by Клео Коул
“Oh, Madame…you know love was never the problem.”
Twenty-One
If I ever write a manual on how to be an amateur detective, I will add a chapter on one of the most important assets any investigator can have—an impeccably dressed elderly woman who arouses absolutely no suspicion and can talk her way into or out of any situation. A woman whose presence is so imperious, so gracious, almost no one will question her motives or rudely ask about her business.
Even in these days of heightened security—bordering on paranoia here in New York City after the 9/11 attacks—Madame was easily able to charm herself past the nurse at Bellevue Hospital’s front desk and up to the tenth floor, where we were told Mr. Jeffery Lugar was resting comfortably in a semiprivate room.
Bellevue Hospital occupies a twenty-five-story, multimillion dollar patient-care facility in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in Manhattan. Founded in the 1600s, the facility includes both adult and pediatric emergency facilities, along with the psychiatric emergency services with which most people associate the place. The entire facility became a part of the New York University School of Medicine in 1968. Currently its attending physician staff numbers twelve hundred and its house staff more than five hundred residents and interns.
Despite its impressive credentials and history, however, once you step out of the elevator and into one of the wards, Bellevue is much like any other hospital—white walls, white-clad nurses and staff, a medicinal smell that barely masks the scent of sickness, decay, and death.
Okay, maybe I’m being a bit too morbid, but aside from the time I spent in the hospital delivering my daughter, Joy, my memories of visiting such facilities are not fond. One of my employees died in such a place, barely a month after I took over management of the coffeehouse again. That was not a good memory, and as I walked the sterile halls, I vowed that I would never again visit a prison and a hospital in the same day.
At the nurses’ station, Madame inquired after Jeff Lugar. A middle-aged registered nurse checked the roster. “You’ll find Mr. Luger in room ten-fourteen. I believe he already has several visitors, but I’m sure he will be delighted to have a visit from his immediate family.”
“Nothing says loving like a visit from Grandma,” I whispered.
“Shush, Clare,” warned Madame.
But the nurse’s assumption proved my assertion—nobody suspects a well-dressed elderly woman of shady behavior. Nobody.
“You’ll find Mr. Lugar’s room all the way down at the end of the hall, the last room on the left,” said the nurse in a chipper voice.
As we proceeded down the corridor, a young man emerged from room 1014 just before we reached it. Before he noticed either of us, I clutched Madame’s arm and stopped her.
“Clare? What’s the matter?”
“That man,” I whispered. “I’ve seen him before. Twice before.”
The person who came out of Jeff Lugar’s room was the young man with the white-blond crewcut—the one Esther Best dubbed the “Billy Idol clone.” Mr. Eighties had been hovering around the coffee bar right before the poisoning—at least according to Esther—and then he had been at Tad Benedict’s investment seminar. Today the mystery man wore a black silk suit and a narrow scarlet tie; the sleeves of his jacket were rolled up his forearms 1980s style—to reveal a complex map of purple and blue tattoos. A blue and yellow badge dangled from his lapel. I’d seen plastic cards just like them—worn by the Fall Fashion Week staff at Bryant Park when I’d visited Lottie at the large central tent nicknamed the Plaza.
I watched, waiting for the man to turn and see us—and perhaps recognize Madame, too, from our evening aboard the Fortune. (Though I’d been in my Jackie O disguise, Madame was now dressed as elegantly as she had been on that night, and a woman of her presence was not easily forgotten.)
A voice called from the room, low and weak. I couldn’t make out the words, but I heard Mr. Eighties’s reply.
“I’m going to pop downstairs for a soda,” he said. “Be right back.”
He turned his back to us and headed down the corridor to a second bank of elevators, without noticing us.
“Curiousier and curiousier,” I muttered.
Madame lifted her eyebrow, but said nothing. When Mr. Eighties was out of sight, we knocked on the door frame. The man who looked up from the crisp white sheets was a pale ghost of the handsome, virile, tanned young man who had appeared on Ricky Flatt’s arm at Lottie’s pre-rollout party. His pale face was sunken, his eyes dull. An intravenous tube flowed into his arm and a clear plastic oxygen tube was attached to his upper lip by gauze that wrapped around his head. His flesh was sallow and pale, almost translucent, and his skin seemed as crisp and dry as old parchment paper. When he looked up, Jeff Lugar raised an arm to shield his eyes from the bright afternoon sunlight streaming through a large window. His hand quaked from the effort.
