French Pressed

by Cleo Coyle

  I was willing to do almost anything now to keep Joy’s case from going cold. But I wasn’t a hardened professional with over a decade of investigative experience under my belt, so even with Mike’s pep talk, I was feeling pretty discouraged.

  “If you learn anything new, leave a message on my answering machine,” Mike said. “I’ll be on duty all night and into the early morning, but we can follow up any lead you come up with after my tour’s over. We’ll do it together, Clare. Together. Okay?”

  “I’m grateful to you. I am. But you can’t work double duty forever, Lieutenant. You have to sleep some—”

  Mike swept me up in his arms, covered my mouth with his. For a few seconds, my feet were off the ground.

  “Good night, Clare,” he whispered.

  Then he released me, and I was sinking again, back down to earth. My gaze followed him as he returned to his car, slid behind the wheel. I continued to watch as he restarted the engine, checked the rearview to pull out. When he noticed me watching, he shot me a smile. I nodded from the sidewalk, unable to move until he drove away. Then I turned and pushed through the Village Blend’s beveled glass door.

  The coffeehouse was busy on this Saturday night. A fire was burning in the hearth, one of Gardner Evans’s jazz CDs was playing over the sound system, and the aroma of our freshly brewed French roast was stimulating the air.

  Esther Best looked up from a table she’d just cleaned.

  “Welcome back, boss,” she said, drying her hands on her blue apron. “How’s it going?”

  “Okay, Esther. How are you? Your big date’s tonight, isn’t it?”

  “You know it! Tucker and Dante are in at seven, and then I’m gone!”

  Esther regarded me through her black-framed glasses. I guess I must have been wearing my emotions on my face, because she frowned. “You okay, boss? I mean, I heard about Joy from Matt. I’m really sorry about that. You must be wrecked. You want to talk?”

  I needed to unload, so I told Esther everything, starting with Tommy’s murder, the details of Joy’s arrest. I even told her about my futile search today for Brigitte Rouille, and the state in which we found the sous-chef and her lover.

  By the end of my story, Esther’s mouth was gaping. “Listen, boss, why don’t you sit down, and I’ll bring you a nice fresh espresso. After all you’ve been through, I think you need to relax. Decompress, you know…”

  “But I was going to help out—”

  “No need. Gardner’s got the bar covered. And I’ve bussed the empty tables, emptied the trash, and restocked the coffee bar. Any espressos that need to be pulled between now and seven, Gardner can handle. Take a load off. Go sit by the fire.”

  Esther grabbed my long gray overcoat. “Let me hang this up, too.”

  “Okay. Thanks. I appreciate this,” I said, and couldn’t resist adding, “though it proves you must be in love; either that, or the Esther Best I knew has been replaced by a really sensitive and caring pod person.”

  “Don’t tell anyone,” Esther whispered. “Especially not Tucker. I’ve worked for years to cultivate the image.”

  “What image?”

  “Snark bitch extraordinaire, of course!”

  Esther took off for the coffee bar; I crossed our wood-plank floor and dropped into an overstuffed armchair near the hearth. I stared at the flames for a few minutes, then Esther brought over my espresso.

  I sipped it slowly, letting my mind have time to absorb the caffeine slowly, calmly, reasonably. In the end, I knew Esther was right. I needed to decompress.

  When I heard my cell go off, I fished inside my handbag for it and was surprised at how stuffed the thing was. Then I realized it was still packed with the papers I’d snatched from the kitchen in Brigitte Rouille’s Washington Heights apartment.

  The phone was Matt again. He was at his mother’s apartment, updating her on Joy’s arrest and the lawyers’ opinions. The latest legal word was that the district attorney’s office would probably be throwing the book at Joy—second-degree murder, two counts—in hopes of getting her to plead down to manslaughter.

  “But she didn’t kill Tommy or Vinny. Why should she admit it to get a reduced sentence for something she shouldn’t have been charged with in the first place?!”

  My voice had gotten a little loud. A few customers glanced curiously in my direction. I slumped down in my chair.

