Latte Trouble Read Online Free PDF Page A

stiffened chest and shook his head. I felt sick to my stomach as I watched both paramedics abandon Ricky as gone, then move to the man who was still breathing. They checked his pulse, blood pressure, and the dilation of his eyes, and they snapped on an oxygen mask.
    Finally the paramedic with the stethoscope looked up—addressing the crowd in general. “What happened here? This isn’t a heart attack, and it’s not a choking incident either.”
    “That man said he was poisoned!” cried a young woman in a metallic gold minidress and matching stiletto ankle boots. She pointed to the gasping victim. “His face turned so pink, he looked like an ad for Juicy Couture!”
    “Juicy Couture?” I whispered to Rena, who was standing behind me.
    She shrugged. “West coast designers. A few seasons ago they made pink the new black.”
    As the two paramedics continued to work on Ricky’s date, I noticed Matteo standing by, watching. Behind his eyes, I saw that something was upsetting him—that is, beyond the level of distress anyone would feel over two strangers possibly dropping dead right in front of you. I simply knew Matt too well not to recognize when he was personally disturbed, but I also knew now was not the time to ask him what was wrong.
    At Matt’s side stood Tucker, face flushed, hands trembling as he stared in disbelief at Ricky’s corpse. The paramedics primed a needle and shoved it into a vein on the other man’s arm, then attached it to a bottle of intravenous fluid of some kind.
    At the front doors, officer Langley stepped aside to admit a third paramedic who entered rolling a stretcher in front of him. He joined the other two and the trio quickly laid Ricky’s still-alive boyfriend on the gurney. Then they pushed through the crowd, out the door, and across the sidewalk. While the boyfriend was loaded into the ambulance, a second ambulance rolled up. Its siren cut out and the brakes squealed as it bounced onto the sidewalk and stopped just outside the Blend’s front entrance.
    After a short conversation with the first group of paramedics, the second pair opened the rear doors of their vehicle and wrestled a gurney to the sidewalk. As the first vehicle pulled away, the two paramedics from the second ambulance hustled inside. The pair, a young Hispanic man and a middle-aged Asian woman, wore patches on their shoulders that indicated they worked for St. Vincent’s, a hospital not far from the Blend (whose sleepless interns also happened to be excellent triple espresso customers). But when this pair tried to move Ricky, Officer Demetrios prevented them from touching the man.
    “This is a possible crime scene,” he said. “The victim isn’t going to be moved until the detectives clear it. I don’t want the area contaminated.”
    The young paramedic exploded. “What?! Who do you think you are, man? The freaking coroner? This guy ain’t officially dead yet, which means we’re taking him to St. Vincent’s.”
    Demetrios stared at the paramedic. “He looks dead to me.”
    The female paramedic sighed. She examined the body. “He looks dead to me, too.”
    The obviously overwrought male paramedic shot daggers at Officer Demetrios but finally stepped away from the body.
    Another commotion erupted at the front door. I rushed over to find a fashionista riot brewing. Members of the crowd were voicing their determination to get to the other Fashion Week parties being thrown by designers tonight—a bellini bash at Cipriani, a sushi soiree at Nobu, and a Proseco party at Otto. The only thing keeping them from their appointed rounds was Officer Langley, who stood like an unmovable Irish seawall against the swelling tide.
    “Everyone stay calm!” I cried, downright relieved to have something constructive to do at last. “I’m sure everything will be fine.”
    “Fine?!” a woman exclaimed. “For all I know I’ve been poisoned, just like that poor man dead on the floor.”
    “Nobody’s been poisoned,”