Espresso Shot cm-7

by Клео Коул

  I studied the small man’s smirking face, thought of something Matt had mentioned to me right before his bachelor party. “I know things, too, Mr. Knox. My ex-husband told me that your animosity toward his fiancée reaches back years. Is that true?”

  Knox glanced away. “Breanne Summour is just another flighty celebrity. More fodder for my gossip page—”

  “That’s crap, and you know it. You have some kind of history with her. So what was it? Were the two of you lovers once upon a time?”

  “Lovers? Me and Breanne?” Knox snorted. “I could hardly stand the woman, even back then.”

  “Then I’m betting Breanne undermined your career.”

  Knox raised an eyebrow. “You’re guessing.”

  I was, but I figured—given Monica Purcell’s sleazy office tactics—career sabotage had to be it. After all, Breanne Summour had been Monica’s first boss. Who better to teach the girl techniques for undermining colleagues? Even Roman had called her Breanne 2.0.

  “What else could it be?” I said. “That’s it, isn’t it? Breanne ruined your career.”

  “She certainly gave it her best shot.”

  Bingo! Got his motive. But I still need more. I need specifics...

  “I never heard that particular story, Mr. Knox. Of course, Breanne would never tell me something like that, because it wouldn’t make her look good. And you and I know that Breanne likes to look good.”

  Knox smiled—a little warmer this time. “You know, Ms. Cosi, you’re very good at this. What you do for free you could do for me at a handsome profit.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m sure you have stories to tell.” He leaned toward me, lowered his voice. “You know, secrets. Things you’ve uncovered while you were hanging around with the likes of Chef Keitel, David Mintzer, and his society cronies. Even Ms. Summour. The Journal is willing to pay for the smut you dig up. We have a number of people, just like you, all over this town.”

  I decided Knox was worse than Hitler’s propaganda minister, he was more like the head of the Gestapo, with secret agents ensconced all over the city. I had no intention of becoming one of Randall Knox’s goose-stepping stool pigeons, but pretending I might take the offer would certainly get me farther with him.

  “What you’re proposing is... intriguing,” I finally replied.

  “So you’ll consider it?”

  “Yes, Mr. Knox, I will consider it—”

  “Clare! How could you?!” Madame turned on me, looking appropriately outraged, but I could tell from the sparkle in her eye that she was in on it, too.

  “Don’t worry, Madame,” I said, patting her arm. “I’d never, ever reveal a thing about you or our family.”

  “Oh, well, I guess it will be all right then. There are a few people in my social circles I wouldn’t mind seeing taken down a peg or two.”

  Knox laughed—genuinely this time. “Sounds like I’m getting two, two muck diggers for the price of one!”

  I pretended to laugh and elbowed Madame to chuckle right along with him.

  “But, first, Mr. Knox, I’d really like to know more about the woman marrying my child’s father. You understand? Why don’t you tell me about New York Trends. Breanne’s ex-husband mentioned that she started out there. And she also saw to it that the magazine was closed down. Is that true?”

  “Not only is it true, you may be surprised to know that I gave Breanne Summour her first big break when I put her on the staff of my magazine.”

  “Your magazine?”

  “Aha! Something else you don’t know. Yes, New York Trends was mine. I started it. I built my own staff up from scratch. It took ten hard years.”

  Knox slid his bottom drawer open and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He splashed a shot into an empty paper coffee cup. Held the bottle up as an offering. Madame and I both shook it off.

  “For a while Breanne worked out fine. Then one day she asked for a short leave of absence. ‘Just a few weeks to get my head together,’ she said. I gave her the time off.”

  Knox lifted the cup to his lips, paused. “The next thing I knew, Breanne had started Trend by stealing most of my staff out from under me.” He knocked back the whiskey. “Breanne became a raving success, the talk of the town. I was not so fortunate. New York Trends tanked soon after she pillaged my staff.”

  “You must have been enraged.” Maybe even homicidal.

