A Coconut Matcha Latte with Oat Milk

Detective Inspector Yost and Sergeant Detective Cambridge arrived to the scene late due to a traffic jam caused by a derailment of interest in the maroon sedan at the head of the specialty coffee drive-thru line.

Yost deduced from the body language of the (presumably) male, Caucasian, late 30’s, mild gambling addiction, and the (presumably) female, Caucasian, mid 30’s, distant as of late, that she ordered a coconut matcha latte with oat milk and when the drink arrived a tad too hot, because of her tropical fruit sensitivity from her recent trip to Thailand, she sensed that the coconut flesh over-softened in reaction to the barista-in-training’s unskillful temperature gauging during the Oatly’s delicate frothing process and when she silently implied the male should rectify the abuse by sending the drink back and requesting a fresh one in satisfactory condition he stiffened with inner defiance, though, externally, he complied with the wishes of the female and when he timidly inserted that the cashier needn’t worry, he would pay for the botched coconut matcha, the (presumably) female, Caucasian, mid-30’s, turned her neck slowly enough that she let out two exhalations before her appalled gaze met the veiny red corners of his averted eyes, the eyes of a man who knew well the tender pangs of emasculation.

Yost and Cambridge were sandwiched in place for the duration of the exchange.

“Coffee. Black,” Cambridge said before they floored it to the crime scene.

“Welcome, Detective Inspector. Seventeenth bank this year,” said Chief Gallagher, thumbing a deck of cards, the signature left behind by the master heistess at all seventeen banks. “I wonder what she’s saving up for,” he mused.

“Could be an organ transplant for a dying husband,” Yost said. He jotted down notes as he observed the bank lobby.

Outdated camera system. Company lunch, Thai. Machine gun, left on counter.

“Could be an organ ransom situation. The dying husband had his liver confiscated by an organized crime syndicate. And so the wife took to robbing banks to make the payments,” Cambridge said.

“Doesn’t fit the timeline. He’d need a transplant within twenty four hours. These bank jobs spanned a year,” Yost said.

“The bank teller is ready to speak with you, Detective Inspector,” Chief Gallagher said.

“Tell me, Chief. Something’s not quite sitting right,” Yost said.

Chief Gallagher crossed his arms, bracing for an exercise of deduction.

“Why would someone order an addition of oat milk to a matcha latte that already contains coconut water blended with cream and salt, not to mention the strip of coconut flesh garnish?”

“I see,” Chief said. “The flavors are crowded. Three different liquids, a dairy and milk substitute contradiction. Yes… quite the problem you have Yost.”

The Chief slipped into deep thought. He clasped his arms behind his back and stared out the window into the city below.

The bank teller (confirmed), fifty-two, Polynesian, 1650 Elo online chess rating, offered no resistance to the crime imposed upon him.

“I-it was just one lady,” the bank teller said.

The detectives glanced at each other knowingly.

“Surgical mask, bucket hat, horn-rimmed glasses?” Detective Yost asked, skimming through his notes.

The bank teller nodded.

“Anything else you can tell us about her? Think she has kids? Favorite limited television series?” Yost asked.

“Huh, how would I-“

“If you had to guess.”

“Uhh, I guess she strikes me to fancy Chernobyl,” the teller said.

“Excellent fucking observation!”

The teller rubbed the back of his neck bashfully. “I mean, I pay attention sometimes-“

“Not you,” Yost interrupted.

Yost moved to where Cambridge was collecting a sample from the misshapen deck of playing cards. Cambridge held a pyramid shaped salt flake to his eye.

“There’s no mistaking it,” Cambridge said, looking through a monocle. “That’s a Maldon crystal.״

He leaned his head back, crushed the crystal with his fingertips and sprinkled the specialty salt onto his tongue.

“There’s only one place in the city licensed to peddle Maldon salt,” Yost said.

The partners nodded in agreement.

Corner Park Deli, NW 125th Ave., 10:32am

“Best bagels in the district,” Yost said.

He chewed a freshly baked everything with whitefish spread. Cambridge plucked a salt pyramid from his own everything bagel with both butter and scallion cream cheese.

As Yost noted the unusually low customership on a late Sunday morning at one of Foodmeta’s heralded Top 50 Delis and Bagel Shops in a mythical City, 2026, a flagship location, which also boasts a 4.6 rating on Alpha Maps, an indication that bribery wasn’t a factor in the nod by the regional magazine, a (presumably) woman figure sat at an adjacent table, sending shivers of revulsion through Yost’s spinal cord and, subsequently, triggering the primal pet peeve center at the base of the spine for the simple fact that the entirety of the deli seating complex was vacant and the choice was made to violate the sanctity of his personal space and undermine civilized public order by settling at a table within audible range of the natural chewing process, and Yost would’ve arrested her there if the precepts of modern law enforcement skewed toward his niche idealistic philosophy of preemptive action toward neutralizing clear candidates with the likely ability of degrading the moral fabric of the species, but to step out of the structure of the code of behavior dictated by his employer would be to threaten the ongoing contribution to his particularly necessary retirement fund that Cambridge tried repeatedly attempted to deduce the access credentials to, not out of criminal intention, but because Yost had taken to the hobby of attending investment banking workshops on Sunday afternoons for the past seventeen quarters in a-

Cambridge’s near asphyxiation by scallion cream cheese broke Yost’s trail of thought and it wasn’t until Cambridge tapped on the table and nudged his head to the left that Yost noticed the shuffling of a deck of cards and the everything bagel adorned with glorious crystals of pyramid-shaped evidence atop the butter-stained brown bag on the table adjacent to them.

Yost narrowed his eyes and when a 12oz plastic cup of coconut matcha with specks of floating unshaken oat milk made by a barista-in-training lifted to the mouth of the vile behavioral monster beside him the case was solved, and he understood why the (presumably) female, Caucasian, mid 30’s, was distant as of late. Because she had been robbing banks for the past year.