by Cleo Coyle
“Really? You’re going to end the affair?”
“Really.”
I closed my eyes with extreme relief. “Thank you, Lord.”
“You’re welcome, but I already told you to call me Tommy.”
I opened my eyes. The man was smirking again. “You know, Keitel, you may have the biggest ego of any man I’ve ever met—including my ex-husband. And believe me, that’s not an easy feat.”
Tommy laughed. “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”
“Well, it wasn’t meant that way.”
“How do you think I got here, Clare? By being consumed with self-doubt?”
I frowned. How could I argue with that?
“Stop fretting, okay?” he said. “I’m telling Joy today. I actually can’t stand it anymore. She just won’t stop hitting on me. It’s embarrassing.”
Despite my relief at hearing the end was near, I couldn’t help feeling offended by Keitel’s words. “Listen, mister, you’re talking about my daughter, and—”
“You’re taking offense. Don’t. She’s a lovely girl. But she’s just that: a girl. I’m not interested in romancing her. I’m way beyond that crap. Frankly, I forgot how needy young women at Joy’s age are. She wants continual reassurance. She wants constant attention. She wants things I can’t begin to give her…so I’m sending her to Anatomy.”
“What?” My head was spinning with the multiple bull’s-eyes the man was hitting. This guy was way more evolved than I gave him credit for. “Say that again? Where are you sending her?”
“To Anatomy,” he repeated. “You haven’t heard of Robbie Gray’s three-star downtown?”
“Yes…of course I’ve heard of the restaurant. It’s just that…Joy’s been so happy working here at Solange. Are you telling me that you’re firing her?”
“I’m relocating her, that’s all. Robbie’s a good guy and a brilliant chef—not as brilliant as me, you understand.” He gave me a little wink, presumably to take the edge off his unbridled arrogance. “He’ll take over her internship year. I talked to her school an hour ago, told her Vinny’s death was too much of a shock since they were friends. And it’s better for her to relocate. They agreed. I’m going to give her top grades for her work so far. There won’t be any problems.”
I knew this would be very hard for Joy to take. She wouldn’t get the breaks at Anatomy that she’d gotten under Keitel, but then it wouldn’t be the first time in history that the end of an affair on the job would end the job, as well. It wasn’t the worst thing in the world for Joy to learn that early in her working life.
“So.” Tommy smiled. “Are you going to slap me now?”
“No.”
“Too bad. It might have been a turn-on—for you.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re sick, you know that?”
“I’m just an uninhibited package of self-actualized testosterone. You can’t condemn me for that.”
“Yes, I can. And, the truth is, I’m relieved that Joy’s leaving your restaurant. For a lot of reasons. You do know that Vincent Buccelli was killed with a knife from your kitchen?”
“What?” Tommy’s confident mask suddenly fell. He looked genuinely horrified. “I didn’t know that. The police never mentioned it.”
“They will. My guess is today’s interviews were only the first round. And since we’re being truthful here, I’ll be truthful, too. I only came here today because of Joy. I wanted to get in here to keep an eye on her—more precisely, the people around her. The way Vinny was killed suggests someone with knife skills did the deed. The knife’s handle and blade shape resemble the ones you’ve got here at the restaurant, and I believe someone here at the restaurant killed that boy.”
Tommy’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”
“I don’t know. But I’d like to find out. Did you know Vinny was gay?”
“No.”
“Did he have any kind of special friendship or relationship with anyone at your restaurant?”
“The police asked me that, and, frankly, I don’t know…If he was, it wasn’t obvious. He certainly kept it under wraps.”
“And did you say anything to the police about you and Joy using Vinny’s apartment for sex?”
“Merde.” Tommy closed his eyes, took a breath. “How do you know about that? Did Joy tell you?”
I nodded. “But she didn’t tell the police.”
“I didn’t, either.” He ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “I didn’t think it was smart to give them a reason to look harder at her—or me, frankly.”
“Should they have?”
