Amsterdam? Say, half an hour?”
“Fine. I live a ten-minute walk from there.”
“I know, Mr. Cooper. Coffee and bagels are on me.”
Coop got to the Sapphire Coffee Shop first. It was a narrow diner with a long counter, booths opposite by the windows that looked out on Amsterdam. Swinging doors led to the kitchen in back. Two bored waiters slouched whispering to each other like conspirators near a pass-through serving counter where the orders were posted and filled.
Right now there were no orders on the steel-spiked carousel. Coop already had his black coffee in front of him, and the breakfast crowd was long gone. The only other customer was a man in a tweed overcoat, perched on a counter stool and forking in an omelet while reading a Village Voice.
Among the people walking past the window by his booth, Coop thought he recognized Deni Green from her dust jacket photo.
Sure enough, the woman in the black coat, wearing the squarish black hat, black slacks, and black boots, carrying the thin black leather briefcase, entered the coffee shop.
She saw Coop right away, strode over, and whipped off her hat and grinned. “Deni Green,” she said.
Coop stood up and they shook hands.
“So, Ezekiel Cooper. Anybody ever tell you you look like Gary Cooper the actor?”
“Now and then.”
“What do they call you? Ez? Zeke?”
“Everyone calls me Coop,” he said, “like the actor.” He studied her. Stocky build beneath the oversize coat, features as strong and empirical as in her photograph. One of those women who would have been attractive thirty pounds lighter, but who had been thirty pounds overweight all her adult life. Her flesh-padded dark eyes were bright and voracious and projected an eagerness bordering on obsession. “Why were you looking for me in Haverton, Ms. Green?”
“Call me Deni, Coop.”
He smiled. “Same question, Deni.”
“Let me fill you in before I answer.” One of the slouching waiters unslouched and sauntered over to take her order. “Coffee and a bagel with schmear,” she said. “Want anything else, Coop?”
“Just a topper on the coffee.”
The conspiratorial-looking waiter nodded and went away.
“I’m a mystery writer,” Deni said, “and a pretty well known one at that.”
“The Cozy Cat series,” Coop said.
She grinned fiercely, pleased. “You a fan?”
“Sort of.”
“Then you know the Cozy Cat books are fiction. Now I’ve decided to branch out into nonfiction, try my hand at a true crime book.”
Coop didn’t like the way this was going. Already burdened by his grief and what he might find out about his daughter, the last thing he wanted was some pesky writer telling her secrets to the world. “Are you saying the crime you’re going to write about is my daughter’s murder?”
“Not exactly. It’s something more. Something much larger.”
The waiter brought her coffee and a toasted bagel sliced, with a slab of cream cheese on each half. While he was setting the food on the table and topping off Coop’s coffee, Deni was digging in her black briefcase. She got a dab of cream cheese on the edge of her hand, noticed it, and licked it off. Like a cat, Coop thought.
“Here’s part of what I have,” she said, when the waiter had faded away and was again slouched with his fellow anarchist at the back of the diner. “Through my sources on the NYPD, I obtained this crime scene photo.” On the table she laid a photograph of the dusty partial footprint on the tiles inside the door of Coop’s cottage. “Notice the distinctive crisscross design on the sole.”
“I have,” he told her. “How is it you have sources in the NYPD?”
“I’ve done plenty of research there for my mystery novels, made plenty of good contacts.”
Coop noticed she hadn’t said friends. Well, he knew the difference himself.
“Here’s what else I have,” she said. Next to the first photo she laid another.
At first Coop thought it was just another shot of the
“Fine. I live a ten-minute walk from there.”
“I know, Mr. Cooper. Coffee and bagels are on me.”
Coop got to the Sapphire Coffee Shop first. It was a narrow diner with a long counter, booths opposite by the windows that looked out on Amsterdam. Swinging doors led to the kitchen in back. Two bored waiters slouched whispering to each other like conspirators near a pass-through serving counter where the orders were posted and filled.
Right now there were no orders on the steel-spiked carousel. Coop already had his black coffee in front of him, and the breakfast crowd was long gone. The only other customer was a man in a tweed overcoat, perched on a counter stool and forking in an omelet while reading a Village Voice.
Among the people walking past the window by his booth, Coop thought he recognized Deni Green from her dust jacket photo.
Sure enough, the woman in the black coat, wearing the squarish black hat, black slacks, and black boots, carrying the thin black leather briefcase, entered the coffee shop.
She saw Coop right away, strode over, and whipped off her hat and grinned. “Deni Green,” she said.
Coop stood up and they shook hands.
“So, Ezekiel Cooper. Anybody ever tell you you look like Gary Cooper the actor?”
“Now and then.”
“What do they call you? Ez? Zeke?”
“Everyone calls me Coop,” he said, “like the actor.” He studied her. Stocky build beneath the oversize coat, features as strong and empirical as in her photograph. One of those women who would have been attractive thirty pounds lighter, but who had been thirty pounds overweight all her adult life. Her flesh-padded dark eyes were bright and voracious and projected an eagerness bordering on obsession. “Why were you looking for me in Haverton, Ms. Green?”
“Call me Deni, Coop.”
He smiled. “Same question, Deni.”
“Let me fill you in before I answer.” One of the slouching waiters unslouched and sauntered over to take her order. “Coffee and a bagel with schmear,” she said. “Want anything else, Coop?”
“Just a topper on the coffee.”
The conspiratorial-looking waiter nodded and went away.
“I’m a mystery writer,” Deni said, “and a pretty well known one at that.”
“The Cozy Cat series,” Coop said.
She grinned fiercely, pleased. “You a fan?”
“Sort of.”
“Then you know the Cozy Cat books are fiction. Now I’ve decided to branch out into nonfiction, try my hand at a true crime book.”
Coop didn’t like the way this was going. Already burdened by his grief and what he might find out about his daughter, the last thing he wanted was some pesky writer telling her secrets to the world. “Are you saying the crime you’re going to write about is my daughter’s murder?”
“Not exactly. It’s something more. Something much larger.”
The waiter brought her coffee and a toasted bagel sliced, with a slab of cream cheese on each half. While he was setting the food on the table and topping off Coop’s coffee, Deni was digging in her black briefcase. She got a dab of cream cheese on the edge of her hand, noticed it, and licked it off. Like a cat, Coop thought.
“Here’s part of what I have,” she said, when the waiter had faded away and was again slouched with his fellow anarchist at the back of the diner. “Through my sources on the NYPD, I obtained this crime scene photo.” On the table she laid a photograph of the dusty partial footprint on the tiles inside the door of Coop’s cottage. “Notice the distinctive crisscross design on the sole.”
“I have,” he told her. “How is it you have sources in the NYPD?”
“I’ve done plenty of research there for my mystery novels, made plenty of good contacts.”
Coop noticed she hadn’t said friends. Well, he knew the difference himself.
“Here’s what else I have,” she said. Next to the first photo she laid another.
At first Coop thought it was just another shot of the
Similar Books
