by Клео Коул
The man remained quiet for a long moment, his dark eyes studying me and then Madame. “I’d like to be helpful,” he said, “but I’m not familiar with every case this agency handles. And, of course, it’s not our policy to discuss any ongoing investigation. Now, tell me a bit about your needs. What sort of case do you have?” His eyes squinted a fraction. “If you really have one...”
“Of course we have one. It’s... it’s a case of...”
“It’s a missing person’s case,” Madame levelly replied.
“I see,” said Mr. Kapoor. “Man, woman, or child?”
“Man,” said Madame.
“Age?” Mr. Kapoor asked.
“About thirty,” Madame replied.
“And where was he last seen?”
Madame glanced out the window a moment. “The French Riviera.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“The beaches of Nice. It’s simply a question of finding the man again, you see?” Madame said. “After he shared himself for a few unforgettable months, he simply disappeared.”
“Oh, yes. I think I see now.” Mr. Kapoor nodded. “It’s a love affair?”
“But of course,” Madame replied.
Mr. Kapoor locked eyes with me. “And exactly how long did this missing man and your daughter have this love affair?”
“My daughter?” Madame repeated. “Non, monsieur. The love affair was mine!”
Mr. Kapoor didn’t appear the sort of man to surprise easily, but his stoic expression cracked just then. His jaw slackened and his throat issued a grunt of incredulity.
“Yours, Madame?”
“Oui!”
He leaned forward. “Do you... have a photo?”
“I do...”
I tensed as Madame searched her bag. I had no idea what she was up to with this tale, but I was grateful she’d come up with something on a dime.
“Here you are,” she said, handing Kapoor a snapshot from her wallet.
He gazed at it, then handed it back. “A very handsome man.”
“Oui,” said Madame with a quick glance at me. “His name is Antonio.”
“And you’d like us to find him for you?” Kapoor asked.
Madame nodded.
Good luck with that, I thought. The late Antonio Allegro might very well have been on the beaches of Nice in his lifetime, but he’d been “missing” for a few decades.
“Well, Madame, I’m happy to inform you that we do have an office on the Riviera, and I’m sure we can accommodate this search. We can coordinate everything from here in the New York office. Would you like us to get started today? I’ll assign a case officer...”
As Mr. Kapoor picked up the phone, I spoke up again. “I think we’ll need to consider it for a few more days, won’t we, Mother?”
Madame nodded. “Oui... you know, it is possible Antonio might still get in touch.”
“Yes, of course,” said Mr. Kapoor setting the phone down again.
“But, you know...” I said. “If Mother does decide to use your agency, she needs to make sure we have the right one recommended to us. Jerry Lassiter is a client here, isn’t he? You can confirm that much at least, can’t you? You are investigating his wife?”
Mr. Kapoor pressed a button on his phone. “Ms. Cassel, if you please,” he said into the intercom. Then he stood and glanced at his slim platinum watch. “I’m afraid I must apologize. I’ve forgotten about an agency meeting.”
“But—”
He extended his hand. “Thank you for your interest in our agency. If you decide to pursue your case, please call Ms. Cassel for an appointment—” He gestured to his office door. The receptionist was standing there, waiting to escort us out.
Less than ten minutes later, we were back on the sidewalk.
Sixteen
On the cab ride back to the Blend, my cell phone rang. It was Matt. Apparently, his morning had gone much differently than mine.
“Clare, I had to call.”
“Matt? What’s wrong?!”
“This is the first time I’ve eaten at Joy’s restaurant and the place is exceptional!”
“That’s nice, but I have to tell you...”
“I’m just finishing my lunch of seared skate with baby root vegetables and sauce grenobloise. Our daughter prepared everything on my plate, and—”
“Matt, I need to...”
“—the skate just melted on my tongue! You know, I haven’t had skate like that since—”
“Listen to me!” I finally shouted. “I have a lot to discuss with you and none of it involves Jacques Pépin’s favorite fish!”