  “I was pissed, all right, Ms. Cosi. And I was out of work. I wrote freelance for a long time, spent some time working in Florida, and then I landed this very glamorous position.” He smirked. “The digs are sleazy, I grant you, but the pay is sweet. And you know what’s even sweeter? I’ll bet you can guess.”

  “Yes, Mr. Knox, I can guess: the chance to have a little revenge.”

  “Just look at it from my point of view. Breanne humiliated me, and now it’s her turn.”

  “See, now you’re making me wonder...” I leaned forward. “Is that why you hired her look-alike to strip for you at your birthday party? To humiliate Breanne, if only by proxy?”

  Knox shifted in his desk chair. “Honestly, Ms. Cosi. I don’t know if you’re serious about working for me, but you should be. It can be quite lucrative. As I said, I have feelers everywhere—”

  “Monica Purcell was one of your feelers, wasn’t she? What do you know about her death?”

  “Nothing.” Knox met my eyes. “It was a tragedy what happened. But I certainly can’t shed any light on that matter.”

  “But you were paying her—to give you dirt on Breanne?”

  “My arrangement with the late Monica Purcell is a private matter. Just as our arrangement would be, should you decide to work for me.”

  “Tell me about the stripper then, because she ended up dead, too.”

  “Hazel Boggs wasn’t the only celebrity look-alike at my birthday party—although I have to admit she was certainly the most interesting. She was also willing to learn a thing or two from me.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I gave her a few pointers for her act, that’s all, ways to improve her impression of the grand dame of New York fashion. After all, I’d known Breanne for years. Ms. Boggs was quite sharp, a quick study.”

  Randall Knox’s obsession with Breanne had to be partly sexual, I decided. The whole stripper scenario only underlined that, and it made me wonder something else.

  “So, how well did you get to know Ms. Boggs?”

  “Very well. I treated her to a few shots of some very good scotch, and I discovered that the late exotic dancer and the fashionista actually shared more than a physical resemblance.”

  The man met my eyes, his eyebrow arching suggestively, and I thought immediately about my philandering ex-husband.

  Oh, God, Matt... what did you do?

  My mind raced back to that night on Hudson Street. I never got the impression that he and Hazel had met before, but then she was a professional, and Matt was well-practiced in denial where one-night stands were concerned.

  I stood up, placed my hands on his desk. “I’m getting tired of this game, Mr. Knox. What exactly are you trying to say? Put your cards on the table.”

  “I intend to—in Monday’s edition of the Journal. Two days after Breanne’s society wedding, you’ll have all the answers you like in headlines, photos, and newsprint. Until then, this file stays closed.”

  “You’re bluffing.”

  “Hardly. And feel free to pass that on to Ms. Summour. Tell that designer-draped python that a near-fatal mugging is a walk in the park compared to what I have in store for her.” Knox stood, too, held my eyes. “I promise you, Ms. Cosi, when the Journal goes to press in the wee hours of Monday morning, Breanne Summour will wish she were dead.”

  The intercom buzzed, cutting the tension in the room. Knox punched the button. “Yes!”

  “Your five o’clock appointment’s arrived.”

  Knox straightened his bright-red tie, and I blanched, thinking of the fresh blood I�
�d seen dripping down Breanne’s ivory shoulder.

  “Duty calls,” Knox said. “You can find your own way out.”

  Dismissed, we left the man’s office. But the visit wasn’t over yet. As we walked toward the reception area, I noticed a heavyset, middle-aged woman approaching from the opposite direction. She had a rosy complexion, wore attractive auburn highlights in her short cocoa-brown hair, and was stylishly dressed in a loose black pantsuit.

  Her mood seemed buoyant, but when she spied Madame, her face fell. As the two women passed each other, they nodded a curt greeting. Then the heavier woman hastily moved on.

  “Madame, do you know that woman?” I whispered. “Because she sure seems to know you.”

  Madame nodded. “That’s Miriam Perry of Perry Realty.”

