Through the Grinder

by Cleo Coyle

  “He was using drugs!”

  “That too.”

  Madame shook her head. “Cocaine is a terrible thing.”

  “Perhaps you should rescue him,” I suggested, ready to bolt.

  “Perhaps we should let him lie in the maid he’s bedded. Perhaps—”

  But Dr. McTavish took Madame’s hand. “Perhaps we shall,” he said, then led her across the floor and toward her son.

  I reached the elevator to the Skylight Room without further incident. As I expected, the security person guarding the door saw my outfit and nodded, assuming I was part of the staff, and waved me on. I boarded the empty elevator and rode it upstairs.

  When the doors slid open a handsome young sandy-haired man in black tie was standing in the hallway. He looked very familiar.

  “Have a nice evening,” he said as I stepped out of the elevator and he stepped in. The deep, resonant voice triggered my memory, and I realized I had just passed Pat Kiernan, Esther’s and Joy’s favorite morning anchor for New York’s basic cable Channel 1.

  I turned, but the doors had already closed. “Well, I sort of met him,” I murmured, plowing ahead. “I’m sure Esther and Joy will be impressed.”

  Up ahead, loud voices and bursts of laughter poured through the wide open doors to the Skylight Room. I moved quickly into the throng and toward the bar. Someone was taking so many pictures that the flashes made it impossible to make out many faces.

  “Ms. Cosi! Is that you?”

  The shocked voice belonged to a young man standing near the bar, a classmate of Joy’s named Ray Harding. He’d been by the Blend several times with Joy, so he knew me well, but poor Ray was used to seeing his classmate’s mother in a giant blue apron, not a Victoria’s Secret nightgown. He appeared embarrassed. Well, kid, join the club.

  “Have you seen Joy?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Come with me.”

  Ray led me out of the crush of people and into a back area that looked like a very large closet stacked with chairs and tables.

  “I’m sorry to tell you that Joy had a really bad night.”

  “Is she okay? What happened?”

  “She’s fine. But she left. I understand that creep Brooks Newman made a pretty obnoxious pass at her. Pawed her up and everything. Amber told me all about it. She said Joy didn’t want to cause any trouble for our teacher, so she just pretended she wasn’t feeling well and left.”

  My fists clenched. “Where is she?”

  “On her way to the Blend. She left twenty minutes ago.”

  “Where’s Brooks Newman now?”

  Ray frowned. “Back there, in the Skylight Room, sucking up to the high-end celebrity donors and sucking down vodka and tonics—a lot. I’ve been helping at the bar, and I’ve served him five so far.”

  Good, I thought. That means he’s not out on the street stalking Joy. All I had to do now was find Matteo and get back to the Blend—and never let Joy out of our sight until Quinn arrested Brooks Newman for murder.

  “How can I get out of here fast?”

  “Not the guest elevators,” said Ray. “Too many people using them. Folks have been complaining all night. Go through the kitchen and use the service elevator—” He pointed. “We just finished unloading some cases, and it’s free right now. Should come right up for you.”

  Ray went back to the main room and I ducked into the kitchen. I pressed the button and waited for the service elevator to arrive. I heard a door open behind me and turned.

  Brooks Newman was standing not ten feet away, and a little unsteadily.

  “Hey, babe,” he called, waving to me. “Need some help with a group. Come with me.”

  I turned my back on him, pretending I didn’t hear.

  Heavy footsteps fell behind me, then a strong hand gripped my arm.

  “Hey, didn’t you hear me? I said I need a waitress,” Brooks said, pulling me around. His eyes took a second to focus. “Clare?”

  “Let me go,” I said.

  But Newman was awake now. “You helping out your daughter again?”

  “I said let me go.”

  Thank goodness, he did. But he didn’t go away. “Nice outfit. You look hot, Clare. Really hot.”

  I heard the elevator rumbling in the shaft behind me. When was it going to arrive?

  “Why don’t you join me fer a drink?” he said, slurring his words a little.

  “I’ve got to go,” I said, backing away. “My date’s downstairs, waiting.”

  “Let him wait,” Brooks said, cornering me.

