A Brew to a Kill (20 page)

“Looks like the truck made its delivery of knockoff bags and then backtracked…”

We all watched as Billy Li transferred Kaylie’s cupcakes from his cousin’s truck to hers.

“That’s it,” I said, feeling triumphant once more. “We got her!”

All I had to do was explain our findings to Detective Buckman, and Lilly’s hit-and-run would be solved.

“Where to now?” Esther asked.

“Back to the Blend,” I said. Then I thanked the very kind gentleman driving us, promising him a very nice tip—while promising my baristas two very strong shots. We were going to need them. Dante had a truck to paint. Esther had a grant director to impress. And we all had a long day ahead.

“We’re done here, Mr. Hon,” I said. “Please take us uptown.”

“We follow another truck?”

“Only if it’s on the FDR.”

Minutes later, while on that expressway, I heard my cell phone’s ringtone go off. Apparently, while I was sampling egg custard tarts and chasing down a distributor of knockoff handbags, Max Buckman had stopped by my Village Blend. He’d waited ten minutes before calling me.

“I’ll be right there!” I promised Buckman from Mr. Hon’s backseat. “A quarter of an hour tops. Stay put!”

“Clare, I’m already gone. I’m on my way uptown right now. There’s been a development in Ms. Tanga’s case. I’ll track you down again.”

“No wait! You have to hear this…”

I told him about Two Wheels Good and how I’d obtained an image of the van’s license plate (two numbers of it, anyway), as well as my very strong suspicion that Kaylie Crimini and/or
a member of her truck crew (most likely Billy Li) were the perpetrators behind the hit-and-run of Lilly Beth Tanga.

“I understand,” Buckman replied neutrally. “Hold on to that photo, and we’ll talk more about it, I promise you. Be patient. I’ll be in touch soon.”

I closed my cell phone and collapsed back against the cab seat, relieved the detective had the info he needed. At that point in my day, I was absolutely certain that within twenty-four hours Billy or Kaylie (or both) would be taken into custody by the NYPD.

I never would have presumed, not in a thousand guesses, that the person to be taken into custody—by even higher authorities—would be me.

T
RUE
to his word, Buckman caught up with me a few hours later, and I didn’t recognize him—at least, not right away.

Our truck-painting party was in full swing, with a temporary stage playing host to a rotating lineup of live bands, rap artists, and street poets. Young and old were enjoying the day; kids were playing, balloons bobbing, while Dante and his two arts-collective worker bees, Nadine and Josh, diligently painted our Muffin Muse, a curious audience looking on.

I was busy helping with the refreshments when Buckman caught me by surprise. He looked very different from the night before. For one thing, his stinky cigar was gone. For another, he’d lost his do-it-yourself bandoliers, the ones that dangled tools off his torso like a walking Home Depot.

Twenty pounds of Knight of the Road gear had been replaced with casual khaki pants and an open-necked pastel polo that displayed somewhat hairy arms. He’d shaved close and slicked his bristly flattop into a style that actually looked approachable—more average Joe than boot-camp marine. In fact, the only indication that Buckman was on duty were the cuffs, badge, gun, and holster affixed to his belt.

“You’re out of uniform, Detective.”

“It’s casual Saturday.”

“Isn’t that casual
Friday
?”

“Maybe for you. I work six days a week.”

“Then allow me to feed you. You must be hungry?”

“
Nah.
Not much. But I like the coffee I’m smelling…”

“That’s our new blonde.”

“Oh, really? What’s
her
name?”

“Blonde
roast
. It’s a nutty little number with a sweet and sassy note of honey-drizzled blackberry. She’s a real kick, too—mainly because she’s a lighter roast so there’s slightly more caffeine left in the bean. But there’s an even better reason men tell me they enjoy drinking her in.”

“What’s that?”

“She’s far less trouble than a real blonde.”

That cracked a smile out of him.

“I insist you try a selection of our mini-muffins, too. They’re complimentary today. But for you, they’re free.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. But make it all to go, okay? We need to talk, and we can’t do it here.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have something to show you. We’ll do it in my car.”

“Excuse me, Buckman? Do
what
exactly?”

“You’ll see.”

“But can’t you just—”

“Don’t argue, Cosi. Come now or I’ll have to lock you up for your own protection.”

My own protection?
That shut my mouth. Not that his remark intimidated me. Mad Max didn’t scare me in the least, but his implication that I was in danger did get my attention.

B
UCKMAN
led me through the buzzing crowd and toward the property’s chain-link fence.

The location of our party was the parking lot of Matteo’s new warehouse in Red Hook, a “residustrial” neighborhood on
a peninsula of west Brooklyn. Mixed zoning allowed light industry to share the landscape with rickety row houses, packed with new immigrants and young urban pioneers, some of whom had opened trendy dive bars and quirky eateries.

I’d already commended Matt for purchasing land here. While gentrification had pumped up property values in surrounding neighborhoods, this hardscrabble area had real potential for development, yet property costs were still reasonable—and we were close enough to New York Bay for a splendid view of sparkling blue.

I also liked this location because it benefitted our Muffin Muse. Nearby, the famous Red Hook ball fields hosted local soccer teams every Sunday. The event attracted some of the best ethnic food trucks in the city, so serious foodies flocked to this area every week.