“Clare, why are you freaking?”
I quickly recounted my morning: interrogating Ric about the smuggled cutting; tracking down Ellie at the Botanic Garden; adding the word biopiracy to my vocab; seeing Ellie being spied on as she kissed Ric at the V Hotel; then tailing the man who’d tailed her to a private investigation office.
“Good god, Clare, have you lost your mind?”
“That’s your response? Don’t you understand that Ric is in danger? And Ellie may be, too, for all I know.”
“Or all you don’t know,” Matt said. “You’re not a professional investigator, and you’re not a cop.”
“I know, Matt, but I am—”
“I’ll tell you what you are. You’re a certifiable nose-hound with an addiction to conspiracy theories.”
“Well, if I am, then so’s your mother.”
“Back up. What are you saying about my mother?”
“She’s been with me all morning, and she’s right here in the cab with me now.”
A long pause followed. “Clare,” Matt said tightly, “I know Halloween’s around the corner, but please tell me that you didn’t drag my mother all over this town in some private eye masquerade.”
“I didn’t have to drag her.”
“For the love of...” He cursed. “Are you telling me that you’re taking my elderly mother on some ridiculous Nancy Drew joyride—”
“It’s not ridiculous—”
Madame tapped my shoulder. “What’s he saying, Clare?”
“He’s going on about how we’re ridiculous.”
“Give me that phone,” she snapped.
I handed over the cell. Matt was still ranting on the other end about how we were on a wild goose chase.
“Young man,” Madame barked into the cell, “this is your mother—”
I raised an eyebrow at “young man,” but then realized just how young a son in his forties was to a woman pushing eighty.
“Look here, Matteo, Clare and I were not just chasing feathered foie gras. We’ve uncovered some rather significant information. So stop spouting off, and for once in your life, listen to your wife!”
“Ex-wife,” I corrected as Madame handed the phone back to me.
“Okay, what?” Matt said. I could practically hear him pouting through the audio signal.
“Here’s what. You need to warn your friend Ric what’s happening with this private investigation business. I’ve already called Ellie—twice. But I’m only getting voicemail, and she hasn’t returned my calls. I don’t have Ric’s cell phone number, so I tried calling his room at the V Hotel, but they said Federico Gostwick isn’t registered there, and—”
“He’s not registered there because I booked the room for him under my name, just to be on the safe side.”
“Well, that’s exactly what I’m talking about, Matt! You see the need to protect your friend, right? That’s all I’m doing, and I’m telling you he’s not safe. A private eye was on Ellie’s tail, so now he knows where your friend is staying, which means whoever hired the P.I. also knows where he’s staying. I think that mugging last night was someone— possibly Ellie’s husband—attempting to steal the cutting or harm Ric.”
“Okay, okay. Calm down. I understand what you’re worried about, and I’ll talk to Ric about everything.”
“Promise?”
“Yes, I promise. But you have to promise something, too
.”
“What?”
“I need you to chill. Stop interrogating Ric and following people he knows. This is important, Clare. I don’t want Ric spooked.”
“I’m only doing it to help him—”
“He’s a private man, and he’s not going to appreciate your butting into his business. And we need his business, Clare. We can’t afford for this deal to fail.”
“What do you mean by that? The Blend is doing fine.”
“We’re in trouble, Clare...” He paused. “Okay, I’m in trouble.”
“The cutting? Someone figured out it was smuggled into the country?”
“Forget the cutting. It’s far worse than that.”
I heard him take a breath. “The kiosks are in trouble. Financial trouble. For the last few months, I’ve been transferring funds from the profitable kiosks to the unprofitable ones, to shore them up. Keep them going until I can remedy the situation—and the kiosk expansions are partially leveraged against the Village Blend and its townhouse.”
It took me a minute to catch up with Matt, but I still couldn’t believe what he was saying. “I don’t understand. I saw the kiosks’ early numbers. They looked great.”
