by Cleo Coyle
Then it occurred to me that I really didn’t want Matt at all. I wanted to inform him what had happened to our daughter, sure. Given Breanne’s connections, he would know what high-powered lawyer to call, so I’d leave that to him.
The man I actually wanted and needed was Mike Quinn. A little desperate to hear his voice, even if it was only on a digital recording, I picked up the phone and dialed his apartment’s number.
I knew he was still on duty, so I wasn’t surprised when I got his answering machine. I left a long, rambling, semicoherent message with every detail I could think of about Joy’s arrest, ending with “Please, please, Mike, call me back.”
Then I stretched out on the narrow couch. I tried to sleep, but visions of what my daughter was probably experiencing played through my imagination like a waking nightmare. I recalled my grim trip to Riker’s Island when Tucker had been falsely charged of a crime and arrested. I wondered if they’d put Joy on a bus to that terrible place, shackled beside some crack dealer or small-time felon.
The phone rang beside my ear, and I bolted upright. Daylight streamed through the living room’s French doors, and I realized I’d nodded off. I glanced at my watch: 8:15.
The phone rang again. I snatched the receiver off the hook.
“Yes?”
“Clare? It’s Mike.”
“Thank you. Thank you for calling. I’m sorry I phoned you so late, but I didn’t know who else to turn to—”
“Sweetheart, it’s okay. You did the right thing.” His voice was tender and reassuring, a splash of light in my darkest hour.
“So you got my message?”
“As soon as I heard it, I started making phone calls. All I got were voice mails, so I caught a few hours’ sleep. Ray Tatum at the Nineteenth just returned my call.”
“Yes, I remember Detective Tatum,” I said. “He’s the one I wanted to throttle when he handcuffed my daughter. What did he say?”
There was a long pause. “It’s not good, Clare, but it’s not the end of the world, either.”
I took a breath. “Tell me.”
“The medical examiner on the scene estimated that Tommy Keitel was murdered within an hour of the time his body was discovered. No one really knows when Joy arrived, because the burglar alarm hadn’t been set, and the door wasn’t locked.”
“Is that good or bad?”
Mike sighed. “It’s not great. If the alarm had been set, the time of entry and exit could’ve been determined by checking in with the security monitoring company. As it is, we only have Joy’s word to go on, and frankly, Tatum and Lippert don’t believe her.”
“Lippert,” I bit out unhappily. “I tried to tell that man what I’d discovered. I outlined the other leads they could have investigated for Keitel’s killer, but Lippert was obviously humoring me, buying time so I wouldn’t disturb Tatum’s interrogation of Joy.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Clare. You’ve got a natural talent for investigative work, but you’re not a trained interrogator. I know Ray Tatum well, and I know he’s one of the best in the department. I don’t doubt he sweet-talked Joy into crying on his shoulder, telling him everything.”
“Incriminating herself, you mean?”
Heavy silence followed. Even across the phone line I could sense something bad was coming.
I cleared my throat. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
“Yes,” Mike said. “There’s more, Clare.”
His voice was quiet and steady, as if he was about to tell me that someone had just died. “The handle of the murder weapon was wiped, but there were two fingerprints lifted off the base of the blade itself. They were Joy’s thumbprints. The match is perfect.”
“Mike, listen to me. My daughter did not kill Tommy Keitel.”
“Clare…” There was an exhale and I could just picture the man running his hand through his sandy hair. “She had a motive. She had an opportunity. It could have been a crime of passion—”
“I can’t believe you’re saying this! You’ve met Joy. Does she look capable of stabbing a person to death? I know my daughter, Mike. I saw her right there in the kitchen moments after she discovered the body. She didn’t do it!”
“Okay, Clare. Take it easy. I do believe you. I had to ask.”
I calmed, realizing Mike’s years as a detective weren’t going to vanish just because of a personal relationship. The possibility of Joy’s being guilty was there, so he had to consider it. The man’s pragmatism probably reached the molecular level.
“So now we move on,” Mike said.