“Jeff Lugar?” I began, stepping over the threshold. “I’m Clare Cosi and this is Mrs. Dubois…”
He fixed his eyes on us. They were bright, as if with fever. “Do I know you?” he whispered hoarsely.
I shook my head. “I was at Lottie Harmon’s party…I saw what happened to you and Mr. Flatt. I just thought I’d pay you a visit…see how you’re feeling.”
Jeff Lugar laughed bitterly. “I’m fine, just fine, or so the doctors tell me.”
“Indeed? Why, that’s excellent news,” Madame said with measured enthusiasm.
“Is it?” Jeff replied. He lifted a hand to brush his shock of hair away from his face. Once again, the limb trembled so much I couldn’t look away. Jeff Lugar followed my gaze, then lowered his arm quickly.
“Neural damage caused by oxygen depravation,” he explained. “Another delightful effect of the cyanide. There’s some brain damage as well, though I’m told it’s nominal—whatever that means.”
Jeff Lugar tried to laugh again, but coughed instead. When the hacking intensified, I stepped forward and poured him some water. He drank with rasping gulps.
“Thanks…the oxygen makes my mouth dry.” He tried to pass me back the plastic cup, splashed water on my wrist and arm.
“I’m sorry. I’m…I’m not the man I used to be.”
I sat in silence for a moment, while Madame gently queried Jeff Lugar about his home and family, his health and situation. When I spied an opening in the conversation, I jumped in.
“Do you know why someone would want to poison Ricky Flatt?”
“Maybe because Ricky was a little bitch.”
I blinked.
“Look,” Jeff Lugar rasped. “I can hardly blame that waiter for poisoning Ricky. Flatt was such a turd sometimes, the way he was goading his ex-boyfriend…”
“Were you jealous of Ricky’s old flame?”
Jeff shook his head. “No way. I couldn’t even stand Ricky. I was only there that night because Ricky insisted I come. Said it would boost my modeling career. It would be good for me to be seen—with him…or so he claimed.”
“So you’re sure it was the waiter who’s guilty?”
Jeff shrugged. “Who else? That’s who the police say did it and I believe them. Who am I to argue with the police?”
“Maybe Ricky wasn’t the intended victim,” I prodded. “Maybe someone else was supposed to die and you and Ricky just got in the way.”
Jeff nodded. “That’s what my friend Bryan said happened. He was there, too. Saw the whole thing. I guess it’s possible.”
“Who’s Bryan?”
“Bryan Goldin. You just missed him.”
“White-blond buzz cut? Billy Idol look?”
Jeff Lugar nodded. Mr. Eighties revealed at last, I thought.
“Will you be getting out soon?” Madame asked.
“I’m being moved to a rehab facility upstate, a six-month stay—that’s how long the doctors say it will take for me to fully recover my…capacities…”
We conversed for a few more minutes, until I noticed Jeff Lugar getting weaker. I touched Madame�
�s arm and we said our good-byes.
“That poor boy,” Madame sighed. “He looks simply terrible.”
“At least he’s above ground.”
“Yes, but I fear he has a long road to recovery.”
I could see Madame’s heart ached for Jeff Lugar. I was sad for the man, too, but my mind was more focused on Bryan Goldin. In a city of ten million people and a fashion industry of thousands he’d turned up three times now. At the rollout party, Bryan Goldin had seemed unattached, yet on the yacht he appeared to be a member of Lebreaux’s entourage. Now here he was again, this time as an apparent friend of the unfortunate Jeff Lugar. Suddenly Matteo’s off-the-wall theory about Lebreaux working behind the scenes to destroy the Village Blend’s reputation sounded more plausible. Could Lebreaux actually be using Bryan like some kind of demented hit man—even if it meant spiking a latte with cyanide and committing a totally random act of murder? Was it possible that Bryan missed killing Lottie, harmed a friend instead, and now felt guilty?
Madame and I rode the elevator down to the lobby. We were about to leave the hospital when I spied Mr. Eighties on his way back up—presumably to Jeff Lugar’s room. He slipped past us without a glance, stepped into an empty elevator.
