by Клео Коул
Alberta didn’t talk much more after that, just checked her watch and said she had to finish up her work for the night. I followed her down to the first floor, then bid her goodnight as I stepped into the kitchen to pick up my handbag. That’s when I heard my cell phone chiming.
“Hello, Clare. You needed to speak to me?” The voice was female, familiar, and blunt as a kitchen mallet.
Prin Lopez was returning my call.
Eleven
“Prin,” I said, sitting down at the large table, “thank you for calling back.” On the other end of the phone, I could hear clattering sounds, the familiar noises of plates rattling in a busy restaurant kitchen. “I found out what happened to you, just today,” I told her. “Jacques informed me. I’m so sorry”
There was a pause, followed by a cutting laugh. “Does that bastard want me to come back? Too late, I got my old job again, and with a raise, too. Tell that pompous pig I’m staying in the city.”
Okay, I thought, so there’s no love lost between Prin and David. Or was she referring to Jacques?
“Prin, I’m sorry to be nosy but…why were you let go?” I asked carefully. “Jacques either didn’t know or didn’t want to tell me.”
“Screw his so-called propriety. What do I care? I’ll tell you why I was fired. I ‘imposed’ on one of David’s precious guests.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’ve been trying to make it as a singer for a couple of years now. I even recorded a demo, but I haven’t gotten much traction with it. Then, last week, Big D came into Cuppa J.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know who that is.”
Prin sighed. “Big D? Devon Conroy? Among other things, he’s the host and producer of American Star—”
“Oh, right, right. Like that Star Search show from the eighties with Ed McMahon.”
“Ed McWho?” I could practically hear Prin rolling her eyes.
“Forget it,” I said, feeling my age (and for a moment there, I actually felt good that I didn’t have to go all the way back to Ed Sullivan for an example!) “Go on.”
“Well, Big D was having lunch with some television people. I saw him sit down at one of Graydon Faas’s tables. So I pulled Graydon aside, begged him to switch with me, give me the chance to wait on them. You know that prick Faas actually made me pay him a Benjamin to trade tables?”
I was sorry to hear that bit of the story. Obviously, Graydon wouldn’t be the first young man interested in making a buck (or a hundred) where he could. But it didn’t speak very highly of his character to charge a fellow worker for a favor.
“So you waited on Big D’s table?” I prompted.
“Yeah, I did. And along with the check, I slipped Devon my demo CD.”
“Ohhh…” I groaned, finally understanding why David had fired Prin. She’d broken his first commandment of working at Cuppa J.
“Remember that celebrities are here on vacation,” David had lectured the staff at the beginning of the season. “My guests do not want to be harassed, photographed, or hounded. And while they’re under my roof they won’t be. No one is ever to do anything but wait on them. No fraternizing, asking questions, requesting autographs, ever. On grounds of immediate termination.”
“Fine, so I knew it was against the rules,” Prin went on. “But it’s not like rules can’t be bent a little. And Big D was totally down with it. He didn’t complain. David wasn’t even there to see me do it.”
“You mean someone ratted you out?”
“Nobody had to. Jacques caught me in the act and fired me on the spot.”
“What? It was Jacques who fired you?”
“Yeah. Who do you think fired me?”
“Jacques told me it was David.”
Prin laughed. “Mintzer was nowhere in sight. I pissed Jacques off so he got rid of me. And let me tell you, he was looking for a way to get rid of me, so he did.”
I wasn’t so sure Prin was telling the truth. “But David hired you,” I argued. “And he owns the restaurant…”
“I’m sure Jacques got David to see things his way. Based on what I actually did, it wouldn’t have been too hard. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m glad to be back in Manhattan. Madre Dios, I thought people on the Upper West Side had attitude, but they’ve got nada on the ‘I’m all that’ divas out there.”
“Prin, back up. You said Jacques was looking for a reason to fire you.” One particular reason suddenly came to mind. “Did it have something to do with the suppliers?”
