It's raining. I'm wearing heels and I'm in a hurry. I'm always in a hurry.
I rush down the block, past the bodega, the Asian grocer and the pet store at which window I pause every morning to make funny faces at the puppies. But not today, not in this weather.
The subway stop is within sight. I could be on the R train in minutes. Find a seat, open a book. Tempting but I crave coffee. A vanilla flavoured macchiato with an extra shot of espresso. No, make that a double shot. My sluggish brain needs all the help it can get.
Last night is a bit of a blur. It started with a birthday dinner for a friend, followed by bar hopping and dancing till dawn. I'm feeling a little worse for wear but I don't regret staying out late on a weeknight. What's the point of partying if you are going to hold back? Only, I must clear my head before I make it to the precinct. Staring at fingerprints all day requires razor-sharp focus.
Coffee first, everything else later. Having made up my mind, I cross the street and slog through the puddles to my favorite coffee shop.
The Lost Bean is my sanctuary. It is the ideal place to escape from the storm; the perfect spot to hide from the world with a cup of coffee and a good book, go on a first date and hang out with friends on lazy Sunday afternoons.
If you love coffee as much as I do, you'll know what I mean.
As I'm about to enter, a man in a black trench coat cuts in front of me. He elbows the door open and I thank him, assuming he is holding it open for me but he is simply closing his umbrella. I steal a glance at his face as I squeeze past. He has very blue, deeply set eyes and a hooked nose; reddish eyebrows and a shaved head. He looks familiar but I can't quite place him.
The door jingles shut behind us and the heavenly smell of freshly roasted coffee beans envelopes me like a protective power field. I close my eyes and breathe in. I feel safe, warm, loved.
"Excuse me?"
Startled, I open my eyes.
I know the black man standing in front of me. He has closely cropped hair, a booming voice, and a big heart. Detective Kessler. We work at the same precinct. Last month I helped him solve a brazen murder by matching a partial print lifted off a toilet seat with one in our database.
"Oh, hi!" I smile coquettishly. He's hot. "So, I'm not the only one running late this morning."
Detective Kessler doesn't return my smile nor my greeting. His face is drawn, his jaws clenched. I might be a bit woozy but I can tell something is wrong.
Kessler is a sharp dresser but his suit is crumpled and his shirt - wrinkled. He has been up for a while.
I look around me. That's when I notice the chalky outline of a body on the floor. Oh my God, he's not here to grab a coffee. This is a crime scene!
He motions towards a table.
"Care to join me?"
"Of course," I mumble, embarrassed to have been flirty earlier.
To my shock, the bald man who arrived with me, pulls a chair and scoots down by my side. He slumps forward showing me his thick neck where the razor has missed a few hairs. His audacity infuriates me.
There are other seats free, I'm about to say but Detective Kessler doesn't seem to mind. I don't want him to think me rude, so I bite my tongue.
The detective leafs open his small notebook and takes a deep breath.
"The owner arrived around 6 a.m. to open the coffee shop. The back door had been forced. He thought that there'd been a break-in but nothing prepared him for what was waiting inside." Kessler nods at the outline on the floor. "A young woman, strangled to death. He recognized her. Apparently, she was a regular."
