right, Plato. You do the thinking. I’ll do the romancing.”
“In my day,” remarked the detective walking carefully down the steps, “we didn’t hit coffeehouses after getting steamy on the dance floor, we just hit the sheets.”
“Your day was before AIDS,” I called down to him.
“Just barely,” he shouted back, examining the area at the bottom of the stairs where Anabelle had been found. “You have any other doors in the basement?”
“Only one. The sidewalk trap door. But we only use it for bulk deliveries. It should be bolted.”
“It’s secure,” the detective called up. “Okay. Nothing down here.” The detective came back up the stairs. “What’s that big machine down there?”
“A coffee roaster. We roast our own beans here.”
Quinn nodded. “Smells good.”
“That’s the idea,” I told him. “The pleasure of fine coffee drinking is more than fifty percent aroma.”
“Un-hunh.”
Quinn stared at me with the blank blink of the unconverted. Typical of a Robusta-bean caffeine swiller, but I wasn’t discouraged. I’d convert him yet.
Quinn continued up the back staircase.
The second floor of the Blend was also rectangular in shape with a bank of windows running the length of one side. As on the first floor, the back wall had exposed brick and a fireplace. At the far end of the room, a door led to my small manager’s office. The wooden floor was buffered with a number of area rugs. Like the first floor, there were marble-topped tables, but most of the second floor was replete with overstuffed furniture.
The intentionally mismatched mix of French flea market sofas, loveseats, armchairs, and reading lamps was arranged in the cozy conversational nooks. It looked like a bohemian living room—and for practical purposes, it was. With so many Village residents jammed into tiny studio or one-bedroom apartments, the Blend’s second floor became an extension of their own living spaces. It also served as a private meeting space for various neighborhood groups.
“Nice place you’ve got here, Ms. Cosi,” said the detective as he inspected the closed and locked windows.
We’d already checked my small manager’s office and nothing had been disturbed. Not the wall safe nor the sealed glass case to the side of it, which displayed the priceless book of secret Blend recipes that had been handed down through the Allegro family for over one hundred years.
“Thank you. You should let me make you some coffee.”
“Not necessary.”
“Really, it’s no trouble. I promise it’ll be a thousand times better than your usual Sixth Avenue bodega’s milk, no sugar.”
The detective stopped and stared at me with an expression somewhere between stunned and annoyed.
“Your left lapel,” I said.
He glanced down, saw the coffee stain, and frowned.
“How about a fresh cup?” I asked, a tiny smile edging up the corner of my mouth. “As I said, we roast our blends right here, in the basement.”
He stepped up to me, emphasizing his height in that towering way again. “Another time,” he said flatly.