“Move on?” I whispered. “What do you mean, move on?” Was he giving up on Joy? On me?
“We move on to other suspects, Clare. Tatum isn’t looking. He and Lippert firmly believe they’ve found their killer. So if you want this crime solved, we’re going to have to solve it ourselves.”
“You’re in this with me?” I said, close to tears.
“Of course.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“Good, because we can use his help. We can also use a theory, if you’ve got one.”
“Brigitte Rouille,” I said without hesitation. “She’s my prime suspect.”
“Okay, Clare. I’m listening.”
“Well, Brigitte was Tommy’s second-in-command. The woman had excellent knife skills, she was very strong physically, and she had a history with Tommy. He went out on a limb to give Brigitte a job when nobody else would. Two and two is four. With Tommy’s womanizing ways, I’m sure he and Brigitte were lovers at one time.”
“You think Brigitte is capable of murder?”
“Yes. Her behavior toward my daughter was off-the-charts hostile. She called her a brat and a whore and threatened Joy with a knife. There were plenty of witnesses to that, me included.”
“Good.”
“I believe Brigitte killed Tommy in a fit of anger. The man had just fired her for using drugs. She could have returned to the restaurant to have it out with him—or maybe even throw herself at him, for that matter. Knowing Tommy’s ego, he could have said any number of things to send her into a violent rage.”
“Why use Joy’s knife to kill him?”
“That was the sweetest revenge of all for Brigitte. It allowed her to frame her romantic rival for the man’s murder while getting herself off the hook. And as for the fingerprints on the knife—well, it was Joy’s property, so her fingerprints on the blade shouldn’t be a revelation, should they? Brigitte could have wiped her own prints off or worn a glove.”
Mike paused for a moment. “It’s not a bad theory. Drugs can drive people to commit crimes they might not have considered sober.”
“That’s not all.”
“Okay. I’m still listening.”
“I think Vincent Buccelli’s death points to Brigitte, too.”
“How?”
“Tommy and Joy were using the boy’s apartment for sexual encounters.”
“Christ, Clare. What was your daughter thinking?”
“Don’t even go there.”
“Well, clearly Keitel went there. To Vinny’s apartment, I mean. And if the head chef was disappearing with the pretty intern often enough, then people probably figured out what was happening, right?”
“Yes, Mike, exactly! If Brigitte still had feelings for Tommy—maybe even hoped to become his mistress again—how would she have felt seeing him carry on an affair right under her nose with an intern half her age? It probably drove her crazy to see the two of them disappearing in the afternoons for sex. I’ll bet Tommy was even insensitive enough to tell Brigitte where she could reach him while he was gone! And…come to think of it, more than one person at the restaurant mentioned that Brigitte had it in for Vinny. She probably started picking on him when she realized he was allowing Tommy and Joy to use his apartment for their trysts!”
“Makes sense so far.”
“Well, here’s the kicker. On the night Brigitte threatened my daughter with a knife, she accused Joy of ‘undermining’ her rep
with Tommy. That was the very same night that Vinny was murdered. I’m betting Brigitte cracked that night. She went out to Queens and killed Vinny, using a knife from Solange. I think she did it with the intention of framing Joy, who had a key to Vinny’s place. Or even Tommy, since she knew he went there to sleep with Joy.”
“I follow. An investigation would have eventually turned up their names. Both had access to Vinny’s apartment, and both worked at Solange, so they had access to the murder weapon.”
“I’m not saying it makes complete sense. But the woman wasn’t making a lot of sense the night I saw her ranting. If we can find her, we might get her to confess to at least one of the murders.”
“And Joy’s a suspect in Vincent Buccelli’s murder, too. Is that right?”
“She was interrogated but never charged.”
“Who’s the detective on that case?”
“Lieutenant Salinas.”
“Hold on…” I heard some shuffling of paper. “Salinas is in Queens, right? Do you remember the precinct number?”
I told him.