That’s part of the reason we were getting such wonderful press attention for our party. Saturday was a slow news day anyway, and we had several angles going other than a culinary one: an original piece of art was being painted before the public by members of the Five Points Arts Collective; Esther and her budding young street poets were performing their latest work; and (the topper) we had two (count ’em, two!) mayoral candidates glad-handing potential voters, City Councilman Dominic Chin and Public Advocate Tanya Harmon.

The crowd was thick—three hundred, at least—but Buckman was big, cutting through the sea of bodies like a battleship. I followed in his wake, across the concrete toward the eight-foot chain-link gate festooned with balloons.

We crossed the street to his double-parked car, and with one look, I nearly dropped the snacks I was carrying.

“
This
belongs to you?”

“You’re proud of your blonde. Well, this is my baby.” Buckman’s smile was back and even bigger. “A 1971 Pontiac GTO, which in my humble opinion was
the
classic muscle car of the 1970s. We’re talking wire-mesh grilles, headlamps that glow like the eyes of a jungle cat—and look at those dual scoops on the hood.”

“Fetching color. Is that cherry red?”

My response wasn’t the one Buckman had been hoping for.

“‘And what is under that hood, Detective Buckman?’ is the question you
should
have asked. Then I would have said, ‘Why it’s a 335 horsepower HO engine, Ms. Cosi. The top power plant of its day. This little gem can pop zero to sixty in under six seconds.’”

He paused, waiting for my reaction.

“I can speak some Italian, French, and even a bit of Spanish. But I don’t speak automotive.”

Buckman laughed—and gave a short wave. The hand gesture wasn’t for me. Glancing over my shoulder, I gawked at the arrival of a big police motorcycle with an equally big highway patrol officer astride its seat.

“Is that cop here to keep an eye on your car?”

“Actually, he’s here to keep an eye on you. Get in and I’ll explain.”

But he didn’t explain. Not right away. Mr. “Nah, Not Much” ripped into my mini-muffins, which he washed down with prodigious gulps of my steaming hot blonde.

“These are good,” he garbled, mouth full.

“‘And what
kind
of muffins are these, Ms. Cosi?’ is the question you
should
have asked, Buckman. Then I would have said, ‘Why, low-fat Strawberry Shortcake, Detective. As well as Nutella-Swirled Banana, Cherry Cheesecake, Blue Velvet, and Forbidden Chocolate… ’”

Then I shared the fact that Lilly Beth was a key contributor to his present pleasure. At that, his eyes lit up.

“Take that Blue Velvet muffin you nearly swallowed whole. The color was inspired by the bluish purple
ube
cake that Lilly’s Filipina mother bakes using an exotic purple yam.

“And the muffin you’re enjoying now is our Forbidden Chocolate. Lilly Beth based that recipe on a combination of Filipino favorites—the puto rice muffin and chamborado, a chocolate rice pudding nearly every Pinoy kid grows up eating for breakfast. For extra nutrition, she found us a supplier of forbidden rice flour.”

“Forbidden?” Buckman managed between bites. “Sounds dark.”

“It is, literally. Forbidden rice is black. But the ‘forbidden’ name actually comes from feudal times. The farmers reserved it as a tribute payment to emperors who ruled out of Beijing’s Forbidden City, which meant peasants were forbidden to eat it.”

“I get it. Like the part of my paycheck that’s forbidden for me to spend because it’s reserved for Uncle Sam.”

“Never thought of it that way… but since we’re speaking about the dark side of food…”

I handed him the photos that attorney John Fairway gave me, and began to tick off my reasons for suspecting Kaylie Crimini of attempted murder: (1) the threat she’d made to me before the accident; (2) the argument she’d had with Lilly earlier that same day; and (3) the
New York
Times
article in which Lilly Beth publicly criticized Kaylie and announced her endorsement of regulations that could hurt the Kween’s marketing routine.

Finally, I recounted my trip to Chinatown, stressing the part about how Kaylie’s service van turned up missing less than twelve hours after the hit-and-run. “It’s all too much of a ‘co-inky-dink,’ as my barista Nancy would say.”

When I finally stopped talking, Buckman blew out air. Then he set his cup on the dashboard. “I’m sorry, Clare, but if you’re going to act like a detective, then you’re going to have to swallow crow, just like we do.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, you’re wrong. Missing or not, Kaylie’s van did not hit Lilly Beth.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Remember that development I mentioned to you on the phone? Well, we recovered the real van. Traffic found it parked on Thompson, near New York University. My guys are still going over it, and we’re in the process of retrieving surveillance camera footage for the surrounding blocks.”

I let out a breath—a severely disappointed one. “The van doesn’t belong to Kaylie?”

“The van is registered to a Mr. Shun Xi, a fruit vendor on Canal. I had a talk with him this morning. We went over the details of his stolen vehicle report and he comes up roses.”

“What did you find inside the van?”

“Multiple fingerprints. My guys are pulling them off the steering wheel, the window, the door handles, the rearview mirrors. Some belong to Mr. Xi, of course, but he was solid enough to give over his prints so we could match them out.”

Buckman wiped his mouth with a napkin, brushed crumbs off his polo shirt. “The driver wasn’t careful. We found a wineglass on the seat. Good stuff, too.”

“You found alcohol?”

“I meant the glass. Quality. Real crystal. Like that gift registry crap they sell to rich stiffs on Fifth Avenue. I have someone tracing it now.”