  “Chef Neville Perry’s mother? The woman who lost a small fortune when Breanne published an exposé on Neville’s restaurant?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, spill. How do you know her?”

  “Miriam set her sights on the Blend a few years ago. She was trying to broker a deal in the name of a corporate giant who coveted our Hudson Street address.”

  “She was trying to buy the Blend out from under you?”

  Madame nodded. “She wanted to turn my beloved coffeehouse into a fast-food franchise.”

  “Which one?”

  “Funky Town Fried Chicken.” Madame shuddered. “I rebuffed her, of course, told Mrs. Perry that she was destroying the character of the neighborhood with her real estate deals. I told her that I wasn’t going to stand by and let her turn Greenwich Village into a pale facsimile of the Mall of America.”

  I blew out air, my gaze returning to the heavyset Mrs. Perry. She walked right to the corner office where Randall Knox stood waiting for her. They greeted each other like old friends.

  “Thank you, Randy, for everything,” Miriam Perry gushed, air kissing the diminutive Knox.

  “The pleasure’s mine.” Knox led the woman into his den.

  While Mrs. Perry settled in, they talked and laughed. Then the two lifted paper cups—presumably filled with whiskey shots.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Mrs. Perry said before Knox moved to close his office door.

  I turned to Madame. “Don’t you find it suspicious that Mrs. Perry and her buddy Randy are toasting each other the same afternoon Breanne was attacked and nearly killed?”

  “I do, indeed, my dear.”

  We took the elevator down to Eighth Avenue. The sidewalks were jammed with commuters, traffic was snarled, car horns were honking. The sun had disappeared, taking the day’s brightness with it, and above the skyscrapers, storm clouds were painting my city the color of cemetery stone.

  Madame flagged down a cab, and we climbed into the backseat. As the driver took off, she turned to me.

  “It seems there’s much more to this case than one angry ex-husband.”

  I nodded. “Neville Perry and his mother, Randall Knox and his vendetta, Monica Purcell and her deal to dish dirt on her own boss. And who knows what else is out there...”

  “Lots of threads,” Madame said.

  “And they’re tangled together worse than the Gordian knot.”

  “Maybe there’s a single strand you can pull that will unravel the whole thing.”

  “Maybe,” I said, channeling Mike Quinn. “But maybe isn’t going to solve this case.”

  Twenty-Nine

  While the evening rush washed over Manhattan, the postwork crush swept through the Village Blend. Today the crowd was literally spilling out the front door. Feeling depleted and defeated, I waded through the mob, the rich, earthy scents of freshly roasted coffee beans leading me toward the espresso bar like a lurching zombie.

  “Caffeine... must have caffeine.”

  “Hey, Clare!” Tucker Burton called. “What’s up?”

  “Hit me twice, Tuck. I need it bad.”

  “You got it, sweetie.”

  It was my day off, but I stepped around the marble counter anyway to check on the state of the shop. Tucker—my lanky, floppy-haired assistant manager—was in charge today, and we briefly chatted about the employees, the stock, and the machinery. The normalcy of it all felt reassuring, along with the news that everything in my house was under control.

  Since my people were veterans at dealing with a postwork rush, I let Tuck shoo me away. Picking up my double espresso, I headed across the crowded room to a just-vacated café table near the fireplace.

  The Pisco Sour or Randall Knox (or both) had given me a slight headache, but the warmth of my double espresso was starting to cut through the bewildering fog of alcohol and vitriol. As my taste buds soaked up the nutty, caramelized flavors, my wedged platform sandals began tapping to the electronic drum machines of Tucker’s retro eighties mix.

  Tuck must be psychic, I decided, because the titles playing over the Blend’s speakers were like a sound track to the events of my week: New Order’s “Blue Monday” followed by Boy George’s “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me,” the Eurythmics’ “Would I Lie to You,” and Billy Idol’s “White Wedding.”

  “Okay,” I muttered, “if Cher comes on next with her eighties retread of ‘Bang, Bang, My Baby Shot Me Down,’ I’m going to lose it.”