  “Clare, I’m not suggesting our daughter cop a plea. I’m just telling you the lawyers are discussing this as an option.”

  “I know, Matt. You’re right. I’m sorry I bit your head off.” I massaged the bridge of my nose.

  “It’s okay, Clare. I know you’re stressed, worrying about her. I am, too. How did you make out today? Did you get any closer to finding Keitel’s killer?”

  “I hit a dead end…” I could hear the exhaustion in my voice, the disappointment, the dread. “But I’m not giving up. I’m not…”

  Matt must have heard the shakiness of my own conviction because his voice suddenly sounded stronger. “Of course you’re not giving up. You never gave up on me, did you? You saw me through my rehab. And you were always there for Joy, year in and year out; day in and day out; through the hard times and dull times—unlike yours truly…Clare, all I’m trying to say is…I know you; I know the stuff you’re made of; and I know you won’t give up…”

  As Matt’s voice trailed off on the digital line, I sat speechless for almost a full minute.

  “Thank you, Matt,” I finally replied. “I mean it.”

  “I’ll see you later, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  As soon as I hung up, I moved myself, my espresso, and my bag stuffed with Brigitte’s papers to an empty café table. With renewed determination, I pulled out the thick wad of wrinkled and dog-eared pages and spread them across the coral-colored marble surface.

  Most of the papers were months and even years old—things that should have been tossed—shopping lists, directions, reminders to do this or that chore.

  There were recipes here, too, some clipped from magazines, but most handwritten in a flowing, delicate hand. Some were simple fare: a peasant omelet, baby peas à le française, a sole normande.

  Others were detailed instructions for preparing more complex dishes and even entire courses. I found a three-page recipe for pâté en croute featuring woodcock, foie gras, and truffles. A lengthy description of how to prepare ballottine d’agneau, stuffed and braised shoulder of lamb. Even instructions for a roasted pig stuffed with boudin noir and boudin blanc, black blood and white veal sausages.

  I discovered several newspaper and magazine clippings in the mix—not about Solange, or even food. The articles were all about the New York art scene.

  One recent clipping was a page from Time Out, advertising a Chelsea gallery exhibit of three new artists, one of them Tobin De Longe. Another clipping from a local paper featured a scathing review of the same show, singling out Brigitte Rouille’s boyfriend for special scorn. Other clippings mentioned De Longe’s artwork. The notices were either neutral or negative.

  Finally I found a couple of pages covered with names, phone numbers, and addresses, written at different times with whatever ballpoint, felt-tip, or pencil was within reach at the time. As I scanned the pages, one name jumped out at me. It was written in bold felt-tip and underlined twice:

  Nick

  “Nick?” I whispered. The address under the name was on Brighton Beach Avenue. I closed my eyes, remembering the shady-looking guy to whom Tommy Keitel had introduced me on the night that Vinny was murdered. Nick from Brighton Beach, Tommy had called him. This had to be the same man!

  “I wonder if Mike’s ever been to Brighton Beach…” I murmured.

  “Brighton Beach?” Esther said, overhearing me as she set down a fresh espresso. “Did you just say something about Brighton Beach?”

  “Yes…there’s someone there I definitely need to find.” I showed Esther the note with the address. “Part of my investigation for Joy.”
>
  “That’s a coincidence,” Esther said with a tilt of her head.

  “What is?”

  “Boris is taking me to Brighton Beach tonight.”

  Did I miss something? “Boris?”

  Esther nodded. “Boris is taking me to Sasha’s for chicken Kiev and blinis with caviar.”

  “Back up, Esther. I thought you were dating some rapper character named Gun. Who’s this Boris?”

  Esther rolled her expressive brown eyes. “Same guy. BB Gun is his handle, but his real name is Boris Bokunin.”

  “Your boyfriend is a Russian rapper?!” I asked excitedly.

  “A Russian émigré slam poet and urban rapper,” Esther corrected, raising an eyebrow above her black glasses. “They pretty much broke the mold after they made my Boris.”