Prin laughed again, sharp and cynical. “You’re talking about Jacques’s ten percent deal, aren’t you? I found out about it, and I figured he was up to something shady. I never said a word, but he knew that I knew, which is really why that bastard wanted me out. I don’t know what’s going on, but you better watch your back, Clare.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean Papas is a prick. But I always liked you. You know, before you got ahold of me, I thought a can opener was the standard tool for coffee prep! Anyway, Clare…guess I’m trying to say thanks for everything you taught me and always being so patient and sweet, you know?”
“Oh, Prin, you’re welcome—”
I was about to ask Prin about her relationship with Treat Mazzelli, but I never got the chance. Someone on her end called her name, and Prin told me she had to get back to work. I wished her luck and said goodbye.
I stood in David’s kitchen a moment, gazing at the glowing display panel on my cell phone and thought about the one person I could talk to right now, the one man who would understand my dilemma—and not just because it was his job. Without hesitation, I toggled to the fourth number on my speed-dial list and pressed.
On good days, I liked to think Detective Mike Quinn’s attraction to me was genuine and based as much on my ability to listen as my big green eyes and sense of humor (and take it from me, a weary, grim-faced New York cop is one tough comedic audience). On bad days, however, I chalked up his regular appearances at the Blend as a simple case of his addiction to my barista skills. Upon meeting the man, I’d single-handedly converted him from a drinker of stale, convenience-store swill to an aficionado of rich, nutty, freshly pulled Arabicas. And, for sure, once you’re hooked on that perfect cup, going without can make you homicidal (well, figuratively anyway).
Whatever the reason for Mike’s friendliness toward me, however, I was glad to hear him answer my call on the first ring.
“Clare? Are you back in the city?”
Mike’s voice was as difficult to read as his features. By now, however, I had trained my ear to detect his subtlest change in tone—not unlike picking up the faintest traces of exotic fruit in a hard-to-cultivate coffee. In this case, the almost inaudible rise in Mike’s deadpan pitch told me the NYPD detective was, in fact, delighted to hear from me.
“No, Mike, I’m not back yet,” I replied. “I’m sorry to tell you I’m still stuck on the balmy beaches of the Hamptons.”
“Poor kid.”
“I hope I didn’t wake you.”
He snorted. (I always could make him laugh.) “I’m on duty,” he informed me.
“So what are you doing? Right now.”
“Why? This isn’t one of your phone sex calls is it?”
A male voice in the background laughed.
“I’m serious, Mike. Tell me.”
“I’m sitting in an unmarked car parked on Houston Street, waiting for someone to rob the decoy cop using the ATM machine across the street.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Hardly. Three robberies in two weeks at this same machine, one ended in a stabbing. Now, tell me what’s wrong.”
“Why do you think something’s wrong?”
“Because I haven’t heard from you in two weeks, it’s after midnight, and that creepy ex-husband of yours has crept back into town.”
“Mike, how the hell do you know all that? Are you spying on me?”
“Relax, it’s a coincidence, that’s all. I stopped by the Blend fo
r a double tall latte and spotted Allegro getting out of a cab.”
“I hope you got your coffee.”
“I did. Tucker makes a nice latte.” There was a semi-long pause. “You make them better.”
The pitch went slightly lower just then. The pleasure pitch. The pitch that made me conjure images of the lanky cop drinking his double latte in my bed.
I cleared my throat. “Thanks.”
“Anytime. So what’s the trouble, Clare?”
I spilled, telling him about the shooting. I described the murder scene, how I’d found Treat shot, then the shells on the beach. He asked me to describe the bullet casings and I did. I even mentioned the tracks in the sand, the flipper fins, and told Mike the name of the investigating officer.
“I never met this O’Rourke but I’ll ask around.”
“Thanks, Mike.”
“Listen, Clare. I see two scenarios here. One is that the murderer is an amateur, not a true professional—”
“Because I found the shells the shooter left behind?”