“The first wave of startups did well. Interest was initially high. But the new kiosks, mostly the ones in California, are in trouble.”
“Why?”
“A lot of the patrons of the high-end shops in those areas have a problem with caffeine. We tested processed decafs as a possible alternative, but a lot of them weren’t happy with the quality. Ric’s hybrid would be a high-profile splash, the kind of new product that’s sure to reel in those premium customers.”
“No wonder you’ve been so eager to make this thing with Ric work.”
“That’s why Friday night is so important. These decaffeinated beans, my exclusive deal with Ric... they’re the life preserver for almost half of the Blend kiosks. It’s a new revenue stream, as well as a way to promote the kiosks that are about to go under.”
“Oh, god...”
“Clare, I need you onboard now more than ever. I need your support in making this launch a success. Do I have it?”
I touched my fingers to my forehead, where a migraine was about to set up shop. I knew how hard it was for Matt to confess this. He’d been trying to strike out on his own, to make his mark and probably prove to me, to Joy, to his mother that he could make up for lost time.
“Okay,” I said. “You have my support.”
“Then you’ll suspend this... this investigation of yours, at least until after the launch of the Gostwick Decaf on Friday?”
I sighed. “All right. On one condition.”
“What?”
“That nothing bad happens—to Ric or anyone else we know.”
“We’re not in an Alfred Hitchcock movie, Clare. I’m sure everyone is safe and sound.”
“Well, I’m not so sure. And, just so you know, I plan to keep calling Ellie until I reach her. I want her to know what I uncovered today—that she’s being followed by a private investigator or a team of them. And I still want you to talk to Ric. Tell him Ellie’s husband probably knows about their affair. Ric needs to keep his eyes open and watch his back—and so do you for that matter.”
“I will, Clare. I’ll tell him, and I’ll be careful.”
“And one more thing... since you happen to be at Solange, would you mind checking out this hot young chef Joy is working for?”
“Tommy Keitel? What do you mean check him out?” Matt asked. “I’m already eating here, and the food’s outstanding.”
“I’m not interested in his cooking. I want to know what sort of person he’s like. He’s Joy’s new boyfriend, isn’t he?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then just make up some stupid excuse to barge into the kitchen. I told you, Joy has yet to bring the young man around the Blend.”
“But that’s Joy’s business. We’ll meet Keitel when she wants us to. She won’t like my invading her—”
“Just do it, Matt. Please.”
“Sorry. That I can’t promise.”
“But—”
“Tell you what,” Matt said. “Before I leave, I’ll suggest to Joy that she bring Keitel with her to our launch tasting on Friday. Then you can ‘check him out’ yourself. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Now will you please just go back to the Blend. Make yourself a nice doppio espresso. I’m sure once you have a little caffeine in your veins, you’ll see the world in a whole new light.”
I did as Matt suggested. After dropping Madame off at her apartment building and leaving a third voicemail message for Ellie, I went back to my coffeehouse, downed a double espresso, and tried to focus on Friday. There was certainly plenty to do for the Beekman Hotel party, and I began to do it.
Seventeen
Two nights later, the last thing I expected to see was a body plunging from the twenty-sixth floor balcony of a New York City landmark. But that’s exactly how the “fun” ended for me that evening—not to mention the person who’d splashed onto the concrete right in front of my eyes.
Yes, I said “splash.”
Drop a water balloon on the sidewalk from twenty-plus floors, and you’ll get a pretty good approximation of what I’d heard, since I actually didn’t see the impact.
Mike Quinn told me that because people have bones and aren’t just a bag of fluid, they don’t explode so much as compress into something still recognizably human... but I’m getting ahead of myself...
Things started out well enough the night of the Gostwick Estate Reserve Decaf launch party at the Beekman. My baristas for the evening, Tucker, Esther, Gardner, and Dante, had all arrived at the hotel on time. They’d even dressed appropriately.
