Murder by Mocha (22 page)

When Franco caught me watching him, he set the framed photo back on my desk. “I guess Joy’s always been into that Hello Kitty stuff, huh?” He touched the little pink Hello Kitty brand hat and mitten set Joy wore that day. “Cute...”

The dreamy little smile on the man’s face, the semiglazed look in his eyes—they told me all I needed to know. Franco knew about Hello Kitty. He
cared
about Hello Kitty. If I had any doubt before, I didn’t any longer: Sergeant Emmanuel “Manny” Franco, street name “the General,” was absolutely infatuated with my daughter.

Was I okay with that?
No.
But what could I do about it? And what did I really know about this young man, anyway?

Well
, I thought,
here’s my chance to find out...

The printer finally disgorged the single sheet capture of the Candy Man’s photo. I passed it to Franco and cleared my throat, focusing on the subject at hand, or at least in his hand—

“Do you think you could identify this model if you saw him in the flesh?”

Franco saw the image and winced. “What part of his flesh am I supposed to identify, ’cause there’s a lot of it here? Maybe you should get a vice cop for this beefcake watch.”

“You’ll do. Let’s grab a cab.”

“Cab? To where? I came here to see—”

“My daughter, I know. But Joy went to brunch with friends from culinary school.”

When Franco’s face fell, I assured him she’d be back soon enough—and in the meantime, he could help me with a little backup (in case I actually
did
find Dennis St. Julian).

“So you want me to work on my one and only lunch hour?” Franco said.

“Don’t think of it as work. It’s the Confectioners’ Exposition. There will be hundreds of vendors pushing sweet-tooth bliss with free samples at every booth.”

“Samples? Of candy? And I’m going to do this because... ?”

“Because Dirty Harry never passes on a chance to dispense justice.”

Franco snorted. I folded my arms and gave him a possible-future-mother-in-law stare. “You don’t want me to tell Mike you’re still going after that dealer, do you?”

He threw up his hands. “Fine. It will make my day to provide you with a little backup. But I want lunch first.”

“I’ll make you and Joy a nice home-cooked dinner tonight. Until then, gorge on chocolate. I plan to.”

“Ugh,” Franco rubbed his hard stomach. “I ate too much fancy candy last night. I need red meat.”

TWENTY-FIVE

“M
AN, is it warm in here,” Franco said, tugging at the collar of his open shirt.

We were standing inside architect I. M. Pei’s ascending “glass house” entryway to the Javits Convention Center on Manhattan’s West Side. Unfortunately, on this pleasant spring afternoon the temperature in this sun-washed atrium was so high that “hothouse” would have been a more apt description.

Signs warned of “minor inconveniences” owing to the ongoing renovation, and the spotty air-conditioning in the lobby was definitely an inconvenience, especially since it provided Manny Franco with an excuse to gripe like a teenager.

“Just take off your leather jacket if you’re uncomfortable,” I said.

“Great idea, Coffee Lady, people tend to relax when they see the guy in front of them is armed.”

“Sorry. I forgot about your shoulder holster.”

“Well, people may need the police, but that doesn’t translate to them liking us. A low profile means the jacket stays on.”

“I understand. The only time I see Mike’s shirtsleeves is in my—”

“Bedroom?” He waggled his eyebrows.

“Kitchen. Focus, Detective. We’re at a foodie convention.”

“Next!” A cashier waved us forward.

“Let me take care of this,” Franco said, cutting in front of me with wallet in hand. Though his spirit was willing, the detective was floored by a case of sticker shock. He closed his cash flap and handed over his Visa card.

“I could go to a Jets game for what these tickets cost,” Franco said as he gave me a badge pass.

“Look at it this way: the Jets usually lose, and you pay extra for snacks. Here you can stuff yourself with goodies for free.”

“I’d rather have a plastic cup of beer and a pair of Nathan’s foot-longs.”

We passed through the doors into the first exhibition area, where hundreds of booths and thousands of attendees filled a quasi-industrial space as big as a space shuttle hangar. Like a foodie UN, this expo brought together a world of Candy Lands with colorful company banners dangling like national flags across the high ceiling. Exhibitors, large and small, were aligned in long rows displaying chocolates, pastries, and snacks galore.

Overwhelmed by the sheer number of booths, I leafed through the guidebook in search of some kind of map. “Okay, the Nutrition Nation booth is in aisle seventeen—”

“Answer me something.”