“Because you found three shells. Did you see any other bullet holes? In the window, the walls?”
“No, nothing, but I’ll try to find out if the police found anything.”
“If there are no shots close to the window, then for a pro the shooter was a lousy marksman, which brings me to my second scenario.”
“Which is?”
“The shooting was an accident.”
“What! That’s crazy.”
“Think about it, Clare. It’s the Fourth of July. Fireworks are going off all over the place. Some kid, maybe a teenager or even an idiotic adult with too much money and not enough sense starts shooting off a rifle for the hell of it. Most of the shots go wild, but one hits the mark and someone dies. It’s happened before.”
I remained unconvinced and told Mike so.
“Okay,” he said. “There’s a third possible scenario. That the shells were left behind on purpose. If that’s the case, look for the gun to show up in a place where the cops can easily find it.”
“Because the shooter is trying to frame someone else?”
“Exactly,” said Mike.
“I’ve already considered that possibility. But all these theories don’t answer my central question—who was really the intended victim? I’m convinced it’s David, but he swears he has no enemies. He’s convinced it really was Treat.”
“If you want to eliminate this Mazzelli kid as the true victim, then you need to know more about him,” said Mike. “What types of things was he doing off the job, who were his known associates. Who did he hang with, in other words. That said, if I had to make the call based on what you’ve already told me, I’d say your friend David is in danger.”
“Why?”
“It’s simple. Rich men tend to make more enemies than waiters.”
Twelve
Mike Quinn’s words stayed with me as I closed my cell phone. I’d say your friend David is in danger. I peered through the kitchen window at the shadowy lawn, the white dunes, and the ebony expanse of ocean beyond. Anyone could be lurking out on that shoreline, I realized, lying in wait for David if he were to return home along the beach. Once again he would be an easy target.
I opened the back door and stepped outside. The outer reaches of Long Island were always cooler than Manhattan. Tonight it was almost chilly for a night in early July—temperatures in the middle-seventies, with high humidity, a wet wind off the ocean. Cool and refreshing after long, sweaty hours in the crowded restaurant.
Listening to the dull continuous roar of the incoming surf, I strode across the cedar deck, scanning the grounds for any sign of the guard who’d startled me earlier. The young man must be up front, I concluded, because there was no sign of anyone in the back of the mansion. I followed the stone path down to the shore and crossed the beach. My sneakers were filling with sand, so I kicked them off and hung them over my shoulder by the laces.
Moving along the shoreline, I noticed bright lights farther down the beach. Square paper lanterns the color of fresh blood had been strung along a huge stone patio. They trailed all the way down to the water, lending the pale white sand a reddish hue. In the scarlet glow, I saw knots of people in relaxed poses. The smell of mesquite charcoal drifted toward me on the summer breeze, only to be scattered by a strong cold gust from the ocean. I walked closer and began to hear whiffs of laughter on the air, a tinkling piano.
I turned to scan the beach in the other direction. But all was dark and quiet. This was the only party on the shoreline that I could see, and I concluded this had to be the bash that David was attending.
Yet it didn’t make a lot of sense on the face of it. Unless I was mistaken, this party was taking place on the grounds of The Sandcastle. But Edward Myers Wilson claimed David and Bom Felloes had waged an ugly war over the restaurant space. Since David had never mentioned Bom to me, I assumed things were still chilly between them.
So why was David going to a party at Bom’s home? Was Bom trying to make up with David?…Or was there something more sinister in the invitation?
I was still fairly far from the whirl of activity, and I picked up my pace to get a better view. Apparently, I was not alone in my curiosity. As I drew closer, I heard a sound that was totally out of place. A click of metal on metal, like a rifle being cocked.
I stopped dead, straining my ears.
For a long moment all I heard was the lapping waters and the party’s tinkling piano. I was ready to believe I’d experienced an audio hallucination when a dark silhouette moved out of some high scrub grass on the beach. In the uncertain light, I was sure the figure was wearing a full body wet suit so black it seemed to absorb the night.