  Whoever said vodka is undetectable is full of crap, because I could smell the alcohol on Brooks Newman’s breath. Maybe I should have been afraid, but I wasn’t. Unlike Joy, I knew what Brooks Newman was, so I wouldn’t be such an easy victim.

  The elevator gears squeaked as the car rolled even with the door.

  “Don’t go yet, Clare. Let’s hook up for the night. I’ll be done here in a little while.”

  “No, sorry,” I said in a neutral voice.

  That’s when he lunged at me. His move was so sudden it had to have been uncalculated. Like a clumsy bear he pawed at me. I fought him off and lurched out of his grip just as the elevator doors slid open.

  I got away on cue. Part of my gown didn’t. With a tear, a considerable section of the flimsy material ripped away.

  I screamed, trying to cover myself as a massive form shot out of the elevator, nearly bowling me over.

  Then came a howl of pain, and a metallic clink.

  Holding my gown in place, I turned to find Mike Quinn, legs braced. He held Brooks Newman in his grip. Newman’s arms had been handcuffed behind his back and Quinn was bending them in such a way as to force Brooks to his knees.

  “Are you okay?” Quinn asked over Brooks’s outraged cries.

  “Arrest him,” I said levelly. “Brooks Newman killed those women. He met them through SinglesNYC. He slept with them, or tried to sleep with them, and then he murdered them.”

  “What?” Brooks Newman squealed. “I never killed anybody.”

  “Shut your mouth,” Quinn warned.

  Brooks Newman whimpered.

  Suddenly Matteo burst into the kitchen.

  “Clare!” he cried, racing to my side. “Are you all right? Where’s Joy?”

  “She’s safe. She’s on her way back to the Blend.”

  “Then she may not be safe,” said Quinn.

  “But you have the killer right there.”

  “Sorry, Clare. Brooks Newman is innocent. I came here because of your call, but I know Newman isn’t guilty—not of murder anyway. I investigated him early on. He had a rock-solid alibi for the time of all three murders. But more importantly, I know who the killer is.”

  “Please, not Bruce Bowman,” I said. “Not your theory about Bruce again.”

  “Not Bruce. His ex-wife, Maxine Bowman. When you called, I was on my way back from Westchester. I’d been interviewing a police detective up there as part of my background on Bruce Bowman. The detective was absolutely convinced Maxine Bowman had killed a young intern in Bruce’s office about a year ago. He just couldn’t prove it to the District Attorney’s satisfaction.

  “Seems one night this female intern went up to the roof of Bowman’s building, where she worked, and subsequently plunged to her death. It was publicly ruled a suicide, but the detective discovered that the intern recently had begun dating Bruce Bowman, who had just separated from his wife. The victim’s roommate claimed Maxine had started harassing and stalking the intern.

  “Unfortunately, Maxine Bowman hired the best lawyers in Westchester County. They provided an alibi for Maxine, challenged the veracity of the roommate, who had a record of drug use, and privately pressured the DA into agreeing there wasn’t enough evidence for a solid case. This detective still disagrees with that conclusion, but his hands were tied. As of now, the Westchester authorities have lost track of Maxine. We know she moved to New York City and is using another name. But she can’t just vanish. We’ll
find her.”

  “Bruce’s ex-wife.” I closed my eyes. It did make sense, and the truth was, seeing all those raging e-mails from Vintage86 in Bruce’s computer had disturbed me. But something in me just couldn’t equate a woman spurned with serial murder. After all, I’d been spurned myself, I’d felt that consuming rage, that devastating pain, but I’d never acted on it, never tried to physically hurt anyone. I’d assumed Bruce’s ex-wife wouldn’t, either. Maxine must have gone off the deep end.

  “I knew Bruce was the key in some way, Clare,” said Quinn. “Even if it wasn’t Bruce Bowman himself, then it had to be someone close to him.”

  I shook my head. “I thought you were trying to get Bruce.”

  “I don’t try to get anyone. I try to get evidence. And I thought he was a strong suspect.”

  “I’m not a suspect,” Brooks said. “I didn’t do anything!”

  “We’re not talking about you,” barked Quinn.

  “Then let me go,” Brooks cried.