“You think I killed that boy?” Tommy met my eyes and held them. “I’m an ambitious prick, Clare. And I can be cutthroat in my business decisions. But I’m not a murderer…with maybe one exception.” His fists clenched. “When I think of an innocent kid like Vincent Buccelli being stabbed to death, it makes me want to kill whoever did it.”
Either Tommy was very good at faking honesty, or he was actually being honest with me. In this close proximity, I leaned toward the latter.
“If you didn’t hurt Vinny, then who did?”
“I told you, Clare, I don’t know. He was a quiet kid. He didn’t have any close friends here, apart from Joy, or enemies—apart from Brigitte picking on him constantly, which is only one of the reasons I let her go.”
“There are other reasons?”
“Brigitte’s back on uppers again. I don’t know which kind, but she knew the conditions of my hiring her. No drugs. She’s using again, so she’s fired.”
I nodded, knowing Brigitte may or may not have been responsible for Vinny. Either way, I had to consider other possibilities—and fast. Tommy’s patience could run out on me any second in his chilly cave. And I was close to freezing. But now was my best shot at getting some answers.
“Not to change the subject, Tommy, but is Anton Wright the only owner of Solange?” I had to ask the question, if only to put to rest Mike Quinn’s theory about organized crime being involved with the restaurant.
Tommy’s brow knitted. He was obviously confused by my question. “Yeah, Wright’s the only money man. Why do you care?”
“I was just curious.”
“No, you weren’t.” Tommy’s jutting chin lifted. “I can see it behind those bright green eyes of yours. You have an ulterior motive. What is it? You plan on hitting the man up for backing to open your own restaurant?”
“No. Nothing like that. I was just wondering if maybe he was involved with some shady partners. My father was a small-time bookie back in PA, so I’m not exactly an innocent about the way organized crime works. I know they can infiltrate legitimate businesses pretty easily, operate around them. Vinny’s violent murder with a knife right out of your kitchen could have been a warning of some kind.”
“That’s a hell of a leap. You think Vinny was whacked?”
“It’s a thought.”
“It’s ridiculous.”
“So someone from the mob isn’t threatening you or the owner, pressuring you or Anton Wright for more money, a bigger cut?”
“Listen, Anton’s the son of a Brooklyn butcher. He doesn’t like to admit that, but he grew up just like us. Then he became a stockbroker and made a few million on Wall Street, but it was always his dream to go into the restaurant business. Opening Solange was a big deal for him. It’s the third Manhattan restaurant he’s backed but his only successful one—due to me, of course. There’s nothing more to it than that. Hey, are you shivering?”
“I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not. I should get you out of here if you’re cold.”
“Is there anyplace else we can be alone to talk?”
“Not really, but does that matter?”
“Yes.” I put my hand on his chest, an automatic gesture as he moved to leave. “Just a few more questions—”
“You sure, Clare? Look at you. You’re covered in goose bumps.” The back of his hand moved to test my cheek. “Your flesh is like ice!”
> “It’s okay. Really. I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.” Before I could stop him, he’d stepped close and began to rub his large hands up and down my freezing arms. “How does that feel?”
I smirked up at the man. “Inappropriate.”
Tommy laughed. “You really are a pistol, you know that? Too bad I didn’t meet you before your daughter—”
“Tommy? Are you in there? They said you came down—” The door to the cave cracked open. And so did my world. My daughter stood there with a look of complete devastation on her young face. “Mom?”
Oh, no.
“Mom? And Tommy? I don’t believe it.”
I backed away from my daughter’s lover. “Joy, this isn’t what you think—”
“Yes it is,” she whispered. “I’m not an idiot.”
She bolted. I chased her. But her feet were in running shoes, and mine were in high heels. She was up the steps and out that restaurant’s back door faster than Brigitte Rouille.
I moved as quickly as I could through the shade of the concrete alley. By the time I reached the open sidewalk, the afternoon sun was blinding. I’d spent too much time in Tommy’s dim cellar. It had wrecked my vision.