  My brain was racing now (and I hadn’t even needed the second espresso). I remembered what Mike said about investigating new clues together, emphasis on together. But the man wasn’t going to be available until tomorrow morning, and I doubted very much he spoke fluent Russian, anyway.

  If Boris was a recent émigré, he probably could. At the very least, he knew his way around the population of eastern bloc expatriates in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn.

  There was no time to waste, and now there was no reason to waste it. “Esther.” I took hold of her arm. “Would you and Boris mind if I tagged along on your date tonight?”

  Esther gagged. “Boss, puh-lease. I don’t need a chaperone. I told you before, Boris is a good guy, a real gentleman, actually—” She stopped abruptly and covered her mouth. “I can’t believe I just said that.”

  “Esther, listen. It’s not that I think you need a chaperone. It’s that I might.”

  “What?” Esther scratched her head. “Okay, now I’m existentially confused.”

  After I laid it all out, she told me she would be happy to help.

  “Thanks, Esther. I mean it. And listen, I hope I don’t ruin your big date.”

  She shook her head. “I’ll smooth things over with Boris. We’ll just hit Sasha’s a little later, after we find your mysterious Nick guy.” She laughed. “Boris is the kind of dude who’s up for anything. He’s a real man of the world.”

  I excused myself to go upstairs, splash some water on my face, and check the apartment’s machine for messages. When I returned to the Blend thirty minutes later, Tucker and Dante had already arrived to relieve Gardner and Esther. And Esther was waiting for me at a table with her date. He stood when I approached.

  “Clare Cosi, this is Boris Bokunin,” Esther said.

  I recognized him as the same wiry, tightly wound dude I remembered from the other night. He was wearing the same spiky blond hair, too, and the same black leather blazer. But his baggy blue jeans and basketball shoes were now replaced with pressed black slacks and black boots. The T-shirt was gone, too. Tonight’s shirt, peeking out from behind the black leather, was a bright red silk number. He stood and removed his sunglasses. He had close-set gray eyes filled with curiosity, a wide nose, and a genuine smile.

  I offered my hand, but instead of a simple shake, Boris slapped it, squeezed it, waved his hand around, and slid his fingers along mine, then gave a high five. Finally he tucked his hands into his belt and struck a gangsta pose.

  “Clare Cosi, Clare Cosi, a fresh urban posy, a fragrant flower with the power to make the Village rosy,” he rapped. “How you do, how you do, so nice to meet you!”

  “Uh, hi,” I replied. “I guess Esther talked to you about my dilemma? I’m so sorry to ruin your date—”

  He raised a hand to silence me. “To someone so phat, so perky and tender, I’m proud and glad to have a service to render, for the Cosi, Cosi, the Village posy.”

  I glanced at Esther. “Does he do that all the time?”

  “You’ll get used to it,” Esther replied with a shrug. Then she grinned. “Now I want you both to make nice while I change clothes in the euphemism.”

  I found it very sweet and European the way Boris waited until I sat down before he sank into his own chair.

  “So, Boris, what do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a baker’s apprentice,” he replied. “It’s a temporary thing, to make the Benjamins. Long term, I’m looking to hit it big in the show biz thing, like Eminem. He da man. He da king. He da boss with da bling.”

  Boris slipped his sunglasses back on.

  “Esther tells me you have lots of talent. But she didn’t say how you got into this whole rapping thing.”

  Boris leaned across the café table. “It started once upon a long ago—” He moved his hand through the air. “Back, back when I was in school. See, Clare Cosi, I’m a practical guy. I want to be more than a baker someday. But to get ahead in this world, respect’s what plays.”

  “Respect? What do you mean? Like good manners?”

  Boris nodded. “Exactly! Here’s my grandfather talking now: It’s important to remember someone’s name. It’s the right and polite thing to do. Don’t forget a man’s name, or he might forget you. To remember is respectful. It will gain you his friendship. Or to put it the Russian way, it’s for blat.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Blat. That means having friends in the right places. Connections.”

  I scratched my head. The sentiments were actually fairly conventional. “I don’t see what that has to do with rapping.”