  “I’m booking you for sexual assault,” said Quinn.

  “Against who?” Matteo demanded.

  “Against me,” I said, still holding together my torn nightgown.

  Matteo seemed to notice this for the first time. Not too surprising, since there wasn’t a whole lot to this nightgown in the first place. He turned to Brooks. “You son of a bitch. If you weren’t in cuffs I’d punch you in the face.”

  “Matt, you don’t know the half of it. He made a pass at Joy, too.”

  “I’ll kill him.”

  “Calm down, Pool Boy,” Quinn said, blocking Matt’s reach. “We have other issues. I talked to Esther Best back at your store and she told me about Joy’s little shove off the curb and into the path of an M20 bus. I doubt very much that what happened was an accident—Maxine Bowman is a pusher. I’m betting she tried to kill Joy.”

  “Try your cell!” I told Matteo.

  He spread out his arms. “Like I have a place to carry a cell phone.”

  “Here,” said Quinn. “Use mine.”

  I dialed the Blend. Esther answered. “Esther! Is Joy there?”

  “She just got here.”

  “Don’t let her out of your sight! Tell her to stay put. We’ll be right there!”

  “What’s the meaning of this!” an outraged voice bellowed.

  A portly bald man in evening clothes hurried across the kitchen. “What are you doing to my client?”

  “Jerry, thank God!” Brooks Newman cried. “Get me out of this. Now!”

  Quinn flashed his badge and the portly man calmed a little.

  “I’m Jerry Benjamin, Mr. Newman’s attorney. Are you going to charge my client with a crime?”

  Quinn looked at me.

  “We don’t have time for this,” I said.

  Quinn shook his head. Then he stood Brooks Newman up and unlocked the handcuffs.

  “That’s better,” Brooks said, rubbing his wrists. “Why I ought to charge you with police brutality!”

  He was so angry at Mike Quinn that he never even saw Matteo’s fist coming.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  BACK at the Village Blend, we found Joy safe and sound. After a round of hugs, Joy said she was really tired and wanted to go back to her apartment. I asked her to please consider staying over in the duplex upstairs, but she flatly refused.

  She said her roommate was home now and she was eager to check her home machine and see if the young man she’d met earlier had called—they had a “date to talk” after she finished her work. I pointed out she could call him from upstairs, but she wanted her privacy—either that or the date was for the young man to stop by, too, and not just call. Ah, youth.

  Well, I couldn’t stop her from going, but it gave me a substantial amount of relief to watch her walk out the Village Blend’s front door in the company of her father. If there was one thing Matteo Allegro could do without fault, it was protect his daughter.

  And if there was one thing Mike Quinn could do, it was cuff a guilty party. He had identified the murderer, now all he had to do was locate her. After we parted at the Puck Building, he said he was off and running in an attempt to locate and arrest Bruce’s wife.

  I knew Maxine Bowman wouldn’t be that hard to find—with driver’s licenses, credit cards, social security numbers and the like, nobody could hide for long in this day and age, even if she was going by another name. And, of course, Bruce could help locate her, too. Even if he didn’t know the woman’s exact address, he could probably help Quinn set up some sort of trap.

  A few feet away from me, behind the coffee bar counter, Tucker looked completely exhausted. After pulling a double shift, I hated asking him to stay a little longer but I didn’t want to be here alone, and Matt said he was coming right back.

  When the store’s phone rang behind me, I quickly picked it up.

  “Village Blend.”

  “Clare? Clare, is that you? Thank God.” It was Bruce. His deep, warm voice resonated in my ear, feeling more like a touch than a sound.

  “I am so happy to hear your voice,” I told him. It felt like a year had passed since I’d last seen him. “It’s been one crazy day.”

  “Has it? I stopped in earlier and saw Joy but nobody seemed to know where you’d gone or when you’d be back. I was really starting to get worried.”

  “You don’t have to worry. Everything’s okay.”

  “I’m in lower Manhattan, in my SUV. I’ll be there in ten minutes tops. Don’t move.”