I squeezed Madame’s arm. “I’ll be right back,” I whispered. Then I stepped into the elevator next to Bryan Goldin. We were the only two occupants as the doors closed and the elevator ascended.
The button for the tenth floor was already glowing, but I tapped it anyway. The doors slid shut, I pressed my back into the corner and glanced at the young model. He glanced at me in return—just a quick look, the way people check one another out in elevators. It was clear he hadn’t recognized me, or was very good at feigning indifference if he had. Of course, I didn’t exactly stand out in a crowd—not the way Goldin did with his buffed appearance, stylish, expensive clothes, dyed hair, and outlaw tattoos.
The elevator gave a jolt, then started to rise. If I was going to pounce, it was now or never. “Excuse me, but you’re Bryan Goldin, right?”
He blinked in naked surprise. Then the curtain of cool indifference descended. “Yes,” he said.
“I saw you the other night. At Lottie Harmon’s party.”
He squinted, took a closer look. “Do you work for a designer label? Or maybe a magazine, Ms…?”
“Cosi. Clare Cosi. Actually I saw you at the party, and the other night, too. On the yacht with Mr. Lebreaux.”
Goldin shifted uncomfortably, glanced away, then poked the elevator button impatiently.
“Are you a friend of Lebreaux?” I asked, forcing a smile. “I’ve known Eduardo for years…”.
“I know Lebreaux,” Goldin said, allowing the statement to hang there.
The elevator stopped at seven. The doors slid open. I thought Bryan was going to bolt but he stayed, using the distraction as a chance to turn his back on me. Two conversing nurses stepped into the elevator. One pressed the button for eight, then someone called from the corridor and the two women hurried out of the elevator again. The doors closed and Goldin and I were alone again.
“I bet you’re a model,” I cooed.
“Sometimes,” Goldin muttered.
I wondered about his connection, if any, to Lottie’s runway show with Fen tomorrow. “Do you model for Fen?”
Bryan Goldin curled his lips in a near-perfect imitation of Billy Idol. “Of course.”
Of course? Odd choice of words, like it was a given or something. Was it simply confidence bordering on arrogance? Or something else? I was about to ask another question when the elevator stopped on eight and the door opened. No one got on, and we waited for a moment. Then, as the doors were about to close, Bryan Goldin slipped between them and hurried down the corridor. I tried to follow but he’d timed his exit perfectly and the doors closed in my face.
On the tenth floor, I walked back to Jeff Lugar’s room and peered inside. Save for the quiet hiss of the respirator, the room was silent. Jeff Lugar was alone, sleeping soundly. I wanted to see if Bryan would return, but after fifteen minutes he still hadn’t, so I walked back to the elevator.
Twenty-Two
As Mr. Raj drove us back to the West Side of Manhattan, I told Madame what I’d discovered—which wasn’t much, in my estimation.
Bryan Goldin knew Lebreaux and he’d modeled for Fen. But all that got me was a legitimate reason for his being on the Fortune and at Lottie’s party. I also brought Madame up to date with Rena Garcia’s murder. “Eduardo Lebreaux might have had a motive for instigating the poisoning at the Blend. But he has no motive I can see for poisoning Rena Garcia, which pretty much rules out Matteo’s theory that Lebreaux is behind all this.”
“Eduardo is a cad and a criminal,” said Madame, “and he may even be capable of murder. But only if it’s in his interest, and I must agree with you, Clare, that I don’t see the motive for murdering Rena Garcia, that poor girl. If Eduardo were truly behind it, wouldn’t he have waited for a more public affair to poison someone with a Village Blend drink?”
“Like tomorrow’s runway show,” I automatically replied, and then cringed at the thought that the murderer might indeed be striking again at that very event, which meant I had less than twenty-four hours. I massaged my temples, feeling a headache coming on. “I have to solve this, Madame.”
“Yes, my dear, but how?”
I leaned back in the car seat and gazed at the passing shops and restaurants, the crowded sidewalks. I tried to remember some of the cases Quinn had discussed with me while he was drinking latte after latte at my coffee bar over the last few months.
Okay, Mike, how would you think through all this?
Think out loud, Clare, I could almost hear him advise me. Take it step by step. First, tell me what you know….
“The murderer’s first target wasn’t random, and it wasn’t Ricky or Jeff. It was Lottie. I’m sure of it. And since we know Rena was the second target, what does that tell us? Who would want Lottie and Rena dead?”