  “Here it is, Clare Cosi. I am not so good at the memory thing, but I like the rap music, and I remember the lyrics, and I can make them up, too. One day I discovered that if I rap a person’s name, make it like a song, then the memory is locked here.” Boris tapped his temple. “That way I never forget.”

  “There’s a name for that kind of thing,” I said. “Mnemonics? I think that’s the term. I can’t remember.”

  Boris stuck a finger in the air, nodded sagely. “Ah, but you would not have forgotten if you had rapped about it!”

  “Ready to go,” Esther declared.

  I looked up, blinked in surprise. The transformation from barista to hottie date was stunning. Esther wore a little black, clingy dress that hugged her zaftig curves and dipped daringly down to reveal a Renaissance-era quantity of push-up bra cleavage. The hem barely reached midthigh, and she added matching black tights and stacked heels. Her black librarian glasses were gone, replaced with bright red cat glasses. Esther had applied scarlet lipstick to match the frames, and she’d lined her big, brown, long-lashed eyes with a sexy dark liner.

  Boris grinned stupidly and practically stumbled to his feet. “Like a vision of night, her beauty takes flight! Like Jam Master’s bling in the blazing sunlight. My lady, come ride with me on a silver streak of phosphorus bright.”

  “Huh?” Esther said, clearly baffled. “Could you maybe translate that one?”

  “My SUV’s parked right outside.” Boris explained with a shrug. “It’s the silver Subaru.”

  TWENTY

  BB Gun parked his SUV on the street, and the three of us walked along Brighton Beach Avenue. Beneath the subway’s elevated tracks, a gust of wind off the nearby Atlantic whipped at our coats and hair. In a sweet gesture, BB draped his arm around Esther’s shoulders and pulled her close.

  On the drive to Brooklyn, Boris had explained that we were coming to the “fast-beating heart of Little Odessa.” And within a few blocks of his parked Subaru, I understood what he meant. The neighborhood was pulsing with life; the streets were busy; the markets, stalls, and shops glowing and crowded, even on this cold, dark November night. Everyone was speaking Russian, and most of the signs on storefronts and food stands were printed in Cyrillic lettering.

  We soon found the address for Nick on Brigitte’s note, a four-story yellow brick building with art deco trim and a small storefront at street level. Through a crack in the curtained picture window, I spied cloth-covered tables with neat place settings, and even though the sign painted on the glass was Russian, I definitely recognized one word: café.

  “Let’s go in,” I suggested.


  The interior was warm but not luxurious with cheap wood paneling and simply framed pictures of various Russian cities. Beside a muted television a large chalkboard was covered with Cyrillic writing—probably the menu. Swinging half doors blocked the kitchen, and another doorway was veiled by a black curtain. A large samovar occupied a wooden table between the two exits.

  I counted a dozen tables. At the small register near the front door, a plump, florid-faced hostess in her forties greeted us in Russian. Needless to say, Boris did the talking, and we were led to a table in the corner.

  A waitress soon appeared with a tray of water glasses, no ice, filled nearly to the brim. I didn’t care; my mouth was parched, my lips chapped from the persistent winter wind. I took a huge, long drink—and thought I’d just swallowed napalm.

  “This isn’t water!” I gagged, my eyes filling with tears. “It’s vodka!”

  Boris lifted his own glass. “Za Vas!” he cried, draining it. Esther took a tentative taste, then a big swallow.

  “Oh, that’s good,” she said, waving air into her mouth.

  Boris ordered hot borscht for everyone.

  “Beet soup?” Esther’s nose wrinkled beneath her red cat glasses. “I hate beets, and I was promised caviar.”

  Boris pulled her close. “And caviar you shall have, my tsarina, but try a little borscht first.”

  My eyes cleared, and my mind started moving.

  Beets…beets are important. Why?

  I suddenly flashed on the cut-up beets that had been scattered on the prep table around Tommy Keitel’s corpse. And there’d been stock bubbling on the stove, too.

  Tommy was preparing borscht, I realized, probably from a recipe the mysterious Nick had given him!