“What?”

Franco leaned close. “You told me about the stunt at the hotel yesterday, about the guy with extreme sideburns and the blond chick in black. Was there anyone else involved?”

“No. Why? You have someone else in mind?”

“How about an older dude? Tall and lean, silver hair, sharp blue eyes. Smartly dressed with a bone-white scar on a ruddy face.”

I shook my head again.

“Funny, because the guy I just described was hanging around outside the Blend when I got there this morning, and just now I saw him back here in the Javits lobby.”

I whirled. “Where?”

“He’s gone now. Back outside.” Franco turned me back around. “Not interested in paying the admission, I guess.”

“Do you think he was following me?”

“Well, he wasn’t following me.”

“There was an older man in the Blend yesterday,” I said. “He called himself ‘Bob,’ said he was a former customer, and asked questions about Madame. Then he abruptly disappeared.”

“Did he look like I described?”

“Was that scar nasty looking? Running down his cheek, over his chin, toward his throat?”

“That’s him.” Franco caught my alarm. “Take it easy, Clare.”

“You don’t understand. Mike told me he’s looking into a cold case—one that involved the Village Blend and the murder of a police officer. So any ‘former customer’ around Scarface’s age, who also happens to be stalking me, is going to make me plenty paranoid.”

Franco scowled. “If that guy is shadowing you, he’ll be lurking outside when we leave. I’ll introduce myself—” He fingered the gold shield hanging around his neck. “Persuade him to tell me what he wants with you...”

“Yodel-AAY-eee-OOOH!”

The sudden Alpine cry made me jump, and I wasn’t the only one. Given what we were discussing, Franco was so startled he reached into his jacket to touch the butt of his gun.

“Yodel-AYYY-eee-OHHH! Swiss Alpine Village TREE-EETS!”

The crowd parted for a chubby young yodeler wearing Lederhosen and a feathered hiking cap over blond curls. The two pig-tailed women flanking him wore dirndl dresses straight from the Bavarian Alps. Each Fräulein carried woven baskets filled with chocolate-covered treats.

“Petits fours?” one asked Franco.

“
Danke schön
there, Gretel.” He popped a square into his mouth and smiled politely. “Yummy.”

“Come on,” I said, tugging his leather jacket, and we started walking—until I saw the black banner, red swath, and fine gold lettering of Valrhona Chocolat.

As my steps slowed, the cinnamon stick of a man in brown formalwear approached me (probably because he saw me staring with rapt wonder).

“My name is Christof, mademoiselle, and it would please me if you would sample our Grand Cru chocolates.”

“Oh, if you insist,” I said.

The man’s young assistant lifted a shiny black box containing a dozen dark squares resting on red velvet and tiny doilies of gold paper. Using delicate gold-plated serving tongs, Christof lifted a perfect, shiny square.

“We were the first house to pioneer Grand Cru chocolates,” he said. “Indeed, our mission is to enflame a passion for premium chocolates with origins and taste profiles as complex as fine wines.”

“Or fine coffees,” I noted.

“But of course!” Christof’s head bobbed in complete agreement, then he turned with slight hesitation to my shaved-headed, leather-clad companion. “And one for you, monsieur?”

“Merci. Il semble délicieux,”
Franco replied.

Christof’s smile widened. “Oh yes, they are delicious!”

I might have taken a bite of my Grand Cru square if I hadn’t been gawking at Dirty Harry speaking careful French. The detective smiled at me.

“J’ai vécu dans un quartier haïtien,”
he explained.

“You grew up in a Haitian neighborhood?”

Franco nodded. “Brooklyn is a country all its own.”

“Ah, yes. That would explain your accent,” Christof noted, then turned back to me. “You are about to sample Guanaja, by the way, a chocolate of Honduran origin, seventy percent cacao and dark as sin.” He winked.

My other four senses went on hold as the fragrant square melted like dark, sweet butter over my tongue, blocking out the noise, the bright convention-hall lights, and pretty much all reason for living except to chew and swallow. When my wits returned from their transcendent food trance, Christof was gone.

“Seventy percent cocoa?” Franco said. “Tastes like
all
chocolate to me.”

“When a chocolate has seventy percent cocoa content, it simply means seventy percent of that bar is chocolate, the rest are other ingredients like sugar, milk, flavorings, and additives.”

“There can’t be much sugar in this,” Franco said, making a face. “Tastes a little bitter, but good bitter, like a dark beer.”