“Okay, Clare. You’ve got solid theories—for both murders. I’m going to give Salinas a call…”
Mike hung up, and I rose from the couch. As I stretched my achy body, I felt painful needles shoot through my arms. That’s when I noticed the nasty purple bruises where Lippert’s men had restrained me.
On a furious exhale, I headed for the kitchen and slammed together a stove-top pot of espresso. I needed the dark kick—even though I was already disturbed enough to kick furniture.
I ground the Italian roast fine, dumped the black sand into the filter, filled the lower chamber with water, screwed together the two separate parts, and banged the Moka Pot onto the gas burner.
Within minutes, liquid began to boil inside the little silver pot. At just the right moment, the water shot from the lower chamber to the upper, forcing itself through the cake of packed grounds. That’s when the stove-top espresso was born, suffusing the room with the intense aromatics of the darkly caramelized coffee beans.
I closed my eyes, and in the briefest flash of sense memory, the rich, earthy smell returned me to my childhood. I was back in my grandmother’s grocery again, watching Nana stir her pots of minestrone, mix up her homemade pastas, bake her Italian breads and cookies.
A sturdy, practical immigrant, Nana had lived a hard life, losing sisters in the Great Depression, a husband and brothers in World War II. She had what they called “the insight” and was able to read coffee grounds for the women of the neighborhood, advise them, even perform the occasional ritual to banish those cursed with the malocchio—what the old Italians called the “evil eye.”
Because my own mother had abandoned me—and my father was too busy running numbers, not to mention running around with a succession of flashy women—my grandmother was the one who made sure I was raised right.
Nana was my mother, my friend, my teacher, my shoulder to cry on, my fearless defender. Until her death, just a few months before I’d met Matt, she was the one person whom I could count on to make a bad day good again.
And now it’s your turn, Clare.
Since Joy’s arrest, my emotions had been all over the map. But dread and helplessness were no good to me now. It was time to distill my fears down, concentrate them into the essence of something useful.
I poured myself an ink-black shot and bolted it back. I poured a second and drank it down, too. The phone rang before I could pour a third.
I snatched up the kitchen extension. “Hello!” I blurted, a little too loudly. (The caffeine was starting to hit.)
“I spoke with Lieutenant Salinas,” Mike began without preamble. “Got his home number from the desk sergeant, since he wasn’t on duty. Got him out of bed, actually. But he wouldn’t tell me much—”
“What do you mean, he wouldn’t tell you much?” I paced the small kitchen, all set to fight somebody, anybody. “He’s a cop. You’re a cop. You’re both cops, for heaven’s sake—”
“Sweetheart, calm down—”
“Don’t tell me to calm down! This is my daughter’s life we’re talking about—”
“Clare! Listen to me! Salinas is not Ray Tatum, whom I’ve known for years. Salinas is a cop in a different borough, and as soon as he realized I knew one of his prime suspects, he clammed up. He had a right to. But at least I got him to admit he sent a man to Brigitte Rouille’s apartment. Unlike Tatum and Lippert, Salinas followed your lead. His detective found out that Ms. Rouille skipped out on her rent several weeks ago with no forwarding address.”
“Then she’s still at large!”
“But the trail is cold. Salinas started the initial paperwork on finding her, requested a warrant for her banks records, her ATM and credit card charges. But we’re not officially on the case, so we’re going to do it another way.”
“Another way?”
“Yes, Clare. We’ll find her another way. I promise.”
“I’m sorry, Mike.” I massaged the bridge of my nose. “I didn’t mean to yell just now. I—”
He cut me off with a terse, “Forget it.”
After a long pause, I asked, “Where do we go from here?”
“We start wherever the trail ended. I have the last known address for Brigitte Rouille. It’s in Washington Heights.”
“Salinas is still suspicious of Brigitte, right?”
“Not anymore. She was a person of interest in the death of Vincent Buccelli, but last night he learned about Joy’s arrest and the details of Keitel’s murder. Salinas is now looking to charge your daughter with a second murder.”