I shaded my eyes and searched uptown then down, but bodies of pedestrians obstructed my view. I darted and moved one way then another. But it was no use. I had no idea where my daughter had run.
“No! I can’t have lost you!”
Tommy strode up behind me. “Clare, I’m sorry that happened.”
“You and me both!”
We stood together on the sidewalk, squinting against the sun’s glare as we spent another minute peering up and down the street.
“Don’t sweat it, Clare,” Tommy finally said.
“She’s my daughter, you jerk! Of course I’m going to sweat it!”
“Look…” he said, his voice tight but conciliatory, “she left everything behind back there. Her knives are out of her locker and all over her prep table. I’m sure she left things in her locker, too. She’ll be back. And when she comes, I’ll talk to her. I’ll explain that you and I were talking about Vinny and what she saw was completely innocent.”
“Will you even be here when she gets back?” My eyes narrowed. “You’re not taking off again?”
Tommy stiffened. “I’ll be here at Solange all day and all night, likely into the wee hours. Brigitte’s gone, and I’ve got some catching up to do.” Hands on hips, he braced his legs, like a ship’s captain readying for a storm. “Her replacement is very good, and he’s as cocksure of himself as yours truly, but I still have to make sure Henry can handle his promotion. It’s important that he’s able to take care of things when I’m not here.”
That sounded ominous to me. “So you plan on going AWOL again?”
Tommy looked away, glanced at his watch. “I have lots of work to do, Clare.”
“But you will tell Joy about going to Anatomy?”
“Yes, by the time she leaves here tonight, she’ll be only too happy to leave Solange. She’ll be cursing my name, too.”
“What exactly are you planning to do?”
“I’m going to break up with Joy publicly, in front of the entire staff.”
“Does it have to be that brutal?”
“Hating me is the best thing for her,” Tommy said. “And I want the best for your daughter. Don’t you?”
I closed my eyes, steeling myself against the pain and shame in store for Joy.
“Believe me, Clare, in cases like these, the cleanest cut is the best.”
FOURTEEN
“YOU what?!”
“Calm down, Matt.”
“What did I tell you, Clare? Did I not tell you to stay out of the man’s cheese cave?!”
“I know you did. I know. But it was my one chance to speak with Keitel privately…”
I was on my cell phone with Matt, pacing Solange’s back alley. There’d been no more talking with Tommy after we returned to Solange’s kitchen. The second he hit the back door, he went into extreme chef mode, shooting orders to cooks, tasting sauces, checking and rechecking ovens, and taking call after call on his cell phone—from vendors, colleagues, and the occasional VIP.
I hung around for another hour, waiting for Joy to return. I’d tried her cell phone and home phone, and got her voice mail on both. So I waited some more. Then I could tell I was in the way, and I ducked into the alley to make the call that I was dreading—to my ex-husband.
“I never meant for Joy to see us,” I told Matt. “She wasn’t even scheduled to arrive for another hour.”
“Obviously, she got there early to talk with Tommy.”
“Well, now she’s over an hour late.” I checked my watch again. It was almost three thirty. “I’m worried about her. Are you sure you checked your cell’s messages? She hasn’t tried to call you?”
“Believe me, she hasn’t. And if she does, it’ll have to be from a pay phone. Salinas confiscated her cell phone last night, don’t you remember?”
“Of course, right…” With so much happening, I’d forgotten. “Well, if she does call you, let me know, okay? And it’s important that she report back to the restaurant. I just found out that Brigitte Rouille’s been fired so she’s no longer a threat to Joy—”
“Wait, slow down. Brigitte’s been fired? That’s good news, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but I still want our daughter out of this kitchen altogether, and that can’t happen until Tommy fires her.”
“What do you mean fires her? Run that by me again…?”
I brought Matt up to speed on Tommy’s intention to break up with Joy—and not with roses and a farewell poem. It was going to be ugly. Matt swore a few times upon hearing the plan, but he calmed down when I pointed out that the result of all this was getting our girl out of Solange’s kitchen and over her infatuation with Tommy Keitel in record time.