“Exactly. More cocoa equals less sugar—and more complex flavor. Stout beers have chocolaty flavor notes, just like some of our coffees, and they’re pretty heady together, too. You should taste my Mocha Cake with Chocolate Guinness Glaze. Mike loves it.”

“Coffee, chocolate, and Irish stout in one bite? Sounds like a party in my mouth...” He finished off the dark square. “This is definitely more potent than the stuff I grab at the drugstore counter.”

“That’s because in America, the FDA allows a milk ‘chocolate’ bar to have as little as ten percent cocoa.”

“That’s it?”

“In Europe, a product like that isn’t even allowed to be labeled chocolate.”

“Yeah, well... as interesting as the dark stuff is, I wouldn’t want a steady diet of it. I mean, chocolate
needs
milk and sugar.”

“That’s how you feel about coffee, too.”

“Hey, c’mon, don’t you think a guy like me needs something light and sweet to balance out the dark?”

“You wouldn’t be talking about more than chocolate and coffee, would you, Detective?”

“Believe me, Coffee Lady, the darkness we see on this job makes you cherish light wherever you find it.”

I stopped and stared. “You know, that’s sort of profound.”

“Yeah, it is. But they’re not my words. I was quoting somebody.”

“Thomas Edison?”

“Mike Quinn.”

Franco smiled at the slightly stunned look on my face. “Why so surprised?”

“I don’t know... I shouldn’t be I guess. Mike’s favorite Blend drink is a sweet latte.”

“C’mon now, Clare, you know he wasn’t talking about coffee.”

“No?”

“No.” Franco studied me. “So, when are you two tying the knot, anyway?”

Oh brother.
“Did Joy put you up to asking me that?”

“No.”

“Mike?”

“No.” He shrugged his leather-covered shoulders. “I just wondered...”

“Well, we’re not getting hitched
today
, okay? So give me a second here...” I waved the guide. “We’re in the right aisle, but I need a booth number...”

When I looked up again, I found Franco flirting with a young brunette dressed as a canary-yellow box of Milk Duds.

“Oh, sure, Milk Duds are chewy,” Franco was saying as one hand raided her sample bag. “But I love the Dud because it’s just like me. It’s sweet, has a surprisingly soft heart, and lasts a long, long time.”

The perky girl-in-a-box giggled, letting him help himself to her goodies. I wandered over.

“I see you’ve gotten over your disappointment at missing Joy.”

Franco grinned. “A little harmless flirting goes a long way on this job, Coffee Lady. You like Duds?”

“No. Never did.”

He popped a few more into his mouth.

“At least you’re enjoying yourself now,” I said.

“Free Duds are like rainbows and lollipops.”

“Childhood memories, huh? Like Proust’s madeleine?”

“Corner candy store. Owner’s daughter ran the counter. She was
almost
as incredible as your daughter. Her name wasn’t Madeline, though. It was Maria.” He sighed. “Her Duds were always fresh.”

Suppressing a smile, I tugged his lapel. “Let’s go, Detective. I found the booth number—”

“Yodel-AYYY-eee-OHHH! Swiss Alpine Village TREE-EETS!”

Once again Franco reached for his holster. Embarrassed, he caught himself. “Somebody ought to bury that guy in an avalanche, along with Heidi and Pippi Longstocking.”

“Hey, I loved Heidi and Pippi!”

“Fine, Heidi and Pippi get stays of execution. But not the yodeler.”

“No argument.”

TWENTY-SIX

N
UTRITION Nation’s expo footprint was big and flashy with a sparkling disco ball spinning overhead. Inside the booth’s resin walls strobe lights flashed on displays packed with products geared toward sports nutrition, bodybuilding, and toning.

“What are these guys doing at a candy fair?” Franco asked. “Nutrition Nation is nothing but a slop shop.”

“A what?”

“A 7-Eleven for Red Power Ranger Go-Go Juice. Every’roid head on the job shops at their stores.”

“You’re referring to steroids? Aren’t they illegal?”

“Science is faster than the law. Nutrition Nation peddles anabolic steroid alternatives, stuff that doesn’t turn into a steroid until it’s ingested. That technicality allows them to skirt the law—for now.”

While Franco drifted off, checking product labels and shaking his head disapprovingly, I spied a familiar face: Maya Lansing, actually a life-sized cardboard standee of the fitness queen.