I closed my eyes, hating the sound of the inevitable. “Both men were killed in the same manner,” I rasped, “chef’s knives plunged vertically into the base of the throat. Both men had relationships with Joy—one a lover, one a friend. Joy found both bodies. Oh, Mike…”
The room started a slow spin. I sank into a chair at the kitchen table, dropped my forehead into my hand.
“Clare, listen to me. We’re going to find Brigitte Rouille. We’re going to do it together. Give me a few hours, and I’ll pick you up at your coffeehouse. Okay?”
Mike’s confident, assertive voice sounded far away, like it was coming from another solar system. The room was still spinning; I had trouble thinking, forming words.
“Clare! Okay?”
The detective’s deep shout jolted me awake again. My mind began to clear; my focus returned. I lifted my head.
“Okay,” I said.
We bade each other good-bye, and I hung up. Then I rose from the chair and bolted my third cuppa nerves. If there was a solution to this horrific mess, I had to find it for my daughter’s sake. With Mike Quinn on my side, I might have a chance.
Putting down the empty demitasse, I turned to leave the kitchen. I had to shower and dress fast, get down to the Blend, and make sure there was coverage for the day. I checked the master bedroom. It was still dark and empty. The four-poster’s pillows and comforter appeared undisturbed.
I knew from long experience that Matt could be anywhere at the moment: eating breakfast with the Waipunas after their long night of partying or waking up in a new bed with a hot young thing he’d hooked up with at a dance club. Either way, I had to watch for the arrival of my ex-husband.
Joy’s father would have to hire the criminal defense attorney today, because Joy’s mother was going into the field. Despite the expressed feelings of my daughter, I was about to put my complete trust in the police—or rather, one very special police detective.
SEVENTEEN
MIKE picked me up at noon in a battered beige Dodge sedan that he sometimes used for undercover work. We drove north to Washington Heights, on the hunt for an address near Wadsworth Avenue—the last known residence of Brigitte Rouille.
Washington Heights was a large Manhattan neighborhood located above Harlem. Gentrification had infiltrated the area, but the wealth was concentrated mostly around Yeshiva University (an area recently dubbed “H
udson Heights” by a canny local real estate firm eager to attract a more upscale clientele). Gentrification had not yet spread to the shabby street off Wadsworth that Brigitte Rouille had been calling home until only a few weeks ago.
The language on the streets was Spanish, with a Latino population dominated primarily by Dominicans. The sidewalks were cracked and pitted on Wadsworth, and potholes dotted its side streets. I observed more than one homeless person lurching along, shouting at phantoms, and strange, illegible graffiti was spray-painted everywhere: billboards, buildings, passing delivery trucks.
Now I knew very well that graffiti had been around for a few millennia. The ancient Greeks had it. So did the Romans. But the stuff we were passing now wasn’t attached to 2,000-year-old historical relics. This wasn’t even the artsy kind of graffiti I’d seen during the eighties all over Soho and the Lower East Side: the kind of street art that had launched major careers, like the powerful primitive images of Jean-Michel Basquiat or the lighthearted pop figures of Keith Haring.
These slashing, sloppy, angular marks were gang tags, something I knew in passing but Mike knew in practice. “Violent drug dealers use the symbols to claim territory and send messages,” he informed me.
“Messages?”
“To warn away rival gangs.”
“And a Hallmark card would have been so much more thoughtful.”
Mike shot me an amused glance, but he didn’t laugh. As we walked along the run-down avenue, I sensed a tension in him. There was a slight wariness, too, in his gaze, as he continually scanned our surroundings. But what most radiated from Mike was a tremendous coiled energy. I couldn’t help flashing on a sketch I’d seen in Leonardo da Vinci’s notebook: a medieval catapult, pulled all the way back, ready to unleash hell at a moment’s notice.
But, as it turned out, there was no reason to unleash it. No one bothered or threatened us in the least. And within minutes, we’d easily entered the shabby interior of Brigitte’s former address, which was not marred in any way by graffiti. The six-story dirty brick apartment building was merely filled with bad smells and a clashing color scheme.