  But the next song I heard didn’t come from the Blend’s audio speakers. It came from my handbag. I pulled out my cell and silenced the ringtone, then checked the display and smiled.

  “Hi, Mike. I knew you’d call when you had the chance.”

  “Are you okay, sweetheart? Lori Soles just told me you witnessed a mugging today—in a restaurant bathroom. Is that right?”

  “I’m fine, but it was an attempted murder not a mugging...”

  I filled Quinn in on the details, along with my conversation at the Journal with Randall Knox and the little toast I spotted him sharing with Neville Perry’s mother. When I finished, Quinn remained silent for a few seconds.

  “Knox sounds wrong, Clare. He has a strong motive to be involved with a revenge scheme. So does Mrs. Perry. But you need—”

  “Evidence—I know! Have you gotten anything out of Stuart Winslow yet? Maybe they’re all working together.”

  “Sorry, sweetheart. I don’t have good news for you on Winslow.”

  I groaned, forecasting the need for another doppio espresso. Rapidamente. “Tell me.”

  “When we got him down to the Sixth, he started talking without a lawyer—ranting, mostly. But he wouldn’t admit to anything. After a few hours of questioning, he finally lawyered up and clammed up.”

  “Where does that leave us?”

  “I can tell you where it leaves him. Free as a bird. He’s on his way to being arraigned right now. He should be out on bail very soon.”

  “Oh no, Mike. Isn’t there any way to hold him? Charge him with attempted murder?”

  “We searched his apartment, but that single bottle of OxyContin that he handed you was the only narcotic we found.”

  “What about the other pills he had? I saw them!”

  “Other than a little more OxyContin, we found zip. We raided his closet, but the only items in there were the kinds of supplements and herbal products you’d find in any health food store. He must have his dirty stash somewhere else, most likely under another name. We couldn’t find it in his residence, and he wouldn’t talk. So the only charge that stuck to him was one count of intent to distribute an illegal substance.”

  “No murder weapon, either? No gun.”

  “No weapons of any kind in his apartment.”

  “What about all the other things he’s guilty of?”

  “The DA’s office can’t charge Winslow for the robbery in Queens, or Monica Purcell’s overdose, or attempted murder of his ex-wife, because he wouldn’t admit to any of those things, and there’s no evidence that directly connects him.”

  “And the Rxglobal Web site?”

  “That’s an angle we’re working with the DEA, but that will take time. No judge will hold him without bail based
on the evidence against him right now. And your testimony against him is just about the only thing we’ve got to even make the first charge stick. The prosecutor’s office wasn’t even comfortable charging him with conspiracy to commit robbery.”

  “But he agreed on the wire! We have it on tape!”

  “The rings were never actually stolen, and he never accepted them from you, just agreed to let you steal them. The defense will cry entrapment. It’s not enough for the prosecutor to go forward, Clare.”

  I rubbed my forehead, tried to figure out a next step. “Winslow couldn’t have been the mugger at the restaurant,” I reasoned aloud, “because he was still in custody then. But if he’s going to be free soon, he might try to hurt Breanne himself.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “I’ll try to reach Breanne and warn her. I’ll try Matt again, too, but he’s been unreachable for hours.”

  “Why?”

  I sighed. “It’s too long a story to explain now.”

  “Fine, but you better suggest to Breanne that she hire a bodyguard.”

  “I will.”

  We signed off, and I rang Breanne. By now, she was out of the ER and back in her Sutton Place apartment—no hairline fracture, no damage to her vocal chords. She was just bruised, sore, and shaken. Before I could ask her about Randall Knox, she asked me about Matt.

  “Have you heard from him yet, Clare?”

  Bree’s typical cool, clipped tone was gone. Her voice sounded vulnerable and human. For the first time since Matt had announced their engagement, Breanne Summour sounded like a woman in love.

  “I’m sorry,” I said gently, “he hasn’t come back yet. I can’t reach him on his cell, either.”

  “Neither can I. You’ll let me know when he shows, won’t you?”