Matt had suggested long sleeve white shirts, black slacks, black shoes, and our blue Village Blend aprons. Only Dante had violated the dress code by wearing bright red Keds. I let his artistic statement pass without comment. He was a great barista, I was short staffed, and I never believed in stifling creative expression—even if it was just a pair of shoes.
The Beekman Tower Hotel was located on Forty-ninth Street and First Avenue, which was the extreme East Side of Manhattan, close to the river, and next door to the United Nations plaza. Built in 1928, the Beekman was one of the city’s true art deco masterpieces, the fawn brown stone giving it a distinctive facade amid the gray steel of the city’s more modern skyscrapers.
The Upper East Side address was in one of the city’s most exclusive neighborhoods, and because the Beekman was literally steps away from the UN, it hosted more than its share of foreign dignitaries along with upscale leisure travelers.
Two small elevators delivered us to the Top of the Tower, the hotel’s penthouse restaurant. The event space was elegantly appointed with a polished floor of forest green tile and walls of muted sandstone. A dark wood bar was located to the right, a grand piano to the left, but the dominating feature was the panoramic view. Burgundy curtains had been pulled back to reveal Midtown Manhattan’s glimmering lights beyond soaring panes of thick glass. A narrow, open-air balcony, accessed from the side of the room, jutted out just below the tall windows, allowing guests a bracing breath of fresh air.
As soon as we arrived, my baristas began unpacking the fragile French presses and the two hundred Village Blend coffee cups—not the usual paper but porcelain, which we specifically used when catering. I checked in with the kitchen manager, one floor below, then visited the ladies’ room, and when I returned to the Top of the Tower event space, I found my staff embroiled in another caf versus decaf discussion.
“I know why we’re here tonight, but this whole anti-caffeine movement offends me,” Esther grumbled. “Creative artists have thrived on the stuff for centuries.”
“Word,” said Gardner.
“I know an artist who actually paints with coffee,” Dante noted. He folded and unfolded his arms, as if he were itching to roll up his long sleeves and show off his tattoos. “But I’d
say artists and coffee have gone together for a long time. Take Café Central...”
“What’s that?” Tucker asked. “More competition for the Blend?”
Dante laughed. “Café Central was the hangout for painters in turn-of-the-century Austria.”
I smiled, remembering my art history classes. “Klimt hung out there, right?”
“That’s right, Ms. Cosi,” Dante said.
It made sense that Dante admired Gustav Klimt. The artist created works on surfaces beyond traditional canvas. He’d also been a founding member of the Vienna Secession, a group of late nineteenth century artists who were primarily interested in exploring the possibilities of art outside the confines of academic tradition. “To every age its art and to art its freedom” was their motto.
“Lev Bronstein hung out at Café Central, too,” Dante added.
“Lev who?” Tucker asked.
Dante shifted back and forth on his red Keds. “He’s better known as Leon Trotsky.”
“Oh, Trotsky!” Tucker cried, nodding, then began to sing: “Don’t turn around... the Kommissar’s in town... and drinking lattes!”
I burst out laughing.
Esther, Gardner, and Dante just stared. Apparently, they were too young to remember “Der Kommissar.”
“It’s old New Wave,” I tried to explain. “A pop eighties send-up of cold war communism—”
Tucker waved his hand. “Don’t even try, Clare.”
Good god, I thought. Did I actually use the phrase “old” New Wave?
Folding his arms, Tucker leaned his lanky form against the bar. “Well, artists and political revolutionaries aren’t the only caffeine addicts. Did you know when David Lynch is directing a film, he downs bottomless pots of coffee and gallons of double chocolate milkshakes to maintain a constant caffeine buzz?”
“And did you know Honoré de Balzac drank forty cups a day?” Esther noted. After a rather long pause in the conversation, she felt the need to add: “Balzac was a nineteenth-century French writer.”
Tucker rolled his eyes. “You may not remember ‘Der Kommissar,’ Esther, but we know who Balzac is.... Now are you sure you know who David Lynch is? Or do Holly-wood movies offend your literary sensibilities?”