“Tommy’s going to give her high marks for her work under him—” I closed my eyes, choking for a second on my own Freudian phrasing. “Anyway, she can finish her internship at another great New York restaurant. That’s not a bad ending.”
“No,” Matt grudgingly admitted. “It’s not.”
“You just have to help me with Joy. You have to explain to her that you and I agreed to pitch Keitel on a coffee contract with the Blend. She’ll believe you. And hopefully she’ll understand what was going on wasn’t anything more than my helping the man create a pairings menu.”
“If I were you, Clare, given what she saw, I wouldn’t put Keitel and you and pairing in the same sentence.”
Oh, God… I squeezed my eyes shut. “Please, Matt, if she comes back down to the Blend, let me know.”
“I’m not at the Blend.”
“Where are you?”
“The top of the Empire State Building.”
“Excuse me? You’re not jumping, are you? You can’t miss Breanne that much.”
“Koa Waipuna is here with his wife and kids for a shopping and sightseeing excursion,” he said flatly. “I promised to show him and his family around New York today. I mentioned it to you earlier—”
“I guess I was distracted. You can’t get out of it?”
“No, Clare. You know very well the Waipunas’ coffee farm is one of our best sources for Kona on the Big Island. Don’t you remember how well Koa’s parents treated you and me on our honeymoon—”
I gagged. “You mean back in the Paleozoic?”
“I know it’s ancient history, but I can’t bug out on them—”
“Okay, okay. You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just upset. But please phone me if Joy contacts you.”
“Will do.”
“Ms. Cosi?”
A man had called my name. I closed my phone and turned in the alley to see a familiar face. It was René, the waiter who’d served Madame and me the previous evening. He was standing in the back door of Solange’s kitchen.
“Yes, René?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, Ms. Cosi, but
Monsieur Dornier would like you to pack up your French presses. We are preparing for dinner service.”
“Of course! Of course!”
I walked through the busy kitchen and into Solange’s dining room. Waiters in white aprons and black jackets were bustling around the room, shrouding tables with linen, putting down place settings, arranging fresh flowers.
I quickly packed up my presses, beans, grinder, paper cups, and electric hot-water pot into my carrying case. I was just crouching down to zip up the little Pullman when I heard Tommy Keitel coming into the dining room.
“Nappy? What is it? René said you wanted to speak with me?”
“You got another one of those notes, Tommy. I found it in our mail slot.”
Another note? I repeated to myself. I was still crouched down with my Pullman case, but I wanted to see what was happening, so I rose up just enough to peek up over the edge of the cherrywood table.
Napoleon Dornier was handing Chef Keitel a glossy black envelope at least eight by eleven inches large. Tommy examined the outside label a moment, then ripped open the end. He glanced at the single white page inside and swore.
“That son of a bitch! It’s him again. Just burn it, Nappy, like all the others.”
Keitel tossed the envelope to Dornier then strode away and slammed back through the doors to his kitchen.
What the hell was in that envelope? As I watched Dornier walk off with it, I tried to come up with a way to finagle a look at its contents or persuade Dornier to tell me what was going on. But I never got the chance to do either, because my cell phone went off.
Hoping it was Matt, I quickly flipped it open. The digital screen said the Village Blend was calling. Praying that my daughter had gone down there and was now trying to reach me, I answered.
“Hello?!”
“It’s me, boss.”
Damn. “Esther? What’s up?”
“Houston, we’ve got a problem!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Gardner’s not coming in. He’s stuck on the road between D.C. and New York.”
“Is he okay?”
“His friend’s piece of crap car broke down outside of Philly, and I can’t find anyone to take his shift. Tucker’s long gone, and Dante’s due to leave at four. I’m fine flying solo for a little while, but a very thirsty NYU Law study group just came in, half of a Dance 10 class is waiting for their lattes, and pretty soon it’s going to be a zoo here with the after-work crowd.”