“Tad Benedict?” offered Madame.
“Detective Quinn ruled him out and for now I have to agree. But, according to Tad, Fen was blackmailing Rena for control of the label.”
Madame’s eyes widened. “So Fen is the guilty party!” she cried. Then her face fell and she shook her head, looking down at her lovely pecan-colored, fur-trimmed Fen coat. “Oh, what a shame. Such a talented designer.”
“Yet…it still doesn’t quite fit,” I said, tapping my chin. “I mean, Fen killing Rena makes sense. He tried to blackmail her. Maybe he found out about her and Tad’s plans to cut and run by selling their shares to other investors. He might have become angry and killed her—or had her killed. But why would Fen have tried to kill Lottie herself? She’s the sole creative talent behind her label, so killing her means killing the label too.”
“It sounds to me like Fen wants to control Lottie Harmon, not kill her,” noted Madame. “And there may be more than one motive for that.”
“What do you mean, more than one motive?”
Madame smiled enigmatically. “Fen and Lottie were an item years ago.”
“An item?”
“Lovers.”
“Lovers?” I echoed. “But I’ve known Lottie for over a year, and I’ve never even seen her in the company of Fen. There’s nothing about them in the gossip columns or paparazzi photos that I can recall either.”
“These days, Lottie is only interested in Fen in terms of the business. Nothing else. I was curious about it, of course, and I asked her about him a few times, but she said she has absolutely no interest in her old flame as anything but a business associate and that’s the way she wants it.”
Sounds like Matteo and me, I thought. Or at least it did until I screwed up and slept with him. But I didn’t share that particular thought with Madame. Instead, I said, “So you think there might be a sexual dimension to all this? That Fen is trying to possess more than Lottie’s label?”
Madame’s eyebrow rose. “It certainly expl
ains his going to such extreme lengths to obtain the stock. When passion is the motivation, better judgement tends to go out the window.”
“Didn’t you say something else about Lottie earlier today? You thought the years had changed her?”
“Yes, that’s right. Less comfortable in her own skin. You know, more than once, I asked her why she quit the business, asked her to fill in the blanks about her years living abroad, but she always glossed over the answers, turned the subject to another topic—and always with that strained, high-pitched laugh.”
“She did that to me, too. She’s very guarded about her past.”
I met Madame’s eyes and we both nodded, obviously thinking the same thing. Lottie’s past was sure to hold some valuable answers. Just then, Mr. Raj pulled up to the coffeehouse. I kissed Madame good-bye and thanked her for her help.
“Do let me know what you discover, my dear,” said Madame, her eyes once again bright with obvious curiosity.
“Of course.”
As I stepped out of the car, I could see that the “Fugu thrill-seekers” were still out in full force. The East Village crowd—with tattoos and multiple body piercings—loitered on the sidewalk around the Blend’s old wrought iron front bench. No doubt they were waiting for one of their numbers to drop dead from a poisoned take-out. As I passed through an odd-smelling cloud, I sensed not everyone was smoking tobacco.
Entering, I saw Esther servicing a line of customers at the counter, Moira and Matt were busily mixing coffee drinks behind the bar. Either things got crazy and my ex had volunteered to pitch in, or Matt was deliberately exercising his barista skills in anticipation of demonstrations for investors in his kiosk scheme.
Esther spied me as I rushed by and was about to call out. I shushed her with my hand, then flashed her ten fingers. “Back in ten minutes” I mouthed to her. Then I raced up the spiral staircase in the dining room.
Inside my small, second-floor office I tossed my purse on the desk, peeled off my coat, and fired up the computer. Since I knew next to nothing about the history of Lottie’s label, I decided to use the Internet to see what I could turn up. I began by Googling the name “Lottie Harmon.” The search yielded 9,003 entries. I narrowed the search by entering “history of Lottie Harmon label.” That brought me a workable 1,456 entries—workable because hundreds of links were essentially the same story, a reprint of a long and uninformative (for my purposes anyway) press release issued by Rena Garcia when the label was resurrected last year. I eliminated all of those entries and narrowed the search to the early 1980s—the first blush of the Lottie Harmon line. I came up with a tidy 717 entries and began calling them up.