The man carried something clutched close to his chest. I could not see his face because he was facing the party. I was pretty sure the stranger had not seen me on the dark beach, but I was too afraid to do more than stare, figuring that if I moved, I might attract his attention. He gripped something in his hands, but because his back was turned to me, I could not see what it was.
For a long time the man just stood there, his broad back to me. Finally he turned away from the bright lights and darted across the beach, toward the lapping water. I watched him dive into the surf, quickly vanishing beneath the dark surface of the churning waters. I hurried to the shoreline. Large finned footprints creased the wet sand.
The Creature from the Black Lagoon had returned.
I scanned the ocean, wondering where the mysterious swimmer was headed. I made out the dull white gleam of a pleasure boat bobbing perhaps fifty yards off shore. There were no lights aboard, even the running lights were dim in what I was certain was a violation of maritime law. In any case, the boat was barely a smudge on the horizon and I was not certain I’d properly judged the distance from the beach. But since I’d been swimming in these same waters for weeks, I didn’t hesitate.
Dropping my sneakers on the sand, I waded into the churning surf until I was waist deep. Then I dived through the middle of a wave and started swimming. The water was chilly, but I generated my own heat, moving with strong strokes that pushed against a mild but persistent undercurrent.
Never one to miss the opportunity for a morbidly inappropriate thought, my mind began to replay the opening of Jaws—the scene where a young girl is eaten alive during a midnight skinny dip—and I began to worry whether there were any dangerous sharks in these waters. On the other hand, considering that I was probably chasing a professional hit man who had killed before, I realized that marine life probably should not have been my primary concern.
It took several minutes, but I was soon approaching the boat, which was anchored and seemingly deserted. Then a head popped out of the water next to the stern ladder, face covered by huge goggles.
Blowing against the waves breaking over my face, I watched the stranger grasp a ladder and drag himself out of the water. Yes, the swimmer was definitely a man, lean and hard-muscled under the form-fitting wet suit. He grasped th
e brass rail with one hand; in the other he clutched something I still could not see. Once aboard, the man dropped what he’d been carrying and moved toward the superstructure. Then I heard a hatch open and, a moment later, the engine rumbled to life. Finally the running lights came on and a tiny lamp illuminated the pleasure craft. I read the plain black letters on the bow:
Rabbit Run, Hampton Bays, N.Y.
The motor’s rumble became a roar and the boat lurched forward. The roiling waves spilled over me as the craft began to move. In just a few seconds the boat accelerated until it was skipping across the waves, heading south. I bobbed like a cork in its wake, watching its lights fade in the distance.
Before the boat was gone, I began to shiver. I was in fairly deep waters, and the incoming undercurrent was practically frigid. Okay, I thought, now it’s time to worry about sharks—or hypothermia. I suddenly understood why the intruder had worn a wet suit (beyond its obvious camouflage potential) and I wished I’d had one, too.
Treading water, I turned to face the shore. It was a lucky thing for me that the beach party was still in full swing, because it would have been very hard to judge how far away the dark shoreline was otherwise. The only source of light close by was the scarlet glow of the Japanese lanterns, alarmingly tiny in the distance. I struck out, swimming along with the incoming waves for what seemed like a very long time.
Finally I touched soft sand. Battling the sucking surf, I climbed out of the white-capped waves in my bare feet, my wet khaki skirt plastered against my naked legs, my Cuppa J Polo clinging to my cold, clammy flesh. A gust off the ocean whipped against my wet back. I wrapped my arms around myself and shivered again. My teeth were actually chattering now, and I was certain my lips had turned the color of a Hamptons’ summer sky.
A dozen or so startled partygoers had watched me emerge from the crashing waves like some kind of bedraggled mermaid. I was vaguely aware that these people looked familiar—they wouldn’t know me, but I knew their faces. A few had been at David’s party. There were sports figures, TV stars, a famous model.