  Since he was on his way, I didn’t bother trying to explain anything that had happened over the last two days. I’d probably need hours to do that anyway. Quinn would also need to be updated. I intended to call the detective after Bruce got here—and we had a few minutes privacy to say hello. Whether Bruce knew the location of his ex-wife or not, I was sure Quinn would want to question him.

  “Don’t worry,” I told Bruce. “I’m about to close, and I’m not going anywhere. If you don’t see me and the door is locked, I’m probably upstairs. Just call my cell and I’ll come down.”

  I hung up and smiled brightly at Tucker, my energy renewed.

  “Why are you so happy?” he asked.

  “Bruce is the most amazing man, and I’ve fallen in love with him.”

  Tucker gave me a tired smile. “I’m glad for you, honey. Really glad.”

  “He’s on his way up.”

  Tucker nodded. “I’ll stay till he comes.”

  But I felt terrible making him wait. He looked ready to collapse. “You don’t have to. I can see you’re exhausted. Just help me shoo the last customers out and lock up. What can happen in less than ten minutes with me locked in here?”

  Tucker nodded. “I am about ready to fall off my feet. You’re sure?”

  “Of course.” And to be honest, I suddenly knew how my daughter felt, rushing back to her place for privacy with a new beau. I couldn’t wait to be alone with Bruce again, so I could wrap my arms around his neck and just hold on.

  In the next two minutes, Tucker and I politely shooed the last five customers out of the place. Then Tucker gathered his things and headed toward the front door.

  “Are you sure, you’re sure I should leave?” Tucker asked again.

  “Positive!”

  “Thanks, Clare. Good-night.”

  I locked the door and quickly began to clear the marble-topped tables of any stray debris, mostly crumpled napkins, crumbs, and paper cups. When I got to a table by the fireplace, I noticed a closed laptop computer.

  “What a thing to leave behind…”

  Curious, I flipped up the top. The machine’s screen was blank. I hit the spacebar and it sprang to life. There were files on the desktop.

  “Okay, who do you belong to?” I murmured, trying to find a name. I clicked on a folder that read “E-mail Backups.” Inside were two more folders. Before I could read the folder names, I heard an insistent tapping at the front door.

  “Winnie?” I called as I approached the door. It was Winnie Winsle
t, the Shearling Lady. “Can you open the door, Clare?” she called. “I’m so stupid—I left my laptop.”

  “Oh! So it’s your laptop. I was wondering. Just a second.”

  The key was still in the lock, waiting for Bruce to arrive so I could easily turn it and let him in. I turned it now, for Winnie.

  “Come on in.”

  I closed the door and led her back to the computer. As I approached the laptop, I was ready to apologize for snooping. My eyes strayed to the screen, ready to point and explain when I saw the names on the “E-mail Backups” folders: Vintage86 Sent and Maxine’s Incoming.

  I looked into Winnie’s face.

  “Is that your screen name?” I asked as steadily as I could manage. “Vintage86?”

  “Yes. It is,” she said.

  “Winslet’s your maiden name, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your married name was Bowman, wasn’t it?”

  The gun was drawn quickly. She’d been ready. The laptop was clearly a ploy to get back into the closed Blend.

  “You’re kidding yourself if you think Bruce cares about you,” she said. “He doesn’t. He’s playing a sick little game behind your back, by the way—your daughter spent the night with him. I bet you don’t know that.”

  “I spent the night with him, Maxine.”

  Winnie’s superior, condescending mask momentarily fell. “What? You’re lying. I saw Joy go in.”

  “You saw Joy’s coat go in. That was me. What is ‘Winnie’ then, your cover? Did you change your name?”

  “It’s an old nickname, bitch, not that it’s any of your business. Now let’s get this over with fast. Turn around.”

  “No.”

  “Turn around. We’re taking a walk.” She cocked the gun. I looked into her eyes. She was ready to fire and we both knew it.

  Bruce was coming. He’d be here very soon. Matteo was coming back, too. If I could just stall her…

  “Okay,” I said. “Okay…where do you want to go?”

  “First to the front door….”

  She told me to lock the door. I turned the key back and forth, but I didn’t actually lock the door. I locked and unlocked it. Clearly, she thought I had obeyed her.

  “Let’s go. To the stairs.”