Read Online Espresso Shot by Cleo Coyle - Free Book Online

in this large space, an eclectic collection scattered about to give the feeling of a funky, comfortable bohemian apartment, but there was nothing cozy about the room tonight. None of the lamps were turned on. The strongest light came from the hearth at the far end of the room.

    Tucked into the exposed brick wall, the split logs were crackling, their high flames flashing like tangerine lightning in the antique coffeepots above the mantel. Fog-gray shadows moved across the old tin signs on the exposed brick walls. The effect was creepy, as if the ghosts of dead customers had come back for some kind of grim midnight party.

    Since Matt had taken the trouble to set the fire, I expected to see him in front of it, his muscled frame sunk into an overstuffed couch, his shoes off, his feet up. Instead, I found him standing next to the tall front windows, his body angled tensely for a better view of the activity around the emergency vehicles a block away.

    Enough light spilled in from the streetlamps for me to make out a closed laptop computer on the table closest to him, along with a cluster of small porcelain espresso cups, all of which were empty.

    “How many have you had?” I asked, walking up to him.

    “Four.”

    “Then you aren’t going to want this double macchiato , right?”

    Matt grabbed the paper cup out of my hand, flipped off the lid, and bolted it.

    I blinked. “Guess I was wrong.”

    “I’m trying to sober up. Not that tonight’s events weren’t sobering enough already.” He crushed the cup in his hand and tossed it onto the table.

    I nodded, closed my eyes, and sipped my own macchiato , pulling the richly caramelized coffee through the little island of frothed milk. It was profound, in a way, how the tiniest kiss of something sweet and white could transform the heavy impact of something so much darker. The drink’s caffeine was energizing, too, and my weary body wanted the stimulation as badly as Matt had wanted his—only not as fast, which, when you got right down to it, pretty much defined our differences.

    “Listen,” I said, after opening my eyes, “I’m not scheduled for any more hours today, but Dante and Gardner have been dealing with the mob down there alone, so I told them I’d come back on. Do you think you could pitch in, too?”

    Matt nodded. “I’ll help.”

    Two simple words, an oasis in the desert. “Great.”

    The father of my child stared at me for a long moment after that, his jaw working silently; then he peered out the window again. Obviously, the man was agitated. But I got the distinct impression it had nothing to do with the amount of caffeine he’d just consumed.

    “Is something wrong? I mean other than the obvious—” I gestured in the general direction of the crime scene, where emergency lights were still flashing red against the century-old town houses.

    “Yes, Clare. I think something’s very wrong, but I don’t know how to go about . . .” As Matt’s voice trailed off, he shook his head. “Can I talk to you?”

    “Of course.”

    He walked back to the table, but he didn’t sit down. Instead, he began to pace to the window and back again. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve got some ideas about tonight’s murder.”

    “What do you mean ideas ?”

    “I mean . . .” Matt stopped pacing and faced me, his chiseled features half in shadow. “I’m not so sure the killer was that motorcycle-jacketed asshole back at the White Horse Tavern.”

    “I agree with you.”

    “You do?”

    I told Matt what I’d just learned from Barry downstairs.

    “The man’s apartment faces Hudson,” I said, “and he swears he heard the shot from right below his window, which means the weapon was fired a block and a half away from the victim.”

    “Yes, but . . .” Matt scratched his head. “I’m sorry, why is that important?”

    “It’s important because the jerk you threatened at the tavern was drunk . The man was slurring his words and